The Mistletoe Motive(54)

“Store’s closed.” I flip over the sign, lock the bolt, then sweep her into my arms, carrying Gabby toward the newest feature of the store: a sturdy wooden ladder that glides across the built-in bookshelves. It fulfilled Gabriella’s fantasy of recreating Belle’s moment in Beauty and the Beast, and it fulfilled my fantasy of lounging by the fire and seeing right up her dress.

“We can’t just close the store,” she says. “We have a bottom line to maintain, Mr. Frost. Crucial profits will be lost.”

“God, I love when you talk money to me. Thankfully, after having a long, hard—” I set her on a rung of the ladder, slide her dress up her thighs to those decadently full hips, then spread her legs until she can feel and appreciate the double-meaning in my words “—look at the numbers, I’ve determined we can afford to lose fifteen minutes’ worth of business.”

“Fifteen minutes?” She arches an eyebrow. “Awfully confident in your seductive powers after all these years, Jonathan Frost.”

“Damn right.”

Her head falls back against the ladder as I kiss her throat, lower the neckline of her dress, and free her breasts. I tease each nipple with my mouth in hard, rhythmic sucks, while my thumbs trace her silky inner thighs in slow circles that drive her wild.

“What did I do to deserve a mid-morning orgasm?” she asks, a dreamy smile on her gorgeous face.

“You’ve been naughty, Gabriella.”

She bites her lip. “It was just a little holiday prank.”

“It was a very real-looking audit from the IRS, until I saw it was addressed to Jonathan Scrooge McGrinch.”

She cackles. “Gotta keep you on your toes, Frost.”

I nip her neck, then chase it with a wet, hot kiss. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“So lucky,” she breathes, her hands gliding down my back, then lower, pulling me close. “Now remind me just how lucky, please.”

“I’m the lucky one,” I tell her as she yanks open my buckle, still mindful of my nearby infusion site and tubing at my hip.

Pressing a hot, slow kiss to the hollow of my throat, she slips my pump from my front pocket to the back one, like a sexy pickpocket, so it’s out of the way, then drags down the zipper of my slacks and frees my cock, which throbs, hard and aching for her.

The moment I sink inside her, we both moan with relief.

How many times have I done this? How many places and ways? And yet every time with her, I’m desperate and undone, aching for the moment I’m inside her.

On the first deep thrust of my hips, her eyes drift shut. She sinks her hands into my shirt and bites her lip. Hard. The sight of it makes me groan rough and low in my throat.

Gabby clenches around me, torturing me because she loves to, and I couldn’t live without it. It makes me grip the ladder hard and wrap her tight inside my other arm. “Behave yourself.”

She laughs breathily. “I’d rather not.”

Another clench around me makes me buck into her. “Fuck, Gabby.”

Watching her full lips part in pleasure, those feline hazel eyes flutter open and find mine, I touch her clit just how she loves, in tight, fast circles that make her work herself over every inch of me and ride me hard, chasing her release. The ladder creaks. Gabby’s cries grow louder, uninhibited as they echo around us, smoky and breathless. I soak up each desperate call of my name, every gasped yes and please and I love you until she comes, hard and breathless, and takes me with her.

After we’ve cleaned up and straightened out our clothes, I sweep Gabby into my arms again and carry her to one of the wingback chairs in front of the fire.

“What’s with all the carrying?” she says, arms thrown around my neck, head lolling heavily on my shoulder. Her voice is languid and satisfied. I live for that sound in her voice.

“Because one brief carry across an apartment threshold after your wedding is absolutely not enough.”

She laughs. “After that performance on the ladder, if I hadn’t already done it, I’d marry your fine ass in a heartbeat, Jonathan Frost.”

“I know,” I tell her, kissing her as I set her down on the ground. “But it’s nice to know you married me years ago and for more than my ruthless capitalist machinations’ power to set you up for life with chocolate milk.”

“Hot cocoa,” she growls playfully, clasping my waist and kissing me again. Her eyes search mine. “Speaking of ruthless capitalist machinations, I’m still not sure I forgive you for what you pulled after the wedding.”

“Gabriella.” I sit in one of the wingbacks and haul her onto my lap. “What I ‘pulled’ was a wedding gift.”

Toeing off her boots, she curls up close to my chest, nestled right where I want her. With a fingertip she traces my wedding ring—a broad white-gold band etched with snowflakes inside it, an exact replica of the more delicate band adorning her finger.

“Buying us this place is the most unforgivably romantic thing, Mr. Frost. But I’m trying my best to let bygones be bygones.” Her expression grows serious as she peers up at me. “It was the best gift ever. And I’ll never be able to give you a gift like that in return.”

“Gabriella. Love of my life, you already have.”

She tips her head, her smile soft and curious. “What gift is that?”