Page 76 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“Let me—”

Before the words are out, he doubles his pace and I chase the friction like it’s the only thing keeping me alive. I vaguely wonder if there are cameras in here, and I almost laugh, because not only is it a bit late to worry about that—the thought of it just turns me on even more. An orgasm throbs to ravenous life between my legs, exploding me wide open. I slip down Jake’s chest, grinding and bucking against his hand as pleasure rips me into orbit. He yanks me back up with a rolling, satisfied growl.

Three minutes. That’s all it took.

The skirt of the dress slithers down my legs as Jake lets it unspool from his fingers. He sidesteps to stand next to me in front of the mirror, chest heaving, cheeks red with a raging flush.

“Look what you made me do, Evie.”

Next to the prominent imprint of his erection, a wet spot slowly spreads across his crotch.

I laugh, panting. “Good thing you wore your long coat.”

* * *

Jake makes all the arrangements for delivery of the dresses, so when a dozen white boxes arrive at his flat later that afternoon, I’m stunned. He bought every frock I showed even the tiniest interest in. I feel like a Regency romance heroine being visited by the modiste’s staff.

“Jake, I will literally never have anywhere to wear these the rest of my life.”

He responds with one of his lazy, tilted smiles. “We’ll see.”

* * *

Since my bag is already here from our Christmas trip, I dress for our dinner date at Jake’s place. I choose the champagne sequined mini with long fitted sleeves and a scoop neck. It makes my collarbones and legs look incredible. These heels will make me nearly as tall as Jake, and I don’t bother with jewelry. The low chignon I attempt for my hair comes out much better than I’d expected. A smoky eye, a nude lip and a dewy shimmer on my cheekbones, and I’m done.

When I emerge, Jake doesn’t say a word, but his body goes tense. His brows boost high on his forehead. He takes me in completely, then lets out a breath and mouths, Wow.

And him. My god.

He’s in a midnight-blue dinner jacket that’s fitted to his waist, satin peak lapels accentuating his wide shoulders. Flat-fronted black pants taper to a clean stop over glossy cap-toe Oxfords, and he’s got the waves of his hair tidy and sideswept away from his face.

Mine.

* * *

Our black cab pulls up to the Shard. Jake steps out first, extending his hand to steady me when I crane my neck to look up. The building just keeps going, a beam of neon light soaring into the night sky. It gives me a bit of vertigo, but it fades when Jake’s hand squeezes mine.

A host greets us in a gleaming lobby, and after a short exchange with Jake, directs us to the elevator. We’re whisked into the air so quickly the rising floor numbers on the LED screen change faster than I can blink, and my ears pop. I’m disoriented for a moment when the doors open. The space before us is dark, lit only by low lamps and chandeliers, and candles on tables. It’s striking, but to me, it’s obvious what the real feature here is. It’s London itself.

The walls of the space are floor-to-ceiling glass, revealing a glittering city beyond. The lights seem so tiny, so far away, that I feel like I’m on the precipice of space, and a single step forward will launch me into a sparkling abyss.

Then I feel Jake’s hand on my back, and I’m tethered. Safe.

There’s a low hum of conversation and occasional laughter. There’s not much privacy to be had, and I think our table next to the window is as secluded as it possibly gets here. Beneath the table, Jake extends his foot towards me, as if he knows how unsteady I’m feeling. I let my own foot nestle next to his.

He’s going to ask me to stay. That’s what tonight is for. It has to be.

Obviously, I don’t have my journal with me here, so I can’t ground myself in a pro–con list in a literal way like I might otherwise. Instead, a list begins populating my head, and it’s the first time I’ve had a pro list—staying here, with Jake—that’s significantly longer than the con list. It writes itself in invisible ink, occupying every space inside my mind. Like graffiti.

I am in love with this man.

And I think he’s in love with me.

I wonder what we might do for New Year’s Eve—

“Are you OK?” Jake says. The low light seems to brighten his eyes instead of darkening them. They look like sea glass.

“Oh, yes.” I smooth my hands over my bare knees. “I’m just … really happy.”