Page 22 of Mountain Man's Naughty Elf
I tried to maintain my scowl, but something about her—her unapologetic enthusiasm, the way she faced down my grumpiness with stubborn cheer—tugged at the corners of my mouth.
She noticed. "Oh my God, was that almost a smile? On the Grinch himself?"
"Careful," I warned, though there was no heat in it.
She stepped closer, mistletoe still in hand. "Admit it. I'm wearing you down with my Christmas magic."
"Is that what you call it?"
"What would you call it?" Her eyes locked with mine, her gaze direct and challenging.
The playful mood shifted in an instant. The air between us charged like the moment before lightning strikes. She was closeenough that I could smell the scent of my soap on her skin, could see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
"I'd call it reckless," I said, my voice dropping lower than intended.
"What is?" She moved even closer.
"This." I gestured between us. "Whatever you're doing."
"I'm just spreading seasonal cheer." But her voice had dropped to a near whisper, and her eyes kept darting to my mouth.
"Is that all?"
She held up the mistletoe between us. "Maybe I'm conducting an experiment."
"On what?"
"How much holiday spirit it takes to break through that stoic discipline of yours." Her lips curved in a smile that was pure temptation. "I'm guessing... about this much."
She stretched up on her toes, holding the mistletoe above our heads.
Something inside me snapped like a trip wire.
I closed the distance between us in one step, my hand sliding behind her neck as I kissed her with everything I'd been holding back.
She made a small, surprised sound that quickly turned into a sigh as I backed her against the wall, pinning her there with my body. The sprig fell forgotten to the floor as her arms wound around my neck, pulling me closer.
This wasn't the gentle exploration our near-kiss by the fire might have been. This was hunger, unleashed after building tension. I kissed her like a drowning man finding air, my hands sliding down her sides to grip her hips.
"Pax," she gasped when we broke for breath, her eyes wide and dark with desire.
I should stop. Should step back, apologize, restore the careful distance I'd maintained. But then her hands fisted in my shirt, pulling me back to her, and all thoughts of restraint vanished.
"Last chance to stop this," I murmured against her lips.
In answer, she nipped at my bottom lip, then soothed the sting with her tongue. "The only thing I want stopped is all this talking."
Permission granted, I lifted her, her legs automatically wrapping around my waist as I carried her to the bed. Her weight was nothing against my strength, yet she anchored me to the moment in a way I hadn't felt in years.
I laid her down on the mattress, pausing to look at her—hair spread across my pillows, cheeks flushed, lips already swollen from my kisses. The sight hit me like a blow to the chest.
"You're staring," she said, a hint of self-consciousness in her voice.
"You're beautiful." The words escaped without permission.
Her blush deepened, but she held my gaze. "So are you. Now come here."
I followed her down, bracing on my forearms as I kissed her again. Her hands slid under my shirt, exploring the scars and ridges of my back, my shoulders, with curious fingers. I trailed kisses along her jaw to the sensitive spot below her ear, drawing a shiver from her.
