Heating Up the Holidays 3-Story Bundle(73)

“Shhh,” he says again, and I’m crying so much into his neck and shoulder, it’s wet, and when I try to mop him with my mitten, he stops me and pulls us up to sitting, and hauls me into his lap, my head under his chin.

“You didn’t fasten your coat.”

“I saw you through my office window.”

“Oh.”

“I was taking my coat off, watching the snow, and saw you fall.”

“Okay.”

I can’t seem to say more than inane things, but he just holds me, still rocking, doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t start conversation.

We haven’t had a real conversation since we met at the coffee shop. He’s checked in, wanted to meet and talk.

I’ve told him I need to think.

He’s let me think, which means I’ve kept his secret, too.

Now he’s here, and right now I don’t care what’s between us, what’s underneath, not when I need to be held by someone who’s already seen me cry.

I can hear wind rushing through the gaps between the big campus buildings, and the hum of HVAC systems trying to keep up against the cold.

Evan’s breath against my ear.

The crunch of his sneaker against a chunk of ice as he sways with me in his arms.

My arms are folded between us, and finally, I push a little and he loosens his hold around me.

His face is reddened from the cold, his hair has blown everywhere, wet with snow and melting snow.

His eyes look so blue.

His dark brows are all wrinkled up, all worried, and I pull off my mitten, and I put my hand over his forehead. His skin is so cold, my hand is warm, and he closes his eyes while I press away his worry.

I drag my hand down over his jaw, his stubble is soft, long.

I watch my fingers rub over his lips, and he watches me.

I push my first finger against his lower lip, and he opens his mouth, draws in my finger, sucks, and then I close my eyes. It feels more intimate than sexy though it’s a little sexy. I scrape along his bottom teeth as I pull my finger away.

His hands are cold as he traces over my cheeks, and it feels perfect where the tears have burned. He cups my whole face in his hands, and his cold palms make me blow out a breath with the relief of physical comfort.

His hands gradually warm against me, and he pulls off my hat, and the cold wind over my sweaty hair feels good, too.

Evan scrapes my hair away from my face, breaking up the damp clumps, then twists my hair at my nape.

He slides my hat back on.

His mouth is warm and tastes like he has just eaten a mint, sugary.

I grab his face, scratch through his stubble with my nails and open to him. He’s a little too gentle, so I rake into his hair, fist the cool wetness of it, angle him over me.

“Jenny,” he kisses my top lip, my jaw, pulls apart my coat and kisses my neck, “will you tell me?”

“No,” I say. “Not now.”

I kiss his neck, his Adam’s apple, lick the hollow in his throat. I can’t hear him over the wind, the fans in the HVACs, but I feel his groan.

Then he holds my head still, and his kiss is deep, slow, his breath hard through his nose, and everything goes hot over my skin and the way the snow is touching us, dripping from our hair and skin as it melts, just serves as a contrast to this warm kiss, how it makes my blood rush in a scald over my chest.

He uses his kiss to coax me up, his arms under my coat and around my middle, until we’re standing, and he’s kissing my neck, letting us breathe.

“Does anything hurt?” He runs his hands over the side of my body that hit the ground. I hiss when he presses over my thigh, right under my hip.

When he softly touches the area again, I look down. He’s brushing handfuls of eiderdown off his hand, the wind picks up the tiny feathers and mixes them with the snow.

The ice and brick tore right through the coat my mother sent me, and it’s ruined.

“You’ve torn through your jeans, too,” he says, and shows me the bloody rip. “Come on”—he grabs my hand—“let’s get you cleaned up.”

I follow him.

The courtyard is a mess, and we pick through the chunks and patches of ice I exposed out from underneath the pretty snow.

*

I don’t let him treat me like a child.

I take off my coat, keeping the torn side up so it doesn’t spill too many feathers in his office. Then I untie my boots and put them carefully in a plastic boot tray he has under his coatrack.

Without looking at him, I unsnap my jeans and shimmy them off, easing them over the scrape, then I fold my jeans and put them on a chair.

Evan has taken off his coat and pulled out a first-aid kit. “Can you hand me an antiseptic wipe?”

Our eyes meet. He looks tired, his hair sticking up everywhere from the snow and my hands. His gaze drops over my side. I must look ridiculous, standing in his office in my sweater and flowered underpants and wool hiking knee-highs.

“Let me.” He looks back to his kit, pulling out the wipes, his eyebrows worried.

He sits in the chair next to where I am standing and tears open a wipe. The scrape is surprisingly deep for how many clothes were over my skin. I think a brick must have torn open my coat on the way down.

He starts at the edges, scrubbing away where the blood has dried. Then opens another and gently drags it through the raggedy grooves. My eyes water, it stings, but then he takes ahold of my thigh with his hand—I must have flinched—and his fingers are resting on my inner thigh.