Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
I can’t help but smile. That is the ultimate romantic gesture. But I also need to do my part too. I let the smile fade. “But the thing is…I need to tell you how I feel as well.” I swallow past the fear. “And it’s this—you pretty much had me when we started dating at the Christmas tree farm.”
His smile lights up the night sky. It’s big and bright, and I swear it twinkles. “You said it.”
“I did.”
He climbs the final steps to my front door, cups my cheeks, and kisses me—soft and sweet at first, then deep and passionate.
When he breaks it, he says, “I love you. Will you be with me even if I’m terrified of you breaking my heart?”
Tears well up. My throat aches. I set a hand on his chest.
“I will. And I won’t break your heart…because I love you too.”
He kisses me one more time. Longer. Sweeter. Until the opening lines of “White Christmas” drift past my ears.
Three voices. Deep, rich tenors.
I open my eyes and see The Mistle Bros on the sidewalk, serenading me with my favorite Christmas song.
Rowan moves behind me, wraps his arms around me, and holds me as we listen.
When they’re done, I say, “Thank you.”
“And may all your Christmases be white,” they say together.
They leave, and Rowan turns to me with what’s next? in his eyes.
But I know what’s next.
I tug him by the collar and pull him inside.
“Say it again,” Rowan growls, slamming into me hard enough to make the door rattle.
We barely made it inside. There was no point in heading to the bed.
And really, I didn’t want to make the bed again.
“Say what?” I pant as he drives into me.
He grips my ass, his palms rough and possessive, grinding into me, letting me feel every glorious inch.
“You know what I want to hear,” he rasps, then licks the side of my neck, hot and slow, before biting down gently.
I gasp, then cry out. But I don’t give in. “You say it first.”
“Fine,” he growls, but there’s nothing grumbly about it. “We’ve been dating since the Christmas tree farm,” he says on a deep, hot thrust.
And I shout a loud and very, very joyful yes, my head thudding against the door.
A second later, he follows me with a low, feral groan, spilling into me, then slumping against me. His bow tie is undone, and his pants slip low on his hips as he shudders.
“You look good in a tux,” I say between breaths.
“Bet you’d look good in a cocktail dress.”
I smile. “I would.”
He sets me down, checks the time, and says, “Snow angel, come to the gala with me. We’ll be fashionably late.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
We walk into the ballroom, fashionably late and owning it. I’m in a sleeveless, silver sparkly dress with a deep neckline and an A-line cut that hugs my curves. Rowan’s shirt is buttoned up, his pants zipped, of course. But his bow tie’s still undone, and that feels fitting. Very him—the edgy defenseman with an attitude. His lips are still bruised. Bet my cheeks are still red. Well, we cleaned up, but we kissed like crazy outside the chalet after he parked.
The fête is in full swing—servers weaving through glittering throngs of big athletes and their lovely partners, dressed to the nines in gold, deep red, and emerald-green.
Music floats through the air, and I laugh, turning to Rowan. “It’s our song.”
He cocks his head. “‘Jingle Bells’ is our song?”
“It’s one of them.”
He touches my cheek. “You do like riding in a one-horse open sleigh.”
“Among other things,” I say with a brow lift.
He tugs me close, pressing my body to his, then dances with me in front of his team, his coaches, the management.
And he doesn’t grumble.
He doesn’t bah humbug.
He doesn’t hate on a single thing—not even when the pianist moves into “The Twelve Days of Christmas” and croons about a partridge in a pear tree.
He sways with me the whole time, then says, “Want to hear my list?”
I’m game. “Sure.”
“It’s the opposite of a hate list.”
“This sounds good. Continue.”
He twirls a strand of my hair between his fingers. “I love you in this dress. I love you out of this dress. I love the way you challenge me. I love how smart and how kind you are. I love how you taste. I love making your dirty dreams come true. I love hanging out with you and my dog, and my daughter too. I love spoiling you. I love fucking you—outdoors and inside.” He pauses, his breath hot against my skin. “Mostly, I just love being yours, and I love that you’re mine.”
My heart soars. “I am yours.”
Then he kisses me. Deeply. In front of…everyone. And that cinches it. I can't imagine a better present than this merry little kissmas night.
EPILOGUE: KISS HER ONCE FOR ME