Page 7 of 3 Stolen Kisses

“We’re not taking your bike?” I ask as Saxon opens the SUV passenger door, waving for me to climb in. His mouth twitches.

“And how would we transport a tree on my bike? You gonna balance it over your little lap?”

Oh, right. Duh.

“Well,oneday, will you take me out on your bike? That’s on my bucket list too, you know.”

Saxon clips my seat belt without answering, gray eyes roving down my body once more before he steps back and shuts the car door. Inside, I’m left with nothing but my own shallow breaths, leggings rustling softly as I squirm, squeezing my thighs together.

I’m surprised I don’t fog up the windshield, I’m panting so hard. Surprised I don’t melt into a desperate little puddle, all in the time it takes Saxon to climb in, belt up, and back us out of the parking space, our vehicle purring slowly through the darkened garage. The engine rumbles beneath us, vibrating through my quivering body.

His hands are big and scarred where they rest on the steering wheel. Saxon always has to push the driver’s seatallthe way back to fit his legs, and even then, his dark hair brushes the ceiling.

It’s cut close on the sides, a bit longer on top. Thick and tuggable, and threaded with a few silver hairs up there too. I’d tease him about that, but I never like highlighting our age gap to Saxon. Feels like scoring an own goal.

“So we’re going to a Christmas tree farm?”

“We’re going to a Christmas tree farm,” he says.

“And I can pick?” I ask, grinning as I push my luck.

Gray eyes flick to me, amused, then Saxon watches the road as we pull out onto the street. “And you can pick. Choose wisely, Ali Cat.”

Oh, I will.

Saxon is gonna let me decorate his Christmas tree? Maybe other parts of his apartment too?

This will be my goddamn masterpiece.

Four

Saxon

Should’ve known I was setting myself up for trouble when I took Alison out for the day. Oh, I cleared it with Charles and with the rest of the security team, obviously, but I should’ve run it past my own common sense a few more times first.

Her and me.

Alone.

Was so sure I could handle it like a professional, andnowlook at me. I’m worn ragged already, trailing after Alison between rows and rows of Christmas trees in pots, taking an Olympic level of effort to keep my eyes off her tight, swaying ass.

Her red t-shirt is on back to front. Should I point that out? What if she whips it clean off right out here in the open air and gives me a heart attack?

“What about this one?” Ali stops at a squat, chubby-looking tree, stroking her fingertips over the branches. “Are your ceilings high? How much space are we working with?”

Every time I get close to her, I smell the shampoo scent clinging to her damp hair. It’s driving me crazy.

“Plenty of space,” I say, pointing my nose into the warm breeze instead. It smells like baked dirt, juniper, and car exhaust—and like those Christmas tree-scented air fresheners that people dangle from their wing mirrors, though I guess this is the real deal. “Just don’t pick a massive tree meant for a town square and we’re good.”

Ali giggles, flashing a smile back over her shoulder, and I about crash to my knees in worship.

Not good. It’s early in the morning for my control to be so threadbare.

Guess it’s no surprise. I spent all night by her side, after all, holding her hand through that party, and that would wear down any man’s defenses.

Charles lectured me about it—about keeping Ali from her hostess duties.

Works for me. I’ll take the blame each time, and she can spend the parties unbothered. I’d do a lot more to assure this girl’s happiness.

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