Page 17 of Hers for the Weekend

“You know”—she smirked—“if you’re going to blush up to your roots when I kiss you, everyone’s going to know we aren’t accustomed to it. We might need to practice some before we get to the Christmasland.”

Holly bit her lip and batted her eyelashes, just a little. Tara gave her a glance that she hoped was more withering than panicked. “Holly, I think I can manage to kiss a pretty girl convincingly.”

“Can you?” Holly asked, a dare in her voice.

Carefully, Tara replaced the lid on her La Mer eye cream and set the jar down. She pivoted to face Holly, who was wearing an oversized T-shirt and, it appeared, nothing else. Tara felt overdressed in her satin and lace cami and short set, but she’d learned from the cradle that you never slept in clothes you wouldn’t want the firefighters to see.

She moved the two steps to the doorway and bracketed Holly with her arms. Holly was taller, her legs as long as a July day, but Tara almost made up the difference in height with impeccable posture and a lawyer stare that made everyone else shrink several inches.

Holly’s back slid down the door frame until their heads were even. Tara leaned over slowly, their eyes locked together. Carefully, deliberately, she placed her lips over Holly’s.

Holly brought one hand behind Tara’s neck to pull her in tighter, and Tara murmured, “Uh-uh,” against her mouth. She stopped the kiss from becoming more frantic, letting their mouths slowly get to know one another, holding her body slightly away from Holly’s and resisting Holly’s attempts to press into her.

When Tara finally pulled away with a last nip of Holly’s lower lip, she said, “I don’t need to practice. The bathroom’s all yours.”

She walked away, refusing to show that her knees were weak.

Chapter 8

Holly

Holly closed the bathroom door and slipped down its length to the floor.

Holy Kissing, Batman.

She’d never been kissed like that, ever, in her entire life. Her brain wasn’t entirely functioning, but she wondered in a distracted way if it would look strange for her to shower again, since she’d done so a couple of hours ago.

But that was before. Actually, everything in her life was now Before. Before the ice queen of Charleston had kissed her so slowly and thoroughly that she’d melted into a literal puddle on the floor.

How had Tara walked away from that kiss? Holly couldn’t even stand up!

She’d known that she wanted to get Tara in bed, had been fantasizing for months about thawing that ice, but now she was wondering if sleeping with Tara might actually kill her. Putting a hand on the sink, she hauled herself up and splashed water on her face. If sex with Tara did kill her, she would gladly face God and walk backwards into hell.

She had to talk Tara into a fling.

Tara didn’t date anyone she wouldn’t marry, and Holly would never marry again, and the two of them were as romantically compatible as orange juice and toothpaste, but a fling was not dating. A fling was sex with a prearranged end date.

Just when she thought she’d gotten herself together, she remembered those little ice-blue satin and white lace pajamas. Oof. She almost ended up back on the floor.

“We’re going to need a plan,” she told her reflection. She couldn’t think of one right now; she was too full of Christmas dinner and stories about lesbian resistance movements of the 1960s, too tired from a long day of driving, and also, too horny.

“We’re going to masturbate, and sleep, and then think of a plan,” she amended.

The next morning, Tara shook her awake before the sun rose. “I’m so sorry, but we have to get on the road. The storm is coming in earlier than forecast.”

Holly groaned and rubbed her gritty eyes. It had taken her a long, long time to fall asleep last night. Now Tara was leaning over her, and she was sorely tempted to reach up and pull her down into bed. Except Holly was fairly certain she had horrifying morning breath.

“If you acquire coffee, I’ll acquire pants,” she told Tara groggily.

Tara nodded, turning on her heel and exiting the room before Holly could kick off her covers. Holly needed to remember that Tara had a weakness for her legs. She wondered if she could get away with wandering around the Adirondacks in late December in denim cutoffs.

She checked her phone, which had three texts from Matt complaining that the baker hadn’t shown, again, and was she sure she needed those vacation days?

Suck it, Matt. When all this was over, she was definitely getting another job. Preferably as a baker.

There were also, of course, a barrage of messages from her family.

Caitlin: I’m so mad that you’re leaving me alone with these people. Mom baked a head of cauliflower in mayo, Hol.

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