Page 93 of Peppermint Bark

Back inside, I melted and spread the white chocolate layer. He dipped his finger in for a taste, then wrapped his lush lips around his finger while he looked at me with heat in his eyes. “How much longer, Grace?”

Well, wasn’t that a loaded question?

“Five minutes,” I estimated, not wanting to acknowledge the countdown to his flight.

He set the egg timer. “I’m holding you to that.”

“Get to work, then,” I said, ignoring the desire pooling in my stomach.

He meticulously sprinkled the shards of peppermint over the liquid chocolate. I slid the cookie sheet into the refrigerator and made eye contact over my shoulder.

One second, all that pent-up intensity locked on my every move.

Then the timer went off.

The next second, his arm hooked around my waist, hauling my body against him. His other hand gripped my chin, tilting my mouth to his. My hands found purchase on his neck to answer the demand. This man, who was so restrained and composed with everyone else, lost control at my touch. His tongue parted my lips, kissing the breath right out of my lungs.

His hands slid down my back to cup my butt, pulling my hips into his with a groan. He hoisted me up, carrying me to the kitchen island and resting my butt on the edge, wedging himself between my thighs. The devilish look in his eyes ratcheted my heart rate higher.

“I wanted this the last time we were here, baking all those goddamn pies,” he said, as his nimble hands slid underneath my shirt, his warm mouth on my neck as he confessed. “You drove me fucking crazy with that caramel.”

He separated our bodies enough to pull off my shirt and unclasp my bra. Two large hands teased my breasts, sucking and tweaking my nipples, every lick tugging on something deep inside, drawing whimpers and gasps as my back arched into his touch. “I wanted to pour it on you, lick off every last drop. I wanted to taste you everywhere.”

His hands roved over my body and I lost myself to the sensation, wishing I could write the recipe for the way his mouth tastes, to bottle it up and prevent the inevitable withdrawal. “Did you know then, what you were doing to me?”

“No,” I expelled in a breath of longing. “I assumed you had a sweet tooth.”

“I do,” he said as his hands coasted down to my hips, tugging down my jeans, blue eyes burning bright. “And you’re the sweetest I’ve ever tasted.”

“Where do you think they got the balls?”

When I cocked a judgmental eyebrow, he realized his word choice was less than ideal.

“The courage, I mean,” he corrected, gesturing from the sidewalk into Kate’s art gallery where people browsed the artwork. Cruz played an acoustic guitar in the storefront window, his music pumping through an amp to the pedestrian-filled street.

It was First Night, Saratoga’s New Year’s Eve celebration where galleries, churches, and event spaces opened their doors. We walked around town, pausing for art installations and live musical performances, popping into bars for mulled cider or hot toddies.

For years, I’d helped Mallory organize a yoga class that started at 10:30 and ended minutes before midnight fireworks. This year she’d informed me that I was taking the night off. While I appreciated that she knew her brother’s flight details, I didn’t like being so easily replaced.

“Where did Mallory and Kate find the courage to start their businesses?”

“I think there are two kinds of entrepreneurs,” I said. “People who want empires and those who stumble into it out of necessity.”

“And which were they?” he asked.

“Necessity. Mallory calls herself unemployable and I believe it. That girl …” I shook my head, “she is not good at following directions.”

He squeezed my hand. “That’s why she needs you.”

“At first she taught every class and grew a loyal following. Even when money was tight, she was happier than working for horrible bosses, joking that she couldn’t sexually harass herself,” I said. He smirked but also stiffened protectively. "But now? She might be ready for an empire."

When I shivered, he pulled me inside Kate’s art gallery. I loved it here: the bold artwork against the white walls, each painting and sculpture a masterpiece. Alex put on that facade of cool indifference, like appearing unimpressed made him sophisticated. Behind his back, Kate rolled her eyes.

“Any Katherine Martino originals?” Alex asked. “Nick reminded me that on the day we met, I promised to buy one.”

Kate shifted her weight. “I’ve never sold originals here.”

“Why not? He once said your work was the most promising he’d ever seen.”

---