Page 25 of Holidate Scramble
"Do you still create art?"
"Sometimes. Mostly digital now." I speared a piece of chicken. "My family thinks my career is a phase—that eventually I'll 'get serious' and join my father's law firm or get an MBA."
"But you love what you do."
"I do." I met his gaze. "It matters to me, bringing people together to support worthy causes they care about, helping small businesses find their audience. It might not be saving lives, but it feels meaningful."
"It is meaningful." His fingers brushed against mine on the couch between us. "You’re doing good work, Piper.”
Something shifted in the air, the casual conversation deepening into territory that felt both frightening and inevitable. His thumb traced circles on my palm, sending shivers up my arm.
"Rhett..." I began, not entirely sure what I wanted to say.
"I know we agreed to keep things simple," he said quietly. "And I meant it. But I can't stop thinking about last night."
"Neither can I."
His free hand came up to cup my cheek. "Tell me to stop, and I will."
I leaned into his touch. "I don't want you to stop."
This time there was no hesitation. His mouth found mine with certainty, the kiss immediately deeper, more urgent than the night before. I shifted closer, my hands sliding around his neck as his arms wrapped around me, pulling me against him.
Unlike our kiss in Town Hall, this had no audience, no interruptions, no reason to hold back. I moved to straddle his lap, his hands supporting my hips as I pressed against him. The low sound he made when I rocked forward ignited a molten ache between my thighs.
"Bedroom?" he asked, his voice rough against my throat.
"Yes."
He stood, lifting me with him, and I wrapped my legs around his waist as he carried me down the short hallway. The bedroom matched the rest of the cottage in its simplicity—navy bedding with no decorative pillows, bedside table with a lamp and paperback, dresser with nothing on top. He laid me gently on the bed, coming down beside me, his weight supported on one arm as he looked at me with an intensity that made my heart race.
"You're sure?" he asked, his fingers tracing the curve of my jaw with such tenderness it almost undid me.
I nodded, pulling him down to me. "I've never been more sure of anything."
Our lips met in a kiss that started slow but quickly blazed into something more urgent. His hands ran over my hair as mine explored the solid planes of his back, the heat of his skin burning through his sweater. I tugged at the fabric, suddenly desperate to feel his skin against mine.
He broke the kiss just long enough to pull the sweater over his head, and I took a moment to admire him in the soft lamplight. His chest was broad and strong, dusted with dark hair silvered at the edges like his temples. A thin scar ran along his left side—a story for another time. The evidence of his years was there in the slight softening at his waist, in the laugh lines around his eyes, but it only made him more real, more human, more desirable.
"Your turn," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me.
I sat up, allowing him to pull my sweater off, suddenly self-conscious of my curves under his gaze. But the look in his eyes as they traveled over me wasn't just desire—it was wonder, appreciation, reverence.
"You're exquisite," he whispered, tracing the lace edge of my bra. "I've imagined this, but reality is so much better."
"You've imagined this?" I asked, emboldened by his admission.
His smile was slightly sheepish. "More than I should admit. Since that first day at The Little Red Hen."
The thought of him thinking about me, wanting me for all these days, melted my insides into liquid desire. I reached behind to unhook my bra, but his hands stopped me.
"Let me," he said, his fingers replacing mine. "I want to unwrap you slowly."
With surgical precision, he unhooked the clasp, his knuckles brushing against my spine in a touch so light it made me shiver. He drew the straps down my arms with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving mine until the garment fell away entirely. Then his gaze dropped, and the naked hunger in his expression made me feel more beautiful than any words could.
"Perfect," he breathed, cupping my breast with a gentleness that belied the desire evident in his eyes. "So perfect."
His thumb circled my nipple, drawing it to a tight peak before he lowered his head to taste me. The warm, wet heat of his mouth sent electricity shooting through my body, and I arched into him with a gasp. He lavished attention on one breast and then the other, his hand skimming down my side to my hip, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there with just enough pressure to anchor me to the moment.
