Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I have perfect aim.
Sheds aren’t soundproof.
The cold never bothered me anyway.
The snowball smacked me straight in the face.
I sputtered a string of obscenities, aimed at Jeremy, and missed completely as he ducked behind a boulder. My toes had gone numb five minutes into today’s so-called team activity. It had all started when May looked out the window at the pristine blanket of snow and yelled, “Loser does the dishes!”
Naturally, we’d abandoned our laptops, stretched out our stiff fingers, and bolted outside.
John had stayed in the doorway, watching us like we were unruly kids about to break a window.
Smack—another hit to my back. I spun around just in time to return the favor. May’s cackle was muffled by the snow in her mouth.
Breathless, I slumped against a thick tree stump and flexed my frozen fingers, packing fresh ammo. When my pockets were satisfyingly full, I charged after a glimpse of ginger hair peeking between two pines.
The snow crunched under my boots. I was 90% sure I had icicles forming inside my bra—but I couldn’t stop grinning.
This was fun. Stupid, silly, joy-in-the-moment kind of fun.
My body was grateful for the movement, even if my lungs burned and my scarf was plastered to my neck with sweat.
My mood was lighter. Being out here was better than sitting inside that cottage, second-guessing my story and glancing at the wall that separated me from the man who’d had the audacity to kiss me last night.
In front of Jeremy, no less. Probably even slept without a single ounce of remorse.
Remorse for the poor woman and her already messed up brain.
Like what was I supposed to do with that?
I still hadn’t answered Otis’s “OMG” text. I couldn’t. Not yet.
Plotting my revenge against Jeremy’s loose lips, I pounced around the tree.
“Aha—”
Only to find May’s scarf dangling from a branch like a decoy.
“Gotcha,” someone said behind me—and another snowball slammed into my chest.
Charlene. Two glasses of wine deep and somehow still more coordinated than I was. My respect for her went up a notch.
“Why is everyone against me?” I groaned, flinging snowballs after her as she darted away.
I glanced toward the cabin. John was still there, tea in hand, looking smug and untouched. I still had two snowballs left and enough feeling in my fingers to mess up that smug hair.
Bending down, I rounded the shed, ready to wipe that smug grin off his face.
But when I glanced at the open patio door, he was gone.
Party pooper.
A crunch behind me. I turned and flung a snowball—nowhere near John’s head.
“You’re a terrible shot,” he said, completely unbothered.
“And you’re no fun.” I weighed my last snowball in my hand.
“Maybe I like doing dishes.”
“Maybe you’re just afraid to mess up your fancy hair.”
“My hair is fancy?”
“It’s...adequate.”
He raised a brow, then crouched down to scoop up snow.
“You wouldn’t dare,” I warned, launching my final defense. It landed a full meter short. Great. I was a terrible shot.
He straightened just as I yanked down a branch above his head.
A curtain of snow fell on him, turning the man in black into Jack Frost.
I laughed so hard I nearly fell over.
John blinked through the snow, only his eyes and slightly red nose visible, his breath puffing in white clouds. “You’ll regret this.”
The laughter caught in my throat. I turned and ran.
He was faster. In no time, he tackled me into a snowbank.
I landed flat on my back, giggling breathlessly, with John on top of me. His arms caged me in, keeping most of his weight off, but his grin was wicked and far too close.
“Got you,” he said. “This sweater is cashmere, it’s ruined now.”
“Oh no,” I deadpanned. “Tragic.”
We were wide in the open. Anyone could walk by. But all I could focus on was the way his wet hair curled at the ends.
He made a low sound, almost a growl. His eyes flicked to my lips—intentions unmistakable.
“They could see us,” I whispered, suddenly breathless.
“We’re not doing anything bad,” he murmured, lowering his head. A damp curl grazed my forehead. His nose brushed mine. “Not yet.”
A wave of anticipation rushed through me. Despite the snow soaking through my trousers, I felt too hot. Something rustled in the bushes nearby. Probably an animal. Or worse—Charlene.
Sensing my hesitation, John stood and pulled me up with him, steadying me with a hand at my back. A second later, a volley of snowballs flew in our direction, accompanied by wild whoops.
We bolted for the shed.
Laughing, we dove inside and slammed the door behind us.
“Did they see us?” I asked, breath catching.
“I don’t think so.” John peeked through a crack in the wood. “They went the other way.”
It was dark inside—just outlines and shadows—but I could feel him. Closer now.
My back bumped the shelves.
The same shelves he’d once pressed me against.
He must have had the same memory because before I knew it John had cornered me, his thigh pressing between my legs, opening them. I gasped at the sensation, willing my body to step away from his but apparently, I wasn’t in charge of it anymore.
“This can’t happen again, Mr. Bestselling Author,” I said with my mouth. My fingers, however, curled into his shirt, pulling him closer. “I thought we agreed on that.”
“I didn’t agree to anything. You ran.”
His mouth lowered again. This time, he just brushed his lips over mine, then nipped my bottom lip and kissed along my jaw, down my neck. I melted into him like my bones had turned to putty.
“We agreed on one night only,” I said, even as my head tilted to give him more access.
“The last few weeks changed my mind.”
The words hit me harder than I expected. I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it—about him.
“What if they find us?” I whispered, even as I arched toward him when he nipped at my neck, my earlobe, erasing my resolve with every touch.
“You’ll just have to be quiet.”
And before I could ask what that meant, he dropped to his knees in front of me.
One hand lifted my damp sweater to kiss my clammy, cold stomach; the other unbuttoned my jeans.
“Shit,” I breathed. “This has to be in your top three worst ideas.”
“Shhh,” he said, then paused. “What are the other two?”
His fingers found the curve of my breast through my bra.
“Entering this competition.”
He tugged my jeans and underwear down in one smooth motion, until my bare ass met the cold shelf behind me. I sucked in a sharp breath—his warm mouth brushing against my hip bone.
“Agree to disagree,” he said, kissing the scar there. “And the third?”
As my jeans hit the floor, he helped me step out of one boot, then lifted my legs onto his shoulders like we’d done this a hundred times. I clung to the shelves behind me, praying to Bowie they wouldn’t collapse.
“Your choice of cat food,” I panted. “You’re enabling your cat’s obesity.”
He bit my thigh, and I stifled a yelp.
“I won’t stand for Queequeg slander.”
Before I could say I loved his fat cat, his beard brushed the inside of my thighs, and I forgot how to speak entirely. The first contact of his tongue sent my spine arching, knees trembling—good thing he was holding me up.
I briefly worried about tasting like sweat and adrenaline and bad decisions—but then John moaned into me.
“Fucking hell,” I gasped, as his tongue licked me like sorbet off a spoon. Long. Indulgent. Devastatingly thorough. Savoring me bit by tiny bit.
“You taste like heaven, Nora.” His slow strokes turned deeper, hungrier. The tip of his tongue moved with unrelenting purpose, winding me tighter with every pass.
Forget the worst ideas—this was one of his best. But I wasn’t about to feed that ego.
Footsteps outside.
“Where did they go?” I heard Charlene’s voice.
Shit.
But John didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down. He covered my mouth with one hand while he sucked on me harder, his other hand sliding between us, fingers slipping inside me with practiced ease.
I moaned into his palm, body arching. My own hands found his damp hair, gripping tight. I bucked my hips against his face, matching his rhythm, every part of me pulling tighter and tighter.
Outside, the group passed, their voices fading.
Inside, nothing existed except the way his tongue moved, the way his fingers filled me, the raw heat unspooling in my belly. I was unraveling, my whole body pulsing around him. I forgot where I was. Forgot who I was.
He sucked one last time, curling his fingers—and I snapped. He held me through it, steady and patient, like he’d waited a long time for this exact moment.
When it was over, he kissed the tops of my thighs, the scar, then carefully dressed me again. Slow. Intentional. Gentle.
When he rose, I tasted myself on his lips, and my inner voice—screaming BAD NORA on a loop—was drowned out by how good he felt under my hands. How much I wanted more. Again. Now.
I reached for his belt.
But he caught my hands and pressed his forehead to mine.
“Now that would be a bad idea,” he said, voice rough, pained. “We should go back in.”
He was right. The future I wanted—the store, the book deal—was inside that cottage, not here in the shed. Where I could get frostbite on my lady bits.
“Right.” I stepped away, still shaky, and opened the door. “But you’re doing the dishes.”