Page 157 of The Holiday Clause
Her heart skipped a beat as his mouth moved slowly toward her racing pulse. She licked her suddenly dry lips.
“Wait, wait, wait.”Slipping out of his grip, she backed out of the kitchen. “I need…to freshen up.” She reached for her glassand the bottle. “Can you give me a few minutes? Meet me in the bedroom?”
“There’s no rush, Wren. We can grab dinner?—“
“No.” The thought of doing this on a full stomach didn’t sound wise. “I have my dinner.” She lifted her glass. “You can help yourself to anything in the fridge.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said in a high-pitched voice that sounded nothing like her own. “I’ll be two seconds.” She rushed into the bathroom and locked the door with shaking fingers. “Shit.”
Dropping to the toilet, she rocked forward, her heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat. She pressed her slick palms against her cheeks, trying to cool the fever burning through her, and guzzled her glass of wine, hoping the alcohol would calm the butterflies rioting in her stomach.
“Breathe.” She forced air into her lungs. “Breathe.” She practiced her breathwork, but it only made her lightheaded. “You’ve got this. Nice and deep…” Hearing her own words she stilled. That was exactly how it would be. Nice, and probably very fucking deep.
Why did Jocelyn say that thing about tearing?
The breathing exercises weren’t working, so she tried to massage her vagus nerve while doing various face contortions. Her hands trembled as she pressed her fingers to her neck, searching for some magical pressure point that would transform her from terrified virgin to confident seductress. Nothing worked.
“Fuck.” She drank directly from the bottle, and quickly emptied it. Her head was spinning, yet she was still somehow way too sober. “Shower.”
She pulled her hair into a messy bun and stripped while the water warmed, her fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers.Hopefully, the heat would calm her anxiety. She could also try a cold plunge.
There isn’t time for that.
Two seconds turned into ten minutes. By the time she left the bathroom, she was more worked up than she’d been when she ran away.
Wrapped in a towel, Wren awkwardly sauntered out of the steam, prepared for embarrassment but shockingly soothed by the sight that greeted her.
He knelt by the fireplace, coaxing flames to life, the golden light dancing across his broad shoulders, casting shadows that accentuated every ridge of muscle. Her nervous energy quelled the moment her brain remembered this was Greyson, not some stranger.
He was right. This was always the way it was supposed to be—the two of them.
She smiled. “The scent of burning firewood always reminds me of you.”
He glanced back from the hearth and stilled, his eyes drinking in the sight of her. Slowly, he stood from where he crouched and crossed the room, each step deliberate and predatory.
A burst of butterflies took flight in her stomach, and her hand tightened on the towel wrapped around her chest as he closed the distance. The firelight played across his angular features, highlighting the intensity in his blue eyes.
Of course, Greyson missed nothing. “If you’re not ready, we can wait.”
“I’m ready. I’m very,veryready.”
“You’re sure?”
She looked up at him, the gravity of this moment weighing her down like lead. “I’ve waited years for this, Greyson. Don’t tease me with something only to take it away.”
He glanced down at her chest and stepped closer, tucking a damp curl behind her ear. His fingertips lingered against her temple, tracing the shell of her ear with devastating gentleness. “I’m not taking it away. You’re mine, Wren. You’ve always been mine.” His voice lowered as he stared into her eyes with hungry promise. “Haven’t you?”
She nodded, wanting nothing more than for him to claim her in that moment.
“No more waiting.” He bent to kiss her, and she wreathed her arms around his neck.
She tried for graceful and failed miserably. It seemed neither of them had any patience left. Hauling her off her feet, he gripped her ass and backed her into the wall. She locked her legs around his hips as his body ground against hers, hard denim against soft flesh, the rough texture of his jeans creating delicious friction against her bare thighs.
Her fingers raked through his hair as he pinned her to the plaster, devouring her mouth with enough pent-up passion to get her quivering before he even put his hands on her. The towel started to slip, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was the heat of his mouth, the possessive grip of his hands, the way he consumed her like a man starved.
“Bedroom,” she rasped between kisses.
