The room seems to quiet around us, or maybe that's just the blood rushing in my ears. I'm acutely aware of eyes turning in our direction, conversations pausing. This isn't just any mistletoe kiss—this is Christian Hawthorne, notorious for his emotional detachment, caught under the mistletoe with the woman he's been publicly claiming all evening.
Christian turns fully toward me, closing the already small distance between us. His hand lifts to my face, fingertips tracing my jaw with a gentleness that contrasts with the intensity in his eyes. Those eyes—storm-gray and burning—lock with mine, asking a silent question.
I could turn my head, offer my cheek instead of my lips. That would be the safe option. The sensible option.
I don't.
Instead, I find myself tilting my chin up slightly, a silent permission that makes his pupils dilate, turning his eyes almost black. His hand slides to cup my cheek, thumb brushing across my lower lip in a touch so light yet so electric that I can't suppress a small gasp.
"Sophie," he whispers, my name a prayer and a claim all at once.
Then his mouth is on mine, and the world falls away.
His lips are firm, confident, taking possession with a thoroughness that makes my knees weaken. This is not thepolite peck the game might call for. This is a statement, a claiming, a promise. His hand slides from my cheek to the nape of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, holding me steady as his mouth moves against mine with devastating precision.
I should be embarrassed by our public audience. Should maintain some semblance of decorum. Instead, I find my hands moving to his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath fine wool, the steady hammer of his heart. His other arm wraps around my waist, drawing me closer until our bodies press together from chest to knee, fitting perfectly like pieces of a puzzle I didn't know needed solving.
He tastes like expensive champagne and something darker, richer—something uniquely him. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, a question rather than a demand. I open for him without hesitation, lost in the heat and the hunger and the sheer rightness of being in his arms.
Someone nearby whistles appreciatively. Someone else claps. The sounds are distant, unimportant compared to the thunder of my pulse and the soft groan Christian makes when I tentatively meet his tongue with mine. The kiss deepens, his control fraying at the edges as his hand tightens in my hair, angling my head to give him better access.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathless, dizzy, my lips tingling and my body humming with an awareness I've never felt before. Christian's eyes remain locked on mine, darker than I've seen them all night, a muscle working in his jaw as he visibly struggles to regain his composure.
"Well," Eleanor says, sounding both amused and impressed, "I believe that satisfies tradition. And then some."
I become aware of our audience then—the circle that's formed around us, the speculative glances, the knowing smiles. My cheeks burn, but not from embarrassment. From the recognition that everything has changed in the space of one kiss.That Christian has just staked his claim in the most public way possible.
"Thank you, Eleanor," Christian says, his voice rougher than usual, his eyes never leaving my face. "Your timing is impeccable."
"I thought so," she replies smugly, moving away with the air of someone who's accomplished exactly what she set out to do.
Christian's arm remains firmly around my waist, his other hand dropping to capture mine again. The connection grounds me as the room spins slightly. I've been kissed before, but never like that. Never like I was being consumed and worshipped simultaneously. Never like I was being claimed.
"Breathe, Sophie," Christian murmurs, his lips close to my ear, sending another shiver down my spine.
I inhale shakily, finally meeting his gaze. The heat there hasn't diminished; if anything, it's intensified, banked but not extinguished.
"Everyone saw," I whisper, not sure if I'm stating a fact or lodging a complaint.
"Good," he replies simply.
Just one word, but it carries layers of meaning—satisfaction at the public nature of the kiss, determination that everyone know exactly where he stands, where we stand. It's a declaration as clear as if he'd announced it through the microphone.
I should be angry at his presumption. Should remind him that a kiss—even one that nearly set the room on fire—doesn't give him ownership rights. Should clarify for all these watching eyes that I'm just a vendor, just a small-town shopkeeper who happens to be Christian Hawthorne's project of the moment.
But as his thumb traces small circles on my waist, as his eyes hold mine with a promise of more to come, I can't find the words. Or maybe I just don't want to say them.
Because for tonight, at least, I want to believe in the possibility that Christian Hawthorne's kiss just offered—that I could belong in his world.
That I could belong to him.
The crowd around us gradually disperses, returning to their own mistletoe adventures, but the heat of Christian's kiss lingers on my lips like a brand. His arm remains firmly around my waist, a possessive anchor keeping me close as the room continues to spin slightly. I feel changed, somehow—as if that kiss rewired something fundamental inside me. This isn't how the night was supposed to go. I came to display my ornaments, make business connections, maybe enjoy a glimpse into a world I don't belong in. I didn't come to be kissed breathless by Christian Hawthorne in front of half the city's elite, to feel myself surrendering to something I don't fully understand but desperately want.
"You're thinking too hard," Christian murmurs, his breath warm against my temple.
"Someone has to," I reply, trying for lightness and missing by a mile.
A hint of a smile touches his lips—lips that were just on mine, claiming me with a thoroughness that makes my knees weak even in memory. "Not tonight," he says. "Tonight is for feeling, not thinking."
