Page 45 of War on Christmas

Jeremy clears his throat. “Yeah, well. It wasn’t fair to you, and for that…well, I’m sorry. But…” He starts edging away from the table, his hand on my waist guiding me to follow. “I’m going to go dance with this gorgeous date of mine now, and when we get back, Freya and I would like some privacy.”

My head is reeling, and I don’t know if the responsibility lies with the two pints of Guinness I drank or Jeremy’s words. Probably both. I wait until he’s pulled me into his arms and we’re swaying to the music before planting a hand on his chest, grounding myself in the soft cotton of his shirt and the steadythump-thump-thumpof his heart beneath my palm.

I blink, trying to fight through the fray of emotions bombarding me. The warm, satisfied glow of finally getting back at Tiffany Ebner. The blaring alarms that have my palms sweating.Danger! Danger! Danger!The incessant pull I feel toward Jeremy, red hot and pleasant, even as our bodies are pressed together. I should focus on that heat, that sharp bite of attraction. That’s where I want him. It’s where I’m comfortable. It’s where a no-strings-attached, nine-day holiday fling resides. Which is my goal. Obviously.

I lean back in his arms to say something flippant and flirty. Something to deflect from the way the spicy scent of his cologne makes my heart flip-flop and flutter.

So, of course, what comes out is, “It was always me, huh?”

His mouth quirks into a lopsided grin. “Always, Sunshine.”

Thirty

JEREMY

Idon’tknowifmy little confession is the right move strategically. And I don’t care.

I don’t have it in me to play right now. Maybe it was seeing Tiffany and finally understanding my unwitting role in Freya’s bullying. Maybe it was the hour of being squeezed next to Freya in that booth, her “ruse” the perfect cover for me to touch and kiss and adore her the way I’ve always wanted to. Maybe it’s the way she’s looking at me now, her gray eyes open and soft. Vulnerable.

The song ends, and our feet stop moving, but I keep her next to me, my hand at the small of her back splaying wide and pulling her closer. She can’t run away. She can outright reject me, and I’ll respect her wishes. She can make one of her snide “Only nine days left” remarks. She can laugh in my face. But she’s not running away this time. She needs to look me in the eye and decide how to respond to the truth. Because itisthe truth, no matter how hard we’ve both tried to run from it: It’s always,alwaysbeen her.

She licks her red lips, and my brow furrows with confusion when she reaches up and slides her fingers along the top of her dress, grazing the pale curve of her breast with her fingertips. Then she pulls out two gold plastic cards like some kind of erotic magic trick and holds one up for me.

“I’m staying here tonight. At the inn. Room 204.”

It’s a hotel key. It’s a motherfucking hotel key. I stare at it stupidly, wondering how on earth this Christmas miracle came to be. Then I remember. Freya stopping at the front desk earlier on her way to the bathroom. Her back had been to me, and all I’d been able to focus on were the seams running up the back of her stockings, over her shapely calves and under the edge of her skirt. I thought she’d just been torturing me with the sight of her legs, but all the while, she’d been setting the ultimate gambit into motion.

Checkmate.

“Thank you for dinner,” she says, then stands on tiptoe to press her lips to my cheek. “And for what you did with Tiffany. It was a long time ago, but…” Her grin turns wicked. “It still felt pretty fucking amazing.”

“Freya, I—” Her fingers press to my lips, stopping the apology that wants to tumble out. She shakes her head and presses the plastic hotel key into my hand.

“Room 204. No pressure. If you decide not to join me, I’ll have Bethany pick me up tomorrow.” Then she turns away, pausing only long enough to peek at me over her shoulder. “But I hope you do.”

***

My heart beats triple time as I take the elevator to the second floor. An older couple, wrinkled and snowy-haired, rides with me, hands clasped. I keep my eyes lowered, wondering if they can hear the frantic, tripping rhythm of my pulse, like I’m off to my own execution instead of on my way to get laid. But I can’t shake the suspicion that sex with Freya might have more in common with facing my own death than with a casual tumble in the sheets. Because I know, deep down, that I’m not walking out of here the same person.

I knew we’d get here. I accepted a while ago that it was inevitable, and the moment she slid that hotel key out of her dress, I knew my little game of keeping things “friendly” was over. Kaput. Finished. Aside from the fact that I don’t have it in me to pass this up—I just don’t—there’s a real possibility that rejecting her invitation might put an end to her seduction. She might feel like she put all her cards on the table and decide to fold. Which isnotwhat I want.

She’s waiting for me when I open the door, leaning back in an upholstered chair, legs crossed. The lights are dim, but there’s a fire burning in the fireplace, the flames casting shadows over each of her delicate features. She’s perfection. A fantasy come to life.

And I’m hers. Just like that. I’m hers in a way that—crazy or not—survived almost twenty years apart. Hers in a way that’s woven into me, as immutable as my height or eye color or the shape of my nose. I’m not in this for a nine-day fling. I’m in it for keeps.

Which means I’m not playing by her rules.

I know what she’s expecting. I know because I knowher. This sexy, confident, grown-up Freya—a Freya who’s not afraid to take center stage—is orchestrating this scene flawlessly. She’s framed herself in the center of the room, her gray gaze watching me as I close the door with a quietclick. She’s still, silent. A siren who doesn’t even need to sing to reel me in. She knows that every molecule in my body is begging to give in to her gravitational pull. And I want to. I want to sink to my knees before her, a humble devotee. I want to slide her skirt up the soft, smooth skin of her thighs and spread her legs and worship her with my mouth and fingers and tongue. I want to give her pleasure like a mortal gives a goddess sacred offerings, wholeheartedly and fearfully, with no guarantees of anything in return. I want to kiss and lick and fuck her to every orgasm I’ve denied her over the past five days, every shudder and moan she bestows on me a holy relic I’ll carry with me for the rest of my days.

I can’t give her what she wants, though. I have to give her what she needs.

I lean back against the door and crook my finger at her. “Come here, Freya.”

One dark eyebrow jerks upward in surprise.You dare to command me, you frail, foolish man?I smile, widen my stance, and point at the space between my feet.Right here.

For a second, we stare each other down, nothing breaking the silence but the hiss of the fire. Then Freya gets to her feet and crosses the room gracefully, her high heels silent on the carpeted floor. I knew she’d cave. My Freya is a curious creature, and someone who insists on being treated as her equal? That, I’m sure, is a novelty she can’t resist.

She stops directly before me, close enough for me to feel her heat. Close enough to make my head spin with her flowers-and-patchouli scent. Her hands are behind her back, the gesture demure and obedient, but her eyes flash silver.

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