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On those last words, he turns those blue eyes on me, and I nearly stop breathing. He’s standing so close and I’m feeling all the feels.
I swallow, and search my brain to dig up a handful of words.
“That’s awfully generous of you,” I manage.
“Mmm,” he says, bringing his hand up—to brush more snow out of my hair, I think.
Except his hand pauses. His fingertips brush along my jaw. Close to my mouth. He tips my head back.
And oh, holy Santa Claus, Frosty the Snowman and all the Ghosts of Christmas, Past, Present, and Yet to Come.
He’s going to kiss me.
Here.
Now.
I barely have time to register the thought when his mouth covers mine. His lips are softer than I’d have expected, cold and warm all at once, thanks to the snow. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, warming at the sensation of his body flush against mine.
It makes me dizzy, the way he feels against me. Probably on account of his kissing abilities. He starts like he’s whispering a secret, just brushing his lips against mine. It’s chaste and simple and sweet, enough that, if I wanted to pull away, I could.
But oh, God, I don’t want to pull away. I never want to pull away from this. Just the slightest brush against him and I’m shaking, shivers of excitement racing down my spine, awakening something inside of me that I didn’t know existed. It’s like his kiss is an invitation to the world’s greatest Christmas party, and I’m the only one he’s asked.
And when I press even closer, I know I’m not imagining any of this, because while the kiss might be innocent enough, I can feel his enthusiasm for me pressing against my stomach.
Then he takes it a step further and deepens the kiss. He angles his head, swiping his tongue across my lips, parting them so that he can taste me. I groan against him, fisting my hands in the neckline of his shirt to try to pull him closer.
“Is this violating any rules?” he asks, his voice teasing as he pulls away to look me in the eyes.
“Nope, not a one.” I shake my head while trying to pull his lips back to mine, my only goal getting as much of Ryan Sheppard pressed against me as possible. But I’m so damn short and he’s so damn tall that I feel like I can’t align our parts in the way that I want.
He must sense my frustration because, in one motion, he’s lifted me up with his hands so that I’m straddling him.
In my dress.
And sure, I’m wearing tights—it’s December, after all—but with this new position, there’s no denying the feel of him. He’s interested, and, let’s be honest, so am I.
Because kissing Ryan Sheppard is more intoxicating than a marathon of Christmas movies. His hands tangle in my hair as our kisses deepen, as we both grow needier and, well, hornier. Because I don’t want any more chaste kisses. I want Ryan Sheppard to undo me, completely and totally, and I want it now.
“Bed,” I demand. “Bed now.”
He grins, his lips pressed against mine. “I knew you’d be bossy, Christmas cop.”
“So you thought about this, is what you’re saying?”
“I didn’t want to, but I’ve got a very specific fetish for elf hats.”
I pull back just long enough to glare at him. Then I reach between us and start undoing his belt. That shuts him up. Besides, I’ll admit it. I love the thrill of demanding that he give me exactly what I want.
“Don’t rush me,” he says. “I’m only just getting started kissing you.”
I make a frustrated noise in the back of my throat, not because I don’t want to keep kissing him, but because I want it all. I want everything about him, and I don’t want to stop.
He carries me over to the bed and plops me down, letting me bounce gently onto the mattress.
“Take off your dress,” he tells me, because of course he’s gotta be bossy too.
“You first,” I shoot back, eyeing his pants. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I half expect him to go back to his grumpy, Christmas-hating self and tell me to leave, but the demand just makes him grin.
“I promise I’ll let you have your way with me,” he offers, giving me a slow once-over that makes me feel warm from my head to my toes, “after the kissing.”
I’m frozen, staring at his mouth, so he steps forward and helps me pull my dress over my head. He whistles at the sight of my bare skin, running his hands along my arms as he takes in my bra and panties. Then he stops.
“I have no idea how you’re still surprising me,” he murmurs, more to himself than me.
And look, they’re festive, okay? What other time of the year do you get to wear a bra and panties with reindeer on them?
