Page 45 of The Holiday Whoopie
Just this morning she was cool, dodging eye contact, pretending our kiss by the Christmas tree never happened, focused entirely on work and winning. Now she tosses her scarf aside, hair tumbling out of its icing-covered braid, looking at me like she just won another James Beard award.
“Thank you for today.” Her voice is low but laced with something more sensual than gratitude.
I blink, caught off guard for the umpteenth time today. “For… what?” I add a touch of flirt to my voice, very much liking the mood she’s creating. “Adding gingerbread demolition to my ever-growing résumé?”
Her mouth tilts, sly and soft at once. “For making it fun.”
Her words shouldn’t undo me the way they do. But the way it sounds like she couldn’t have had fun without me and the way she’s looking at me—like I’m a lot more than a consolation prize—hits harder than Felix’s personal trainer in the boxing ring.
I want to ask, cross-examine her like a witness—What changed, Miss Nouel? What made you go from ignoring Exhibit A (our kiss) to Exhibit B (launching yourself at me)?
But then she moves. Her arms wind around my neck, her body presses flush against mine, and for once, the lawyer in me shuts up. Helps when her mouth covers mine.
We stumble farther into the kitchen, her lips fierce, her laugh breaking between kisses. My back slams into a rack ofcooling trays, sending a metallic crash echoing through the empty room.
“Sorry,” she gasps, already tugging at my scarf like it’s personally offended her.
“Don’t apologize.” My hands tangle in her hair, sending a drift of powdered sugar into the air. The stuff glitters down like we’ve triggered some kind of bakery snow globe.
We turn, bumping into the counter, a mixing bowl clattering to the floor. My curse is muffled against her mouth.
She grins, her fingers fisted tightly in my shirt.
I reach out to brace myself, but instead of the table, my palm meets a leftover piping bag on the cart from the competition. A sharp squeeze andpfffft—icing squirts across the stainless steel surface in a perfect arc.
Audrey freezes, eyes wide. “You—” Her voice cracks into laughter. “You just frosted my table.”
“Not the worst euphemism I’ve ever heard.” I lick a streak off my finger, slow and deliberate.
Her cheeks flush pink, then she yanks me to her. Her mouth is cinnamon and sugar and something uniquely hers, and I’m a lost man.
We careen sideways, my elbow knocking a whisk off the counter. It spins across the tile, a metallicwheeeeeethat might as well be cheering us on.
Her sweater rides up under my hands, warmth meeting my palms. I pull it the rest of the way off, pale skin more luminous than any string of Christmas lights I’ve ever seen. Her cranberry-colored bra, a perfect match for her Crocs, hits me hard in both the chest and the groin.
“Merry Christmas, Jack,” I mumble like a prayer as I stroke the curve of her waist with my thumb.
Her laugh turns into a moan as she arches into me.
God, she’s gorgeous—hair wild, lips kiss-swollen, laughter and heat blending until I’m not sure which is making me harder.
The prep table gleams behind her, spotless save for the long, curing ribbon of icing I inadvertently piped.
I hoist her onto it, then drag a finger through the rogue frosting before smearing it across the tops of her breasts, sticky and sweet.
She looks down at the white line, then back at me, incredulous. “You decorating me?”
“What can I say?” I suck the cream off her skin as I reach behind her to unclasp her bra. “You taught me well.” Her breasts, freed, weigh heavy in my hands, her toes curling against my hips.
Before I can lick every bit of frosting, she reaches for my shirt. Seams stretch and rip, and one of my Henley’s buttons pings across the floor. And then her hands skim my chest, but instead of frosting, her nails leave trails of heat.
I bury my mouth against her neck, biting just enough to make her gasp. She clutches at me like she can’t get close enough, and hell, I feel the same—like I’ve been starving and suddenly stumbled into a feast.
Her jeans are a battle. Tight denim, my impatient fingers, her wriggling hips—it’s chaos that sends a container of cookie cutters from the shelf beneath the table tumbling to the floor in a chorus of metallic jingles. And when her pants are finally off, inside out in my hand, I feel like I’ve just won an Oscar—and Audrey’s the trophy in cranberry lace and fuzzy holiday socks.
“Sexy,” I rasp, dragging the lace away, my frosting-coatedfingers making a mess of her. “Festive.” Leaving the sock on, I kiss its arch.
She rolls her eyes, then gasps when my fingers stroke her open. Wet, hot, already ready for me.
