He growls, the sound sending heat straight to my dick. “You’re an absolute fucking psycho.”
“Clock's ticking, sweetheart.” I roll off him, gesturing to the red t-shirt at the end of the bed. “I’m not totally evil. Better get that ass moving. Four minutes and thirty seconds.”
He scrambles up, yanking it on with impressive speed. “You're going to regret this.”
“Promises, promises.”
The second he's dressed, I raise the water gun. “Run.”
His eyes narrow, muscles tensing. For a moment, I think he might try to fight me for the gun, but then his lips curl into that feral grin I love so much. “Game on, fuckface.”
He bolts from the room like a shot, bare feet silent on the hardwood floors. I count to thirty in my head, my blood already anxiously singing.
The hunt is on.
I pad down the hallway, gun at the ready, and head downstairs. There’s no way he’d stay on this floor and risk waking everyone. Back on the first floor, I tiptoe into the living room where floor-to-ceiling windows let in the moonlight—perfect hunting ground. Every shadow could be him, and every corner a potential ambush point.
A floorboard creaks somewhere to my left. Amateur move, golden boy.
I move silently toward the sound. The library door is slightly ajar—another rookie mistake. Suddenly, Killian comes up from behind like a fucking ninja, tackling me to the ground. The gun goes flying as we grapple, rolling across the Persian rug.
“Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker,” he growls, pinning my wrists.
I buck my hips, using his momentum to flip us. Then I lean down until our lips almost touch. And like the awesome boyfriend he is, he headbutts me, causing stars to explode behind my eyes.
By the time my vision clears, he's gone, the library door swinging in his wake. I chuckle, rubbing my eyes with my palms.
Game. Fucking. On.
I retrieve my gun and give chase, blood pumping with the thrill of it. This is what I've missed these past two weeks—the electricity between us, the physical chess match of predator and prey.
The French doors to the terrace are open, the winter air rushing in. Clever boy. Or stupid. After all, I’m fully dressed, unlike him.
Snow crunches under my sneakers as I step outside, scanning the darkness. The estate grounds are extensive, filled with decorative hedges and stone pathways. The Christmas lights cast everything in a soft, white glow, creating dozens of shadows to hide in.
Movement catches my eye—a flash of red by the fountain. I smile, stalking forward. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
“Fuck you and your German accent.” His voice echoes from somewhere to my right.
I spin, firing the water gun, but he's already gone. Playing with me. Drawing me out.
Fine by me.
“You know what I love about Die Hard?” I call out, moving between the hedges. “How Hans always stays one step ahead. Always has a plan.”
A snowball hits me in the back of the head, cold slush sliding down my neck. I whirl around just in time to catch another one in the face.
“How's that for a plan?”
I wipe snow from my eyes, growling. “Oh, let’s fucking go.”
The chase leads us around the greenhouse and past the tennis court. We trade snowballs and insults, leaving trails of footprints in the fresh powder.
Finally, I corner him against the pool house. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving, and his skin flushed from the cold and exertion. Snowflakes catch in his golden hair, making him look like a winter god.
“Nowhere left to run, Mr. McClane.” I level the water gun at him, advancing slowly. “Ready to surrender?”
His hands shoot out, grabbing my wrist and twisting. The gun clatters to the ground as he spins us. “Never.”
