Page 33 of War on Christmas

I smile back. On the other end of the couch, Abi watches us, her expression curious, so I lean in close to Freya’s ear, close enough that her dark hair skims my jaw and I’m surrounded by the scent of flowers and patchouli.

“You should keep in mind, Sunshine…” I run my nose along the curve of her ear and feel her suck in a sharp breath, “that I’m always,alwayswilling to fight dirty where you’re concerned.”

Twenty-Two

FREYA

11 days until Christmas …

“Stillcold?”

I look up from the playing cards spread across the amoxicillin-pink carpet to find Jeremy watching me, his gaze on my hands as I try to rub some warmth into my numb toes.

“Mmhmm,” I admit.

Before the admission has totally left my mouth, Jeremy is sweeping the cards into a pile—Game over—and pulling my feet onto his lap, his big hands taking over the task of coaxing some heat into my extremities.

For the second night in a row, he included Bethany’s brood in our evening together. Like a little gang of undersized, eagle-eyed guardians. Tonight’s adventure? Sledding. I’m shocked to admit it, but I’ve been enjoying the little hooligans. Abi and I have always been close, so I knew the time with her would be great. But Andy is sweet, all sincere gray eyes and elbow dimples, and even Aiden and August, with their YouTube bro culture, are growing on me. I don’t necessarily appreciate the kids’ role in slowing down my seduction plans, but after the years apart, itisnice getting to know them better.

Besides, spending time with them lets me feel like I’m doingsomethingto lighten Bethany’s load. I’m not holding out hope for Sister of the Year or anything—when I go back to Chicago in twelve days, I fully anticipate returning to our relationship of rare and random phone calls to coordinate birthday presents—but I might as well help while I’m here. Bethany is obviously overwhelmed, and while our relationship has been complicated, I don’t want her to have an actual breakdown.

So, the time with Abi and the boys is fine, but these late-night visits from Jeremy? They’re all about one thing: Mission Seduction.

“Wine, please.” I hold out my hand, an imperious queen, and Jeremy hands the bottle over.

I consider him as I take a swig. Tonight, so far, is turning out a lot like last night. After we watchedThe Nightmare Before Christmasunder the doting gazes of Bethany’s children, Jeremy went home. Then, at bedtime, he showed up at my window with a bottle of wine and an old fantasy card game we loved as kids. We traded whispered insults as we battled—for old time’s sake—then as the card game ended, we gravitated closer, until his fingertips dangled along the curve of my spine and played with the loose wisps of hair at my nape, his touch always light and steady. Always electrifying.

I watched his eyes taking me in, and I thoughtThis is it—it’s finally happening. And I leaned in and pressed my lips to his, drinking in the warm, masculine taste of him. He gave that involuntary shudder and pulled me closer, his fingers fastening onto my hips like anchors. Like he was never going to let me go. Then we kissed until I felt woozy and drugged. Until the heat between us flared from an ember to a five-alarm fire. At which point, he pulled away with a groan and snuck back out the window with a wink and a raspy, “See you tomorrow, Sunshine.”

Tonight, though…tonight, I think I’ve got him.

After getting home from sledding, I changed into a pair of silky pajama shorts and a loose, off-the-shoulder T-shirt that reveals a lot more skin than I’ve exposed to Jeremy before. From the moment he climbed through the window tonight, I could feel his gaze eating me up. Especially my tattoos. As soon as I noticed the way his eyes kept dragging back to them, I swallowed my smile and carefully positioned myself so the soft fabric of my pj’s fell away from my shoulder and hip, playing peek-a-boo with my ink. His fascination has been addictive. Every mistake he made during our card game made me feel like a goddess.

His hands, warm and firm, are surrounding my feet, and I wiggle free so I can crawl to him and straddle his lap. He’s already hard, his grip desperate as he pulls me to him.

I run my hands through his hair, my need spiking as I trail my tongue up the column of his throat, breathing in the wine and spice scent of him.

“Is this ok?” I ask, nipping at his earlobe.

He half-laughs, half-growls as his fingertips bite into my ass, dragging me forward along his erection.

For as relaxed and go-with-the-flow as Jeremy usually is, he’s not—I’ve been surprised to learn—afraid to take charge. I’m used to setting the pace with my partners, and my sensitive, Victorian-poet types aren’t prone to manhandling. But every time Jeremy wraps his big hands around my hips or shoulders and positions me exactly the way he wants for those long, steamy kisses of his, I submit. It’s ridiculous.I’mridiculous. If Tim/Tom had tried to maneuver me around like a rag doll, I would have asserted control. Reminded him who was boss.

Getting to see this side of Jeremy, though…I suspect that aggression, that edge of dominance, is something he rarely shows to people. And those shadowy, hidden pockets—those secret corners of a person’s psyche that rarely see the light of day—they’re an obsession for me. Flecks of bright, golden truth in the inane gray gravel that people show publicly.

So, I find myself going soft around him, warm and pliant, when things turn passionate. I tell myself it’s strategy, turning feminine and receptive to draw out the inner Viking I’m convinced he’s hiding.

The fact that I enjoy it so much? Well, that’s just a bonus.

“What part of me doesn’t seem to be enjoying this, Sunshine?” he asks.

“Hmm…” My hands drift between us, down his chest, then his stomach. As soon as I get close to the hard bulge in his pants, however, he grabs my wrist with a hiss, stopping me even though it appears physically painful for him to do so. “The part of you that seems determined not to let us go past first base?” I suggest.

To prove my point, I balance myself on his shoulders and lift myself onto my knees so my breasts are just inches from his face, nothing between my puckered nipples and his warm breath but the thin cotton of my T-shirt. His eyes close, and his tongue shoots out to wet his lips. I know what I’m doing. Not to brag, but my tits are spectacular. They’re always the highlight of The Sphere’s burlesque shows. Right after my red lips, they’re the thing Jeremy can’t stop staring at, and judging by his dazed look, I might as well be hypnotizing him with strategically swirling pasties.

“I mean,” I sit back so my weight is across his thighs, releasing him from the pull of my breasts in his face, “consent isn’t only important for women to give to men. And youarekind of giving me mixed signals with your whole ‘let’s be friends but let’s make out until we’re on the brink of orgasm’ thing. If you want me to stop—”

“Frey.” His voice is gritty. Charged. My nipples pull tighter. “Don’t youdarestop seducing me.” I shift restlessly on his lap, and his hands graze my bare arms, pushing up the short sleeves of my shirt and exposing the sprawling tattoo that wraps around my right shoulder and down my arm. “Now.” He clears his throat. “Tell me about this.”

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