Page 44

I laugh, and the laugh helps, because underneath the jokes there's a truth I can't say out loud: I need this to be temporary.

I chose a future once.

I chose a man, a dress, and a whole different kind of life.

And you know what?

It turned out I was just part of an inheritance application.

So choosing to be right here with Miles for anything longer than December feels like walking straight back into the trap. Only with better scenery.

"Christmas only," Miles repeats, tipping my chin up and kissing me again. "If that's what you want."

A tiny, treacherous part of me notices he said if that's what you want.

But I don't have time to dwell on it. His mouth comes back to mine and thinking becomes optional.

The frantic edge is gone, as Miles slows everything down, kissing me deeper and more unhurried while his hands find the hem of my sweater.

He peels it over my head like he's unwrapping something he's waited all year for, then takes his time with my jeans, dragging them down my legs while he kneels, kissing my hip, my thigh, the inside of my knee.

He stands and looks at me in my bra and underwear, and he doesn't look away from anything. Not my hips, not my thighs, not the soft parts I've spent years angling away from fiancés who didn't really want to look anyway.

Miles looks at all of me. Like a man reviewing the best decision he's ever made.

"Audrey." He shakes his head, throat bobbing beneath a swallow. "You're fucking gorgeous."

"You don't have to say—"

"I know I don't have to. Watch me do it anyway."

He kisses down my neck, across my collarbone, along the tops of my breasts while his fingers unclip my bra with alarming competence.

It falls away, and Miles goes completely still.

"There you are," he says, warmth blooming across my exposed skin.

"Are you talking to my nipple?"

"Yeah, it's okay. We've met before." He lowers his head. "And I've been thinking about doing this ever since that night."

He leans forward and his mouth closes over my nipple.

Oh God.

He sucks it deep, groaning against my skin like he's the one being touched, while his thumb and fingers roll the other one until my knees stop cooperating.

He walks me backward to the bed and lays me across the white bedding, peppermint chocolates scattering, and he goes back to my breasts like he has nowhere to be until spring.

He licks and sucks and praises into my skin in a low rumble that just makes them harder.

I arch off the mattress because it feels so fucking good, and because this—this—is a man losing his control over my body.

"You're very thorough," I manage as he switches sides.

"I'm a farmer. We're taught to never rush the perfect harvest."

"Did you just compare my boobs to agriculture?"