Page 152 of Miami Ice

Now Beckham takes a step back. “Wait. I thought girls liked the hockey uniform, or the game-day fit. The suit.”

“Well, yes, but there’s something very hot about the backward baseball cap and the untied drawstrings,” I inform him.

“Really?” he asks, appearing sidetracked by this revelation.

I tug on his drawstrings. “Yes.”

“Who knew?”

“Would you like me to show you or tell you?” I flirt.

His eyes grow dark with need. “Show me.”

We begin kissing again, and then Beckham scoops me up in his arms. I giggle, and a low, sexy, chuckle radiates through him. As soon as he steps into the den, he stops walking.

“Jesus Christ, Georgie!” he blurts out. “It’s like Pinkmas was vomited up in here!”

I watch as his gaze travels around the room. It’s a complete confection Christmas in here, with peppermint throw pillows, a tree crammed with candy and sweet-inspired ornaments, and then his eyes land on the one item I waited for him to see.

I put the maniacal pink nutcracker next to the tree.

“Oh no. No, no, no, I draw the line atthat,” he says with disgust. “That creepy thing is going right back to your place.”

“What? He looks fabulous here,” I say.

“No.”

Beckham is scowling at him, and I feel my own mouth curving up into a smile.

“He stays for now,” I declare.

“He’s going in the van.”

“You shouldn’t give the nutcracker that much power. I mean, right now you’re scowling at him when you could be carrying me up those stairs to make love to me.”

Beckham looks at me. “Fair point. But I’m covering him up with a blanket when we come back downstairs.”

He moves toward the stairs and stops as he sees the massive confection garland in pink, soft blue, and seafoam green I have woven around the banister.

“It’s a good thing I don’t need to hold the rail to go up the stairs,” he grumbles. “You can’t even see it under all that Christmas stuff.”

“Isn’t it gorgeous? I have all kinds of cupcake and macaron ornaments woven into it.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

Beckham carries me up the stairs, taking me to the bedroom. The bed is unmade since I’ve slept in it, and he sets me down next to it. He begins to unbutton my flannel pajama top, sliding it off my body. Then he sinks his hands into my hair and kisses me deeply.

“I’ve missed this so much,” he moans against my mouth. “I’ve missed you.”

I remove his baseball hat, running my fingers through his hair. He lowers me back to the bed, his body covering mine. I feel the muscle and heat of him pinning me to the mattress, his kiss seeking and sensual.

“I missed you so much,” I whisper between kisses. “It’s not the same when you aren’t here.”

Beckham pushes himself up and stares down at me, his dark eyes going liquid with emotion. “I shouldn’t feel all the things I do for you,” he says, his voice rough. “I’m crazy about you. I—I’ve never felt this way before. About anyone. Ever.”

Elation. I feel pure elation from this confession.

I put a hand to his cheek. “I have the same feelings. And I’ve never had them before, either.”

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