I hit the client with my best ‘I’m not fucking around here’ face.
He signed the document.
I walked out.
Chapter 20Grace
Christmas Day
A loud slam jolted me awake. I lurched upright in bed, pulse racing.
In the dark, I made out the silhouettes of my couch, my bookshelf of social work textbooks and romance novels, my windowsill of plants.
I looked at my phone: 3:38am, December 25.
Christmas.
Another loud crash outside my window triggered a second jolt of fear.
Maybe it was a car backfiring — although this neighborhood was too nice for crappy cars, my truck being the exception. Maybe Terry and Carol came home for Christmas, not leaving that giant house unoccupied for the holiday.
Or maybe Santa’s sleigh landed and reindeer prancing on my roof.
Quiet voices carried from outside so I peaked my head around the curtain. My fear gave way to astonishment at the taxi in my driveway. The driver handed a suitcase to a dark-haired man in a long wool coat.
Why the frick was Alexander here? He’d left five days ago, as unexpectedly as he arrived, without texting me or Mallory or even his parents. We all assumed that he’d gone back to San Francisco..
I half-ran-half-fell down the stairs and ripped the door open, gaping at what had to be the Ghost of Christmas Present messing with me. Heart thumping and limbs tingling with adrenaline, I exhaled, “What are you doing here?”
“I won.” He lifted a hand to mimic raising a glass and listed slightly. “The acquisition is complete, nowhere to be until January second.”
“You took a cab from New York?” Calculations sprang up: Three bucks a mile times 200 miles from Manhattan each way…
“I’ll bill it to the firm.” He waved a hand dismissively. Standing in front of me, close enough to see the drawn lines on his forehead, puffy bags under his eyes, and every grain of stubble on his jaw, he slid his hand in his pocket. “Now are you going to let me in, Grace?”
I stepped backwards — no, stumbled. With a swift motion, he kicked the door shut. The narrow entryway felt claustrophobic with his giant body, his rolling suitcase and his leather work bag.
I wanted to say something sexy to make up for my flannel pajama pants and oversized hoodie. “Is this how Santa gets inside when there’s no chimney?”
Nope, that’s childish. I didn't even use a raspy Eartha Kitt voice, all ‘Hurry down the chimney tonight.’ My 3am voice sounded like a pack-a-day smoker.
“Oh God, is today Christmas? What time is it?” His unfocused gaze aimed at that way-too-fancy watch.
“That's so complicated I can’t read it even when I’m fully awake.”
He chuckled, a soft rumble. “Half the time I can’t read it.”
“So why do you wear it?”
“Honestly?” his head tilted. “It seemed important at the time.”
He unclipped the watch and dropped it next to my car keys, which felt incongruous given that it was worth more than my crappy truck.
Then I felt those cobalt eyes lock on me, a hawk sighting a mouse. “Ask me again why I’m here.”
I closed my eyes to muster courage. “Why are you here?”
“There’s something that I wanted for Christmas,” he stepped closer, closing the distance in my too-small entryway. Tucking a flyaway behind my ear, he brought his palm to my jaw, “and I couldn’t get it in Manhattan.”
He lowered his head slowly, giving me plenty of time to escape, but I didn’t back up. My heart rate, already rapid from his unexpected arrival, pulsed like I’d raced a 5K.
When his mouth was inches from mine, he whispered, “Is this ok?”
My brain was short-circuiting from his breath on my cheek, so all I could manage was a nod. He halved the gap, a hair's breadth between our mouths as he said, “I’m gonna need you to use your words.”
“Yes, please ki—”
His mouth was on mine, fingers tangling in my hair. His touch sent a chain reaction through every nerve ending in my body, leaving me breathless.
I ran my hands under his overcoat, trailed them up his chest, and pushed the coat off his shoulders. It dropped to the floor and he kicked it away, never lifting his lips as his erection pressed into my belly. My breath quickened, shallow and uneven, as my hands fisted in his button-down shirt.
One hand, assertive and possessive, pulled me tightly against him, while the other cradled my cheek with delicate tenderness. He skillfully glided his tongue between my parted lips, desperate and hungry.
I could tell last week that he’d been holding back, but now I knew that Alexander Clarke kissed the way he lived: relentless, unyielding, and filled with unwavering determination. I lost myself in every movement of his hips, every lick of his tongue, every caress of his fingertips, every beat of his heart.
Eventually, I pulled away. When our lips parted, he kept me securely tucked in his arms, melting over me. He buried his face in the crook of my neck and inhaled deeply. When he exhaled, his breath came out ragged.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured.
