Page 5 of See You Next Winter
I’ve never met a woman with a mouth like Kayla’s, in more ways than one. She might look like this sweet angel, all blonde hair, blue eyes and strong thighs built from miles on the mountain. Underneath it all, I know the real Kayla has a filthy side.
She wasn’t lying when she said her apartment wasn’t far. We round one corner, then another, then we’re at her building. I follow her inside, dumping my sledge by the door and kneeling to unlace my boots. When she bends over to do the same to hers, I get a perfect view of her ass. Her boots stop mid-calf and take a lot longer to remove than mine, so I take full advantage and stand behind her, holding her hips to keep her steady.
“Where’s your bedroom?”
“Don’t you want the tour first?” she says, smacking my hand away. What I really want is to cup her hard between the legs.
“Not especially.” She pulls her second boot off, then shoves me backagainst the wall.
I don’t get it. She invited me back to her place, but she keeps pushing me away. Literally. Usually the talking comes later, but I’m in no rush if she needs to move at a slower pace this time.
“OK, fine, show me around.”
It’s the shortest tour in history. One corridor, two bedrooms on one side and a bathroom on the other.
“You live with someone?”
She shakes her head. “My office. It’s mostly full of equipment, but it’s nice to have a space if friends want to visit.”
The rest of her house is open plan. It’s not a flashy place like the chalets her parents own, but it’s all Kayla. Soft blankets and cushions scattered on the sofa, a box of her favourite chocolate cereal on the counter that separates the kitchen and living room. A large sectional sofa takes up one corner of the room, facing a small TV and a bookcase spilling over with romance novels. I pick one up and recognise it’s the same one my sister has had her nose buried in since we arrived.
On one wall, she’s pinned a bunch of photographs. Pictures I recognise from spots we’ve been to together, a few I assume are with her friends from back home in Scotland. There’s a cute one of her making cookies with her grandma when she was little. One with me carrying her on my back, her legs around my waist, snow in her hair. I forget who took it.
I pull back the long curtains to see what she can see from her window. The tops of other buildings lower down the mountain, twinkling lights and then darkness.
“Nice view.”
“Mine’s better,” she says. Turning, I find her hopping up onto the counter across the kitchen, her crooked finger beckoning me. I make her wait, taking time to saunter over, stopping to fold my jacket and hoodie neatly over the back of one of her dining chairs.
I’mdyingto kiss her. Don’t know how I didn’t drag her out of Rico’s bar the second I laid eyes on her. Kayla is, hands down, the best kisser on the planet, and I know once I start I won’t be able to stop.
She parts her thighs and I step in between them. It’s been too fucking long, the longest we’ve gone without seeing each other, but standing this close, it feels like it’s been no time at all.
She’s still the same Kayla. Still wears three gold studs in each earlobe, and the dainty snowflake necklace that sits at the hollow of her throat. Her hair is still long, styled in thick braids she once trained me to weave for her. She still has the same sun-kissed freckles on her cheeks and her nose, the same full lips I’m going to take advantage of.
“Nice beard,” she says, tipping her chin.
“You like it?”
“I like it.”
Her eyes search mine for a few seconds and then she leans in, our noses brushing slowly from side to side. I pull back and she lets out a frustrated groan.
“I will headbutt you if you don’t hurry up and kiss me.”
I dart my tongue out to lick her lips, my fingertips tugging up her sweater, toying with the button on her jeans. I nudge it open and watch her eyes flare when I pull her zipper down ever so slowly.
“Lift your hips.” She does, and I hook my fingers inside her clothing and tug hard. She gasps loudly when I pull it all off in one go, and toss it aside, leaving her naked from the waist down. My hands drift to the backs of her toned calves, stroking them up and down. Fuck, I’ve missed this body.
The scar on her shin I always trace with my thumb, evidence of the winter she took a nasty tumble, shredded her ski pants and twisted her ankle. We were thirteen years old. I chased the ski patrol stretcher allthe way down the mountain, and refused to ski again until she could, too.
I squeeze just above her knees, then again and again, inching my way up her firm quads. She’s always had an athletic body, but she must ski every day now she’s here full time, and it shows in the taut muscles that twitch in response to my touch.
Kayla tries to push her knees back together, but I know it’s all for show. I can see in her eyes how much she’s aching for my touch. Know how wet I’ll find her when my thumbs reach the top of her thighs and spread her aching flesh. I know every inch of this woman, because she’s mine.
When she tries to push forward and grind against me, I grip her hips and hold her in place.
“You got a wishlist?”
