Page 60 of Holiday Interference
Right here.
Against the counter.
Against anything.
“I should probably go,” I whisper, even though I haven’t made a single move to leave.
His hands flatten against my stomach, anchoring me. “Probably.”
Neither of us moves.
I feel every breath he takes behind me. Every shift of his bare skin against mine. The steady, delicious weight of his body pressing into all the right places.
“You always do that?” he asks quietly.
I frown. “Do what?”
“Start planning your exit when things feel good.”
His voice isn’t teasing. Just honest, curious.
Maybe a little raw.
I close my eyes, swallowing hard. “I don’t usually stick around long enough for things to feel anything.”
His lips brush my neck again, gentler this time. And lower.
“That so?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.” I force a breath and try to stay grounded in the weight of his arms, the burn in my chest. “And it’s not because I don’t want to. It’s because wanting is dangerous.”
There’s a long pause.
“Yeah. It is.”
I want to turn around. Want to see his face. But I don’t. Because if I do, I might say something stupid likedon’t let this end.
And that’s not what this is.
Even if every part of me aches like it could be.
His hand slides up, brushing just under the curve of my breast through the fabric of the hoodie. Not even trying to push it further. Just there. Present and warming me from the inside out.
“I like this,” he says softly. “You in my kitchen. In my clothes.”
The words land like a punch to the sternum.
Before I can reply—before I can even process how deeply I feel it—my phone buzzes on the counter.
We both jerk slightly.
And there it is.
The spell cracks.
My assistant’s name flashes across the screen, along with a dozen notifications that somehow piled up while the world slept.
I don’t answer, just stare at the phone like it’s offensive.
