“Here.” I take his hand and work off one of his rings to slide it onto my thumb.
He stares down at his ring on my hand. “You’re wearing a skull ring, Christmas Prince.”
“Well, my nails aren’t black and orange anymore, so this way, I’m always touching you. Sort of.” I twist the ring so the skull bit faces my palm and from the side, it’s a silver band. “Every time we’re inpublic and I want to touch you but can’t, I’ll touch this ring instead.”
“And then?” His eyes meet mine, wide and mischievous andgodI love this side of him, so different from the façade he wears around everyone else.
“And then,” I echo those words he whispered last night, the lights that lit the path he guided me on, “I’ll sneak away to your suite and show you what every touch meant.”
“But I don’t have something of yours.”
I don’t wear jewelry. Or anything he could discreetly have.
“There’s always plenty of Christmas stuff around.” I nod at the décor in his room, the tree and statues of snow-covered houses on his fireplace mantel. “Just touch something, and I’ll know.”
“Are you saying that when I want to kiss you, I should fondle a Christmas tree?”
I cringe. “Oh, god, don’t make it weird. I was trying to be cute!”
“I was thinking I could have yourphone number,and simply text you. Something easily done. But I must say, this has been an educational diplomatic mission. I knew the symbolism of Christmas’s decorations ran deep, but I never would have guessed they played roles in things ofthatnature—Coal!”
His words cut off in a startled cry as I squat down and heave him over my shoulder. By the time I toss him bodily onto the couch, his cheeks are beautifully pink and I dive down over top of him.
“When are they expecting you?” I ask against his mouth.
“An hour. You as well, I assume. A brunch before the concert.”
“Mm.” I bury my face in his neck, the hood of his sleeveless robe falling back, and I growl against the sweet, soft skin there. “An hour. It’s mine.”
“Yes,” Hex agrees. “It is.”
He pushes on me, and I buck back instantly, eyes narrowed in concern. But he doesn’t say anything else, just pushes again until I’m sitting up on the couch.
Then he swings around, straddling my lap, and I’m very, very aware of the thinness of my pajama pants, and the thinness ofhispajama pants, and the way his body moves as he arches over me, his hands grabbing the couch on either side of my head.
His face is right up against mine, so close he’s all angles and tendons. I reach to trace the line of his jaw, that sharp edge, following it to the curve of his ear. Can he feel the way my hand is shaking? Fuck, probably, but I have to touch him, have to know the way the texture of his skin changes inch by inch.
Hex’s eyes slip closed under my fingers stroking down the side of his throat. He leans into it with a feline curve, neck bending for my touch, and when he swallows, I watch the muscles work, contracting, goose bumps racing across his skin, down over his collarbone, his shoulder.
He has freckles on his shoulder.
That’s going to be what does me in. Discovering these little spots on his body, layer by layer peeled back.
“What—” he starts, head lolled to the side, eyes still closed. “What do you want to do, exactly?”
I peel my hand off his shoulder. The retraction of contact and my lack of response has his eyes opening, finding mine, vulnerability in his wide gaze.
“Hex.” I rest my hands on his thighs, fighting to find somewhere that isn’t overtly sexual. “You’re letting me touch you. I’m content.”
“With that? That’s it?”
“I’m content with whatever makesyoucontent. I told you—my goal is you wanting this. I am remarkably easy to please.”
He puts a hand on the center of my chest and gives an uncertain huff. “Really?”
Something snags between my ribs, below his palm. A jolt of regret.
“I’m really not as selfish as my reputation makes it seem,” I manage.
