“Adam.”
“You really think either of them is going to show up on your door in the next three days before Christmas because some psycho ‘saw’ it?”
I cross my arms. “Yes.” Maybe.
He leans in. “Bullshit.”
“Yeah, shocking that you feel that way. You’ve hidden it so well.”
“I’ve put up with it well enough, but it’s got you acting nuts, and—”
“You’ve got me acting nuts,” I shout. “You’ve been weird, pushing me out even as you pull Erika in!”
“What does it matter, Kelly? What does it matter whether I hook up with my ex? Isn’t that what you’re doing?”
I swallow, and there’s a lump. “So you are? Getting back together with her?”
He closes his eyes with a sigh, rubs a hand over his eyes. “I don’t know. I can’t possibly think about what to do with that woman when I’m trying to deal with this one.” He opens his eyes and motions with his hand toward me as he says it.
“I’m not yours to deal with,” I say, pushing past him to get outside.
I’ve already taken off my boots, and the snow soaks through my socks immediately.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting my mistletoe,” I call over my shoulder, kicking my knees up high as I prance into the yard, so that my feet touch the freezing ground for as little time as possible.
I pull the green bundle out of the snow a second before I’m hoisted off my feet and dragged back into the house.
“You’re an idiot,” he says, depositing me into my kitchen, looking both furious and baffled.
I press one foot on top of the other, trying to warm them, as I find the tiny red loop that the mistletoe hangs by, and then hold the bundle out to him. “Put it back.”
He glares at the mistletoe. “No. Mistletoe makes you weird.”
“Not your problem,” I say, pointing up. “The nail’s still up there. You just have to loop this on there.”
“Fuck the mistletoe, Kelly!”
I gasp. “Take that back.”
“No. Go put on some dry socks.”
“No.”
We’re both breathing hard, and Mark looks . . . furious.
Well, that’s just fine. I’m a little bit furious myself. Furious at him, and Erika, and myself, and that crazy lady in the train station.
Furious that nothing is simple anymore, furious that my heart is pounding and aching and hopeful all at the same time.
I’m furious that I’m jealous, and that’s new to me, to be honest. Hell, I’m so jealous. Jealous that he kissed her for real when I got a brotherly kiss on the cheek, jealous that he sees her as a woman while he treats me like I’m nothing but the half-batty sister who believes in tea leaves and kinda sorta believes Hogwarts is real.
Most of all, I’m furious that I’ve been waiting my whole life to feel like this and it’s with the wrong guy, who I want so badly to be the right guy.
“Damn you, Kelly,” Mark says in a low voice, disrupting my thoughts. “Damn you.”
Mark steps toward me and sets his fingers beneath my chin, using his thumb to nudge my face up to his, much as he did last night beneath the mistletoe.
Except this time, when he lowers his face to mine, he kisses me for real.
December 20, Wednesday Evening
Mark’s mouth moves hungrily over mine, his hands sliding to my waist as he walks me backward a few steps, kicking the door shut with a decisive slam.
I should be freaked out—I know I should, but truthfully what’s freaking me out more isn’t how wrong this is but how absurdly right it feels. As though his mouth was made for mine, as though we should have been doing this a long time ago.
I wind my arm around his neck, letting him pull me even closer. His hand slips under my sweater, his palm warm on my back . . .
Which abruptly makes me realize how cold my feet still are in their wet socks. I pull back with a little gasp.
“My feet,” I manage, wanting him to know that I’m not stopping because of him.
He glances down and with a quick nod takes complete control of the situation, putting one arm around my back, the other sliding behind my knees and lifting me to him.
I slide an arm around his neck, pulling him in for another kiss as he walks us into the living room. Mark sits on the couch, me draped over his lap.
His mouth never leaves mine as he tugs off one wet sock, then the other, and wraps a warm hand around my cold feet, gently kneading feeling back into them.
I return the favor, my hands sliding under his shirt and tracing my fingers over the planes of his abs. “You never grabbed your jacket,” I murmur.
Instead of replying, he slides a hand behind my neck, opens my mouth with his, tongue sweeping against mine in wet, delicious friction.
I kiss him back, realizing he probably has the right idea about not talking. If we talk, we might stop, and I don’t want to stop.
We kiss forever. Minutes? Hours? His mouth is perfect, his hands are everywhere.
I feel my head rest gently against one of the couch pillows and my eyes fly open when I realize he’s laid me back and is shifting to lie alongside me.
Mark sets his hand against my stomach, his eyes searching mine. Okay?
I reply by wrapping my now warm foot around his calf and arching up for another kiss. More than okay.
Both his hands are under my sweater, stroking my sides and stomach in a way that makes me feel beautiful instead of a few pounds past slim.
When his fingertips brush the lace along the base of my bra, it’s the point of no return.
I want nothing more than to go over the edge with him.
As his hand slides upward I hold my breath, only it comes out on a moan when his hand brushes over my breast.
Mark’s lips and tongue are hot on my neck as he molds me beneath his palm. Fingers trace along the cup of my bra, then beneath. His thumb scrapes over my nipple, and he captures my gasp with his mouth, kissing me as thoroughly as he explores me.
I feel heat pooling between my legs. I arch up, seeking relief, needing his touch.
He utters a low “fuck” as my hips brush his erection, the first word he’s said since kissing me, and its impulsive dirtiness makes me moan in response.
Mark tugs me up, not giving me a chance to think or doubt as he pulls my sweater over my head. He holds my gaze as his fingers find the button of my jeans, watching my face even as he pulls the tight jeans down my legs, tossing them aside.
Then his eyes travel over my body, and I’m too turned on to be embarrassed, too utterly in lust to linger on the fact that my stomach’s not flat, that my thighs are utterly unfamiliar with the concept of a gap . . .
I can’t even think about my body, because I’m too busy looking at Mark’s body. He reaches behind his head, tugging off his shirt in one motion. His boots and jeans follow in record time, and the sight of Mark Blakely standing beside my couch wearing only boxers is mouthwatering enough to have me pushing into a sitting position and pressing a kiss to his perfect abs.
“Perfect,” I say, unable to keep from giving his (perfect) ass cheek a little pat.