Page 49 of War on Christmas

My tone leaves much to be desired, but Jeremy relents, the tension easing from his shoulders as he drops a kiss to my forehead. “Look at those nice manners.”

I tweak his nipple, earning me a laugh, then he tortures me with slow, gentle strokes of his cock along my core while we quickly check in. Birth control? IUD. Testing? Clear. By the time the blunt head of his cock is coaxing me open, I’m biting my lip, my hips moving against him of their own accord. I feel splintered, fractured, on the edge of shattering. Jeremy, on the other hand, is calm, his smile beautiful as he drops his forehead to mine.

“It’s just you and me, Frey.” He nuzzles my neck, weaving his fingers through mine as he begins to sink into me. “You and me.”

I moan into the sensation of him filling me, and he slows, giving my body a chance to adjust to the pressure of him. The stretch. It’s hot and torturous and the tiniest bit uncomfortable, but in the best possible way. When that final inch slides home, my pelvis cradles his, and his body gives that familiar, involuntary twitch.

And something behind my breastbone heats.

It grows warm and heavy,tooheavy, and for a second I can’t breathe. Becausethis—whatever it is—is finally happening. Jeremy’s head is burrowed into my neck, my legs wrapped around his waist, and he’s moving, so slow and steady and tender it makes that thing in my chestache. It’s precious and fragile and frightening, and it’s balanced on a precipice, a terrifying edge, and I need something to distract me from the breathtaking hurt of it. So, I tighten my legs, the heels of my shoes digging into Jeremy’s ass, and breathe into his ear.

“More.”

He obeys, thrusting harder, faster, my hips rolling up to meet his, and the pressure is building, the heat too much. I’m gasping for breath—and so is he—but every time I’m close to falling, every time my body begins to tense and prepare for release, he eases back, his thrusts shallow. And every time he does it, I moan with frustration and grab at his shoulders, his hair, his face, and demand, over and over again, “More.”

And he gives it to me. Every time. More force, more speed, morehim. He gives me more until the world has narrowed to us. Just us. Just me and him, his eyes on mine as our bodies work feverishly to erase the final blurry boundaries between us, as if we move fast enough and hard enough, he’ll be able to sink into me for good and we’ll stop being Jeremy and Freya, and we’ll be…justus. No single version of us. Best friends. Rivals. Friends with benefits. We’re all of them, all the infinite, individual points of our lives that have led to this single moment, sweating and aching and reaching on this hotel bed.

“Freya.” His voice breaks as he says my name, his hands shaking as they cup my face, and just like that I come apart. My back arches. My moans turn to screams. His arms tighten around me, pulling me close—but still not close enough—and he breathes my name as he comes. “Freya. Freya. Freya.”

And somewhere, beyond the dizzying waves of heat and pleasure, I think to myself that it sounds like an oath. A prayer. A vow.

Thirty-Two

JEREMY

8 days until Christmas…

“Where’stheDaveMatthewsshirt, Sunshine?”

I’m wearing nothing but my pants, hands on my hips, as I pull myself to my full height and shoot a (hopefully) intimidating glower at Freya. Freya, of course, doesn’t look the slightest bit intimidated.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says coolly, sipping coffee from our room-service breakfast and returning her attention to her phone.

The fuck she doesn’t.

I sigh as I pull on my white button-down, which is missing half its buttons, but it’s all for show. The truth is I’d sacrifice every shirt I own for the night—and morning—I had with Freya. Hell, I’m just happy she’s still here.

Because last night was…intense. Hot and sexy and satisfying, but also…really fucking intense. Sure, I made some confessions last night, but there’s still a lot unsaid between Freya and me. She knows I want to see where this thing between us could go, but she doesn’t know how keenly I ache for it. How clearly I can see the life we’d build together back in Chicago. There’s a future there for us. I just need to convince her totry, and I suspect that all my longing—all the things I haven’t said out loud—came through loud and clear in our lovemaking. I can play her games, the banter and the battles of will. Hell, Iloveher games. But my body…my body can’t lie to her.

I’d been afraid to fall asleep, half expecting her to make a break for it in the middle of the night. But when I peeled my eyes open this morning, still feeling sated and a little drunk from the combination of sex and sleeping with Freya in my arms all night, she was still here, already up and dressed. Her waves were gone, due to a late-night shower for two, but her red lips and winged eyeliner were in place.

Clearly, she’d cared enough about the Dave Matthews shirt prank to get up early. I need to give hersomegrief about it, or I’ll disappoint her.

“Look at this,” I pout, standing in front of Freya and turning to the side as I flap the buttonless bottom of my shirt. It flops open to reveal my abs. (Abs that Freya spent a solid ten minutes licking last night). “And now you’re going to send me out in public without an undershirt?”

Freya arches an eyebrow. “Ask my panties how much they care about your shirts.”

Ah, the panties…I smirk, then press a kiss to the top of Freya’s head and sink into the chair opposite her, our empty breakfast dishes littering the small table between us.

“But think of all the memories behind that shirt,” I argue.Don’t you want to show that shirt to our grandkids someday?But I like my balls attached to my body, so I keepthatcomment to myself. Freya snorts as I grab the last slice of sourdough toast and take a bite.

“Now let’s get going,” Freya says, then drains her coffee. “Check-out is in ten minutes.” I groan and reach out to grab her wrist. I want to pull her onto my lap and stay in this inn until New Year’s, living on room service and orgasms. But she slides out of my reach and gives me a happy smile. An alarming smile. “Thad and Sam are home.”

***

“How did they get into town so early?” I grimace, pulling at my shirt collar as I eye Thad’s orange Honda Civic parked next to us in the Nilsen’s driveway. Bethany’s SUV is parked in the street.

“Early start,” Freya says. “They wanted to get here in time for kickoff.”

---