Page 93 of Mistletoe and Christmas Kisses

Tanner froze, closed his hand about her arm, and shook gently. His breath cuffed her cheeks in harsh bursts. Kate swayed, absorbed in the symphony of colors swirling around her. She kissed his cheek, moved lower and sucked the skin along his jaw between her teeth. Lifting her lids, she found his gaze, wide and dark, slipping low, to her breasts.

“Kat, stop. I must be crazy.” He moved her away and tugged his hand through his hair. “Stop. Before someone sees us. While I can still think clearly.”

In reply, she pulled his head to hers and kissed him, open-mouthed. No remorse, no modesty. Lips, tongue, teeth. The colors behind her lids exploded. Bright yellow, red. Dark blue: the exact color of his eyes when they made love in that narrow bed of his. Elbows and knees cracking paint-chipped walls. Feet dangling off the end.

Once, they even rolled off, slick-skinned, to the floor.

Oh, if only they were in his bed again, she thought, and groaned low in her throat.

“Christ,” he whispered, ragged and breathless, and shouldered her into the wall. His lips left hers, trailing a moist path across her cheek. He sucked her earlobe into his mouth, his tongue hot and rough, seeking what she struggled to give. Heat washed over her—directly from her pulsing earlobe to her curled toes. She remembered this feeling, one as clear and familiar as his voice. Their attraction was not an illusion, a fantasy she’d created to excuse her recklessness.

It was real. It had always been real and would always be real.

“Princess.” He laid his lips against her cheek. “Princess.” He stepped back just enough to let a whisper of air slide between them. Pressing his forehead to hers, he sighed, shivered.

A heavy step sounded behind them, followed by a shocked stutter.

The promised glass of Syllabub had arrived.

Tanner drew a final breath of sandalwood and cinnamon, the first true contentment he’d experienced in almost two years trickling away. Opening his eyes, he forced himself to remember just where the hell he was. He searched Kate’s face, fighting the urge to smooth the uncertainty from her brow. He lifted her hand to his mouth and placed a kiss on her bandaged fingertip.

I love you, he thought, willing her to understand. Please, Kat, please understand.

But she only blinked and stared, her face pinched.

With a sigh, Tanner pasted on a counterfeit grin and turned to the garland retriever. He nodded to the glass. “Do you mind?” Without waiting for an answer, he snatched it from the man’s hand and slung back the contents. He stifled a grimace. He needed a drink more than air right now but this was not the remedy.

“Sir, I brought that for the lady.”

“Definitely better suited to a woman’s delicate constitution, I agree.”

The garland retriever muttered an oath, pivoted on his heel, and stumbled straight into the Christmas tree.

Ornaments clinked off the pine floor as Tanner shoved his hand between the branches and yanked the tree steady. A muffled laugh had him turning faster than the garland retriever, almost unsettling the tree again.

Kate. Lovely Kate. One arm circling her ribs, fingers splayed on the side of her breast, her hand clasped over her mouth.

Tanner felt the smile lift his lips from his teeth. “What?”

“You.” She dipped her head. A swift headshake released rusty strands into her face.

Tanner watched his hand close in upon her as if it were not his own. Just to wind a velvet curl about his finger, lift it to his nose and breathe her into his soul.

Take care, Tanner. You’ll have her running the other way if she realizes what you’re thinking. With a suppressed sigh, he shoved his hands in his pockets.

Oblivious to his frustration, Kate raised her head, wiped a finger beneath each eye. “That was ridiculous.”

Tanner shrugged, a meager movement due to the stitched skin that was paining him in escalating amounts. “Yeah, so I guess it was. Sorry I scared off another potential suitor.”

Kate’s cheeks smoothed. The light their kiss had sparked in her eyes dimmed.

“Whatever you’re thinking, just wait a damn minute.” He snatched his hands free and closed in on her, her mistletoe twig snapping beneath his boot.

“Don’t,” she said and halted his movement by slapping her palm flat on his chest. She shoved him back for emphasis. “Don’t.”

“For God’s sake, Kat.” He shifted his gaze to the flame flickering above her head and rubbed his hand over his face. Her scent clung to his skin. Somehow, this primitive awareness fortified his resolve. Leaning in before she could dash away, he tipped her chin until her eyes met his. “Admittedly, I deserve your censure. Most of it, anyway. I made a few tactical errors. Lacked judgment at times. Misread responses, yours and mine. Acted impulsively instead of intelligently. I admit all that. But, you can trust me when I say—”

“I can’t trust you as far as I can spit, Mr. Barkley.”