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“It’s been a while since I had to work with a sex deadline.”
“A deadline! Ha. Where has this wry sense of humor been hiding? Does Nash know you’re funny?”
He shrugs, looking away, but I can tell the compliment pleases him.
“I’ll tell him you should emcee the next Heartly event,” I tease.
“Fuck no,” Peter groans.
I clear my throat and drop my voice to try to mimic Peter’s. “Ones and zeros. Boolean. HTML.”
Peter throws his head back, laughing. Oh god, his Adam’s apple just peeks over the scarf he’s wearing. I would try to make him laugh for the rest of my life just to watch that.
“Do you even know what you are saying?” He nudges me.
“I’m speaking your language.” I nudge him back a little harder. We’re coming up to a house with a small snow-covered lawn. “Don’t I sound so smart?” I ask, and then I hip-check him onto the snow.
But I miscalculate and don’t get his hand out of my grip fast enough. He squeezes and pulls me down with him onto the lawn.
No, not just with him. On top of him.
I bounce slightly with his laughter, and my weight has tugged the scarf down, exposing that Adam’s apple right at my eye level.
I kiss it, and Peter groans. It moves under my mouth as he swallows, and then he’s pulling me toward him, taking my mouth in his. I thread my hands into his hair and the snow, pressingdeeper,hotter,more.
A light turns on inside the house that belongs to this lawn, and we both look up. There’s someone moving around inside, so I roll off Peter, and we both rise to our feet. He grabs my hand, and we walk faster.
By the time we get to the house, I’m sweating in my layers, warmed from the inside out with the mulled wine, exercise, and attention from Peter. We both strip down, jackets hung up, boots in a neat row, gloves and hats and scarfs in a basket. I’m wearing jeans and a loose cotton shirt, and goosebumps break across my skin as the cool air inside the house washes over me.
That is, until Peter presses into me, backing me up against the door and putting his mouth on mine in a hard kiss. His hands grip my hips, finding the hem of my shirt and rucking it up. They slide up my sides, over my ribs to the edge of my bra, and then back down.
Mine are in his hair, pulling him, holding him to me. Peter’s nose is delightfully chilly as it nudges mine, his hair slightly damp from our roll in the snow.
His hands move down and grab my ass, lifting me. I wrap my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, and hold on as he moves through the house and down the stairs.
“It’s probably way safer for you to put me down.”
He grunts.
“If we spend our allotted sex time in the emergency room, I’m going to be pissed.”
“Shut up. I like holding you.”
Thank god the stairs are carpeted. I figure we are out of the danger zone now that we’re on the right floor and kiss Peter again. He’s clumsy as he tries to kiss me and walk us to his bedroom, but we get there and the room tilts and I let go. I’m on my back on the bed, and Peter’s kissing his way down my body. My shirt comes off, and he kisses along the edge of my bra.
I run my hands over his shoulders, shoulders I’ve touched professionally but haven’t been able to caress like I yearn to. I grab at the back of his shirt, a polo in a winter green color that I adore, tugging to get it out of his pants and over his head.
He gets stuck—I forgot about the buttons in the front. “What the—”
“Hang on, let me get it back down.”
We wrestle for a few moments before I get the hem down.
“Do you not know how clothes work?” His eyes are wide, mock-surprise. He even gives me a teasing head tilt.
“No, but I’ve got this terrible client who does his buttons up like a dork.” I get the top one undone.
“Maybe I am a dork. Or I’m just too cool for Americans.” He kisses me once, hard, distracting me. “What’s the point of buttons if you aren’t supposed to do them up?”
