Page 89 of Mistletoe All the Way

I’m calling out his name as I fall to pieces, and he thrusts into me. He gives a rough, jerky pump of his hips.

Then a growl.

A groan.

And my name on his lips, the same tone he used when he said, Mine.

Like I belong to him.

Even though I can’t.

But for tonight, somehow, I feel like I do.

Moments later, he pulls out, tosses out the condom, and returns to the bed. He gives me a small smile. “I got the bonus points.”

“Yes, you did,” I say, then I turn to face him, and he catches my mouth in a soft, sweet kiss.

When he breaks it, he whispers, “That’s the real bonus point though.”

It feels like it is.

I kick a bare foot back and forth as I perch on a stool in the kitchen, wearing Noah’s flannel shirt. “You’re not going to confess that you tricked me and you’re actually Chris now?”

Noah whips his gaze around from the stove, brandishing a spatula like it’s a weapon. “You’d better not have just fucked my brother.”

Taking a sip of the crisp white wine he poured me, I wiggle a brow, while enjoying the view of him cooking shirtless. I’m seriously glad he only pulled his jeans back on before he insisted on making me dinner. And I know we need to return to the topic du jour, but I want to just enjoy the moment a little longer. “You’re the one who’s been tricking me.”

He flips the mushrooms and green beans he’s sautéing, then lets out a long, aggrieved sigh before lifting the red spatula once more. “You’d better know I’m the one who kisses you like that. I’m the one who touches you like that. I’m the one who fucks you like that.”

My stomach flips, but I like the game too much to give it up, so I shrug coquettishly. “But you were also the one who tricked me in the first place so… can’t fault a woman for checking.”

Setting down the spatula, he lowers the heat on the stove, strides across the kitchen to the island, and cups my cheeks. His brown eyes pin me with an intensity. “Sweetheart, you know it’s me.”

A shiver rushes down my back. I sure do know it’s him, but still I ask, “And how exactly do I know it’s you?”

“Because it’s always been me who got you this worked up.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “From the first day. From the days after that. From how you threw your arms around me in the diner when you pitched me on Mr. Holiday, to when you showed up in Colorado, to when you came over to my house. You’ve been as affected by me as I am by you.” He pauses, licks his lips, then adds, “That’s just how it is.”

How is it possible that he made me come twice in the past hour and now I feel like I could a third time from his words? “Fine, it was you,” I say with a bob of my shoulder.

His smile is wicked and pleased as he lets go of me. “It’s absolutely me. And I’m the one who’s going to feed you before I fuck you again.”

“Feed me and fuck me—maybe that’ll be my next bumper sticker.”

The look he shoots me is withering. “That’s not going on your truck. That’s for me, sweetheart. Just me.”

I do my best to fight off a smile, but it’s hard. “Fine. I’ll put it on a T-shirt.”

“That you’ll make with your fancy printer?” he asks as he returns to the stove, resuming his work on a tofu and veggie dish that’s making my mouth water.

“Of course.”

“Do you use it to make personalized Christmas gifts for your friends? Cards and whatnot?”

I’m ludicrously excited that he’s inquired about Christmas gifts so easily, so casually. Without a sneer or sarcasm. “I do. I like making gifts,” I answer.

“Of course you do,” he says, and it’s said with an appreciation, like he no longer thinks my outlook is foolish or naive. That perhaps he understands it more. Understands me more.

“Watch out or I’ll make you something,” I tease.