Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“I know you like Christmas tree farms,” he says, then gestures to the yard filled with trees. “So I made one just for us.”
For us. Those words echo, hard and lovely in my chest. Full of promise and…passion.
I look around at the spruces and pines, some strung with lights. And—wait—do those trees have paper tags? Like they’re for sale. He really went all out. For me.
There’s also a makeshift table made of three wood planks. On it are two cups of hot cocoa.
Is that what he was doing in the kitchen? Making a hot cocoa stand?
Sugar plum fairies are definitely doing a dance in my chest.
“This is…incredible,” I say, though the words hardly feel like enough. I turn to him, my heart in my throat. “No one has ever done anything like this for me.”
“Good. I like all your firsts.” He takes a beat, then nods to the table. “Want a sip of cocoa for fuel?”
“For what?”
With a smirk, he says, “You’ll see.”
I know better than to say no to hot cocoa, so I say yes and follow him down the steps, then pad through the freshly fallen snow. The world is still now, the sky quiet. But the yard is softly illuminated by the glow of snow and the reflected lights.
We reach the makeshift stand and he offers me a cup. A tendril of steam rises. I take a sip.
“It’s delicious. Sweet and a little milky,” I say.
“It didn’t win us the contest today,” he says with a shrug. But he seems unfazed. Maybe this—me—is the contest he’d rather win? Hope curls brightly inside me.
“I’m giving it a ten out of ten,” I say.
His green eyes flicker with…hope. The same hope I feel? “Let’s see what you give it after you visit the rest of the farm.”
“Are you giving me a tour?”
“No. I’m giving you a chase.”
I gasp, cold air filling my lungs and somehow making me hotter. “You are?”
“I sure am. I noticed at the Christmas tree farm—you seemed a little excited. A little turned on when I was close to you. I thought, too, there was something in your eyes—the start of something. And I thought maybe…you’d want me to catch you.” He licks his lips, like a hunter. “Was I wrong?”
My heart is beating so fast. My thighs clench. I ache between them. I want to be his prey.
I don’t know where these fantasies came from, but I know when they woke up. And he knows it too—the day we walked through the real tree farm weeks ago. When I imagined him pinning me against a tree. And I swear, he can read my mind. From the outdoor patio to the path by my parents’ house, this man has read a book of fantasies I didn’t know I owned—snow and cold and outdoor kink.
“Is your yard fenced in?”
“Yes.”
I scan the trees. The lights he’s hung illuminate them just enough. “Give me a fifteen-second head start,” I say, the words flying out. “Then catch me if you can.”
“You’re on.”
Vaguely, in the back of my head, I wonder if all this effort he’s made is simply for a few days or if he’s rolling out all the stops because he likes the games we play. Maybe he wants them to be real too.
But there’s a time and place for confessions. And there’s a time to run. Right now, I run, through the snow, dodging and darting past trees, rounding spruces, sliding between firs. I’m inhaling the delicious scent of pine and snow and wild thrill.
I don’t know where he is—but I hear him.
His footfalls grow louder. A dangerously seductive sound. I whip my gaze around, my heart pounding in my throat, my adrenaline sky-high.
But my desire is too.
I want him to catch me.
I duck behind a tree. Wait.
His boots grow louder, crunching snow.
Then he says, “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”
I stay quiet, holding my breath, until he walks past me.
I let out my breath.
He jerks his head. His eyes are dark, his jaw tense, his gaze locked on mine. “Got you,” he says, his arms darting out, grabbing my shoulders, clutching me.
It happens in no time. His kiss is hard, rough, cold. He leans my head back. Crushes me to him. Devours my mouth.
I break the kiss and pant out my true desires: “I want you. Right here. Right now.” I stop. Smirk. “But I want the kind of outdoor sex where only your dick gets naked.”
His eyes flare. He growls.
I hold his filthy stare as desire pulses low in my belly. Then I drop down in the snow.
But Rowan catches me before my jeans hit the white stuff. “Wait,” he says, and I wobble but don’t fall.
In one swift move, he shrugs off his coat, and spreads it on the snow beneath us. “Don’t want you to have to kneel directly in a winter wonderland.”