Page 18 of Christmas Vows with the Devil

She looks fucking ethereal, like a dream. But I know better.

She’s no dream.

She freezes as soon as she spots me, a pale delicate hand clutching her robe tighter.

“What are you doing here?”

“Could ask you the same thing.”

Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, neither of us says anything. The tension from earlier crackles between us again, thick and undeniable.

I should walk away, but my feet stay rooted to the spot. Instead, I open the behemoth refrigerator and grab a bottle of water.

She hops down from her seat and moves past me to the sink. The slightest brush of her hand against my side sends makes a jolt of pleasure shoot through me.

Just one touch. That’s all it takes.

I clench my jaw, trying to stay in control, but I’m slipping. She stacks her glass in the sink, the silence thick between us.

“I don’t want to fight,” she says quietly, almost to herself. “Not tonight.”

Before she can finish, I step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her.

Her breath hitches, and I see her fingers tighten around the edge of the counter. She’s trying to keep her composure, but I know her better than that.

“Nervous, Gia?” My voice is low, my words a challenge.

She glares at me over her shoulder, but I can see the flush creeping up her neck. “Not in the least.”

“Sure,” I say, taking another step forward. “You always were a good liar.”

Her eyes flare with anger, but there’s something else there too.

Something darker. Something that mirrors the darkness inside me.

She hates me.

But I also see the way her gaze keeps dropping to my mouth, and the way her breath quickens as I get closer.

I take another step, placing my hand on the counter beside hers. She’s locked in between the sink and my body.

Jasmine and vanilla cloud my senses. My mind has zeroed in on the delicious curve of her neck, drawing me closer.

I hear a slight exhale that could be mistaken for a moan. I know she doesn’t hate me as much as she thinks she does.

My other hand brushes the side of her arm, drawing her sleeve up. We’re skin-to-skin, for the first time in six years.

She shivers at the contact, and that’s all the encouragement I need.

“Dante,” she whispers, but it’s not a protest. It’s something else.

A warning. Or maybe an invitation.

I lean in, my lips hovering just above her creamy neck. For a second, I think she’s going to push me away. But she doesn’t. Instead, she tilts her head back, arching her neck for me.

Just when I’m about to close the distance, she slips out between my arms and slams her body against the island on the other side.

Her ragged breath and flushed cheeks tell me everything I need to know.

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