Page 75 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

She twinkles at me. “Oh, you’re lovely. I’m going to enjoy this. I’m your personal shopper for the afternoon. Please, follow me.”

As she leads us through the store, I whisper to Jake, “I thought you said you don’t have a personal stylist.”

He slides an arm around my waist. “I don’t. But I do have four sisters, a mother, and a grandmother. Lorraine has helped me find the perfect gift on more than one occasion.”

“But how did you arrange this on such short notice?”

Jake answers with a wry, playful smile. “I think, as far as they’re concerned, I also spend the perfect amount of money.”

On the second floor, Lorraine directs us to a private fitting suite. Inside, the lighting is soft and warm. Champagne awaits on a glass table. Full-length mirrors surround us, and an oversized lounge chair sits opposite them. A rail loaded with dresses stands near the wall. Four different cream sweaters sit on a side table, neatly folded. They look so soft in this light, they seem to have a misty haze around them. I let my fingertips trail across each one. Cashmere.

Lorraine quietly backs out of the room. Jake casually follows her to lock the door once she’s gone. Behind me, he says, “I wasn’t sure which one you’d prefer.”

I turn to face him. “I was wearing a stained cream cashmere sweater on the flight here.”

Jake crosses his arms and leans a hip against one of the oversized chairs. “I know.”

I shake my head. “But that’s the only time you’d have seen it.”

“I memorized everything about you the first moment I saw you, Evie.”

Pressing my knuckles to my lips, I cross the room to where the dresses wait. Heavy gold sequins, shimmering green velvet, a sparkly champagne minidress I’d never have been bold enough to select for myself. Richly hued florals like Lorraine’s. At least a dozen more.

One of the maxi dresses gives distinct wedding-dress vibes. Ivory velvet with a cowl neck and spaghetti straps. A split in the fabric hits mid-thigh, giving it extra movement. I’m feeling cheeky, so I decide to start with it. It fits like a fantasy.

“How did she know my size?” I turn to face Jake.

“I’ve had my hands all over you for most of December, my love. I’m good at estimating.”

Teasing, I say, “I thought I told you not to call me ‘love’—”

“Is that what I said?” His mouth is curved up in a tiny smile, but his eyes are heated. “Turn around.”

I turn to face my reflection again, watching him prowl towards me in the glass. He stops behind me and slowly winds a thick lock of my hair around his palm. His touch is feather light. Leaning over my shoulder, he meets my eyes in the mirror. “May I?”

Whatever he’s asking for, my answer is a very breathy “Yes.”

The fist in my hair pulls taut, and an involuntary moan slips off my tongue. Jake tips my head back to expose my throat. Pleasure-pain in my scalp spools down my neck and gathers heavy in my breasts.

“Jake.” The tension between my legs is hot and swift. “What—”

Without hesitation or sound, his broad palm flattens above my pubic bone to jerk my body fully against his. Inch by inch, he walks his fingers down my thigh, bunching the fabric into his hand until the triangle of my panties is exposed in the mirror. Black. Lace. Low-cut. A provocative contrast to the plush ivory of the dress.

I arch my back, silently begging him to touch me. He breathes out through clenched teeth, the heat of it stitching goosebumps down my arms, raising my nipples to aching attention.

He’s hunched over me, urgently hard against the split of my ass. Strands of my hair cling to his mouth. He slides his hand under the lace, entering me with two firm, flattened fingers. He’s not easing me into this at all, but I’m already slick for him. He pounds out the same unyielding pace on my clit that I’ve seen him use on himself. Perfect, relentless, tugging friction.

“Don’t come, darling.” Jake doesn’t slow the pace of his strokes, even as he’s telling me not to pop off. “This isn’t our dress, and you’re a messy little love, aren’t you?”

I’m so wet I can feel it on my thighs. My bare toes dig into the plush carpet, my hips jerk against him. A stitch busts in the crotch of my panties.

“Please,” I gasp. Knees trembling, I plant my feet wider so I don’t collapse. Eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip bitten to the point of pain, I let my head fall back against him.

He’s locked against me, his chin digging into my shoulder, his free arm surging upwards to take my breast fully in hand. “Are you asking me to stop?”

“No.” I gulp air like I’m drowning.

“Then tell me—” He squeezes his eyes shut and shudders against me. His rhythm falters for a beat, and he makes a strangled little noise in his throat. “God damn it,” he breathes. “Tell me what you want.”