It’s the first time I see him this carefree since everything that happened last month, and it makes me stupidly happy.
Just a few more paces and we slide under the bridge. A group of teenagers crowd under the bridge and we have to maneuver around them. I need to let go of Yosh’s hand.
“Tom, stay with me!”
“I’m right behind you.”
We burst out the other side and Yosh’s arm flies in the air, his skates veering sideways. A dramatic yelp follows.
I act fast, using all my weight to pin him against one of the bridge’s pillars before he can go down. We crash chest to chest, the impact rough, but I’ve got him. His breath is quick and burning, our noses almost touching.
I hold him in my grip until I’m sure he’s steady on his feet again.
“That was close,” he pants.
“Still hate me?”
“Never said that.”
“I hate you, McKenna,” I repeat in my best dramatic impression of him.
He chuckles, arms landing on my shoulders, planting a quick kiss on my cheek.
My hand rests on his hip, holding him close. Not tight, just enough to make it clear; I’m not letting him go. Not on the ice, not tonight, not ever.
His scent of jasmine mixed into the icy sharpness of the winter air, floods my senses. Equal parts comfort and chaos, and it’s his alone. It’s what I need.
The sound of skates scraping the ice and laughter move past us. Winter in Amsterdam, just as I remember. It hasn’t always been the best season for me, but this year, Christmas is mine.
My gaze slides down to his lips. They’re soft, slightly parted, and flushed from the cold. They look perfect, like everything else about him.
I admire the way he fits in my arms before dipping in and kissing warmth back into his cold lips.
He stiffens, back pressing into the pillar.
“We’re in a blind spot, no one’s looking our way.”
He needed to hear that, because it’s only now that his body softens against mine. His lips open for me, warm and yielding, the last tremor of hesitation fading as I tug his hip against my waist.
He moves his hand, fingers arching over the back of my neck, palm settling on my jaw; he’s telling me he’s all in.
“You taste like winter,” I whisper against his mouth.“And something sweeter. Something that reminds me of home.”
He searches my face. “Home? You mean…”
My smile deepens. “Yeah, love. Amsterdam’s nice and all, but home is with you. Just you.”
A rosy flush spreads across his cheeks. The way his teeth catch his lower lip tells me he’s taking in every word.
His finger hooks into the half-open zipper of my jacket, tugging me closer. His mouth finds mine again, slower this time. Unhurried. Each sweep of his tongue leaves no doubt where I belong.
“Let’s go back toChez Brothel,” he whispers. “There’s something waiting for you.”
Chapter forty-five
Tom
The jacuzzi in the middle of my bedroom has always been my place of pure bliss, the spot where every worry dissolves into the water. Under the dim crystal chandelier, the room feels like a warm cocoon, the steam around me softening the dark wooden beams above.
