The Mistletoe Motive(28)
Jonathan bends closer despite his words, as I press up on my toes, and finally our mouths brush, gently, then deep. I breathe him in, and it’s pure exhilaration, like a gulp of bracing air while rushing down a snowy mountain. He tastes like rich chocolate and cool water and—Sweet Jesus—his tongue flicks mine and my knees give out. I throw my arms around his neck, thread my fingers through the thick, silky strands of his hair as his arms wrap around me until we’re crushed together, chest to chest, hearts pounding.
Tipping his head, Jonathan deepens our kiss until it’s hot and slick, a desperate dance that beats to the rhythm of yes and more and don’t stop. His fingers sink into my coat, and he drags our hips together. I gasp, feeling him thick and halfway hard already, snug against where I’m aching and wet beneath my clothes. Our breathing’s harsh and ragged, between each feverish, devouring slide and stroke of lips and tongue. I press myself against him. Our bodies rock together.
Jonathan’s hands tighten around my waist and slide up my back, tangling in my hair as he kisses me so deeply, it’s like our mouths are making love. I’m frenzied, wild, sucking his tongue, and he groans, rough and low in his throat, like there’s no sweeter agony than this. A helpless moan leaves me, too. I sound devastated. Because I am.
Why is this the best kiss of my life? Why did it have to be him?
“It’s too good,” I whisper through the knot in my throat, the ache in my heart, even as I kiss him again and again. “It wasn’t supposed to be this good.”
“It wasn’t, huh?” he says softly against my lips. “Of course you’re roasting me. Even while we kiss.”
Kiss. The word echoes in the snowy silence as reality hits me like a frigid slap of winter wind. I wrench myself away, shaky fingers brushing my lips. Oh my God. I kissed Jonathan Frost. More than once. In fact, many times. Passionately.
Jonathan looks at me like a haze has cleared for him, too. Like he’s just processed what he’s done, and can’t believe he did it. Before either of us can speak—though what the hell could we even say?—I stagger backward, hurrying up the steps to my building’s entrance. But for some inexplicable reason, as I reach the top, I turn back and face him.
Jonathan stares up at me, still breathing roughly.
I’m still breathing like that too, like there’s not enough air, like the only air I want is each jagged breath stolen between kisses that unravel and tangle us together.
What an absolute disaster.
Frantic, I rush inside, then sprint upstairs to our second-floor apartment. Shutting the door, I slump against it and sink to the floor.
“What the fuck?” I whisper into the silence.
From where I sit, I can see straight down the hall to my bedroom and my desk, the laptop perched on its surface. I think of Mr. Reddit, and my stomach sinks. He’s the one who I’ve been waiting for, the one I was supposed to kiss someday as snow fell from the sky.
No, we’re not together, but we both more or less admitted we hoped for it, once we met and got to know each other in person. How did I lose sight of that? How did I let Jonathan’s sultry wintry scent and his romance-novel spiel and his cozy car and his cache of mint chocolate M&Ms sway me so easily?
Sickening fear washes over me. What if I’ve waded into dangerously familiar territory with Jonathan?
I’ve been seduced for ulterior motives before, and while Trey was as different personality-wise from Jonathan as day from night—all sunshine charm and flirtation, compared to my cold, surly coworker—their aims are much too similar, aren’t they?
Trey’s ultimate goal was for his family’s business to own Bailey’s Bookshop, and in an attempt to secure that, he took advantage of my trust, my romanticism, my belief in the best of people. Jonathan wants the bookshop for himself, too, and he’s proven himself ambitiously strategic and calculating. I’m not sure how this seductive campaign, this nice-guy routine and kissing me breathless, plays into his scheme, but what reason do I have to believe it’s anything other than just that—a scheme?
Whatever Jonathan’s motive for exploiting this sexual attraction that I can’t deny any more than I can deny the curls on my head or the color of my eyes, I have to stop this. Right now. Not one more moment mulling over the longing in his gaze, that sexy almost-smile as he walked out of the locker room and saw me there. No more thinking about my perfect peppermint hot cocoa or his mint chocolate candy stash, or his appreciation for romance or his heartfelt apology…
Or those kisses. God, those kisses.
Then again…maybe every sweet, sensual thing that man squeezed into one small hour is exactly what I should be thinking about. Maybe it’s time to use Jonathan Frost’s weapons against him.
Stumbling upright, I run to my room and wrench open my closet door to search for the dress to beat all dresses. I unearth it, then hang it on the closet door, inspecting it with a tilt of my head. Gingerbread takes one look at the dress, then lets out a long meow.
“Agreed, Ginge. It’s pretty va-va-voom for work, but you know what they say: desperate times call for desperate measures.”
If Jonathan Frost thinks he’s going to Lothario me right out of a job, he’s got another thing coming.
I pump myself up as I steam-press the wrinkles out of every crimson panel of my dress and pick out the perfect pair of superbly festive earrings. I remember the fire in Jonathan’s eyes as he told me, I’m not walking away without fighting for this, Gabriella.