The Envy of Idols (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #3)(72)

“That better be faux fur trim,” I tell him, pointing at his jacket, and he grins.

“The lady in Paris said it was raccoon fur. She assured me she did not go and shoot zat poor thing in the head or anything like zat.” He winks at me and sets his bag on the floor near the couch. I’d offer him up a guest room … if we had one. Nope. Sorry. But we have this lovely couch a few extra blankets. With the glittering white lights of the Christmas tree, and the fire crackling in the fireplace, it’s actually pretty damn cozy. “Pretty sure this is roadkill.”

I roll my eyes, but as is often the case with Windsor York, I have no idea if he’s joking or not.

“Apple cider?” Dad asks, and Windsor tips his head, reaching up to remove his beanie so he can ruffle up his red hair.

“I’d love that, Mr. Reed, thank you.”

“How’s that host club thing going for you?” Dad asks as he moves into the kitchen, and I give Windsor a look. If the glimmer in his hazel eyes is any indication, he finds the whole thing hilarious.

“Fantastic, Sir.”

“Good, good.” We hear Dad shuffling around in the kitchen for a little while before the soft sound of Christmas music spills from the speakers, giving us a moment of privacy in the small house.

“I come bearing gifts,” Windsor says, slipping out of his jacket, and gesturing at the giant duffel bag. “Nothing so extravagant as the car this time, since I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I hope you like what I’ve picked out.”

“If there are lacey panties in one of those boxes, and I open them in front of my dad, I swear on Frosty’s snowballs, I will kill you.”

Windsor chuckles and steps toward me, curling his fingers around my upper arms and looking down into my eyes.

“Why on earth would I give you lacey panties in front of your father?” he asks, leaning down and pressing the softest, lightest kiss against my lips. That, too, feels like a tease, and I end up pushing him away from me, so I can catch my breath. If it bothers him that I slept with Creed, he still doesn’t let on.

“Because you said you were going to—as we were touring the art museum, no less. The security guard heard you and started guffawing. It was embarrassing as hell.”

“Well, my dear,” Wind says, sitting down on the couch and crossing his legs at the knee. His boots are shiny with dew from the wet grass. No snow here in Cruz Bay, not this close to the ocean. “That was a joke. The lacey knickers are a gift for private moments.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of red and black lace panties with tiny jingle bells on them, and tosses them my way. I catch them and look at the word scrawled across the ass.

“Naughty?” I ask in a dry voice, one brow raised. Windsor pulls another pair of underwear from a different pocket—how many freaking pairs does he have?!—and throws those at me, too. These have angel wings on them and the word … “Nice? Seriously?’

“Thought I’d let you choose,” he whispers as Dad walks back in the room, and I quickly tuck the two pairs of underwear into my back pockets.

We sit around with cider and put on a series of crappy Christmas movies, me and Wind on the couch, and Dad in his favorite chair. By the time we’re ready for bed, most of the Christmas cookies are gone, and the pumpkin pie I bought from the local bakery for tomorrow has already been consumed.

“If you’re in the bedroom at the same time, door open,” Dad says, standing up and stretching as he yawns. “And remember: this is a small house, and moans carry through the walls.”

“Dad,” I grind out, but Windsor just laughs.

“Yes, sir, we’ll remember that,” he says as Charlie gives him a long, lingering look and then disappears into his room. The door isn’t closed five minutes before we hear him snoring. Honestly, it’d probably take a freight train to wake him up.

“Well … you’ve got blankets and pillows,” I say as Windsor lays back on the couch, his arms folded behind his head. “Do you need anything else?”

“How about a good-night kiss?” he asks, and I pause, looking down at him all stretched out. The urge is there to climb in his lap and cuddle, but … even if Dad is fast asleep, maybe that’s not the best idea here.

“Just one,” I say, but when I bend down to give Windsor a kiss, he pulls me into his arms until I’m lying on top of him.

“Maybe two or three. I’m jealous of Creed you know, and can be quite the right proper asshole when I’m jealous.”

“You didn’t seem jealous,” I whisper, and something in Windsor’s face hardens. He slides his fingers into my freshly cut and dyed hair and pulls my head toward his.

“I was.”

Our kiss is slow and sensual, and tastes like apple cider. It’s one of those kisses that isn’t easy to forget, one that burns a brand into the memory that lasts a lifetime.

Before I know it, he’s got his hands under my shirt, massaging my bare back, and I’ve got his buttons undone, my palms sliding across the smooth, hard planes of his chest. We kiss well-past the midnight chime of the clock that sits on the mantle, and into the early blush of a winter dawn.

My body is on fire, throbbing, and desperate for another taste of what I had at the hotel.

It’s actually Wind who pushes me back, his own breathing harsh and panting.