The Mistletoe Kisser - Lucy Score Page 0,90

strands of colored lights casting a soft glow.

There were candles in her windows. Instrumental holiday music played softly in the background. Die Hard was cued up on the TV screen.

It smelled like sugar cookies and happiness.

“How did you do this?” she asked, bringing her fingers to her mouth.

He stroked a hand over her hair. “I asked for help.”

“I can’t believe you did this for me.” She blinked back tears that blurred the lights into starbursts.

“I didn’t do it alone. You have a whole town of people who love you, Sam.”

McClane padded by, a plaid bowtie on his collar. Stan the sheep let out a snore from a dog bed next to the fireplace. “What’s that under the tree?” she asked, spying a small, flat box wrapped with a red ribbon.

“Go find out,” Ryan suggested. “But lose some layers first.”

With a grin, she shrugged out of her vest and handed it to him. When he wasn’t looking, she pressed her face to the scarf and took a breath.

While he hung up their coats, she toed off her boots and pounced on the package.

Ryan sauntered over to her and joined her on the rug. As she worked the ribbon free, he pulled off both her socks.

When she started to lift the lid, he stripped her sweater off over her head.

“This isn’t how unwrapping presents usually goes,” she said as he sank his teeth into her shoulder next to her bra strap.

“Mmm, are you sure? Because I think the rest of the world is doing it wrong,” he said as he worked open the button on her jeans.

Her breath caught in her throat as his fingers dipped into the waistband. “I can pay attention to this later,” she decided, sliding the box away and reaching for him.

“Open your present, Sam, and let me open mine.” His gray eyes glittered in the soft light of the fire, the tree. Dangerously romantic, she thought. Then he maneuvered her onto her hands and knees, and she was left with just dangerous.

Her heart hammered away in her chest as he knelt behind her and slowly slid her jeans down her trembling thighs.

His laugh was soft, ragged, as he traced one finger lightly over her underwear. “Mistletoe here too, Sparkle?”

She shivered. “I don’t make the rules,” she teased, her voice quivering.

“And I love to follow them,” he said softly. She could feel his breath on her back. Held her own as he deftly unhooked her bra, then ran a palm down her spine. His fingers snagged the band of her underwear and dragged them slowly down to her knees.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she squeezed her eyes closed. She was bared to him, vulnerable to him.

“Open,” he growled.

She wasn’t sure if he meant the box or her legs. So she did both and was rewarded with two of his deft fingers sliding into her entrance.

Her breath released on a strangled cry, and she felt his teeth graze the curve of her hip. “Look at your gift, Sam,” he ordered.

She forced herself to open her eyes and stare down at the papers neatly stacked in the box. She shook her head, trying to clear it.

“Are these—”

But the thrust of his fingers was replaced by the stroke of his talented tongue. She nearly collapsed to the floor. Her elbows shook with the effort to keep her upright.

“Ryan,” she breathed.

“What are they, Sam?” he whispered, kissing her again where she needed it most.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,” she chanted. He was expertly driving her toward an orgasm while expecting her to carry on a conversation. Her entire core was trembling now. She felt him slide back from between her legs and heard the hasty removal of clothing, the tear of a wrapper.

“These are my grant applications,” she whispered.

“That’s right,” he said, stroking over her back, her hip, the curve of her backside.

“They’re filled out.” She managed to get the words out as he notched the head of his erection at her entrance. She was going to cry and had no idea if it was from being so wound up sexually or so bowled over emotionally.

“And submitted.” Ryan said the word tenderly.

“All of them?” she asked on a broken groan as she felt the blunt crown nudge at her sex.

“All of them, my sweet Sam,” he whispered, clamping his hands on her hips and thrusting home.

30

Tuesday, December 24, an ungodly early hour

* * *

She woke with a crick in her neck and a heavy arm locked