The tree lights bathe the room in a golden, honeyed glow, warm and inviting, glinting off the snowman ornaments whose cheerful little faces seem to watch us. Somehow, even they appear to blush, caught in the heat we’re creating, while soft Christmas music drifts through the air.
I stand beneath the glow, feeling you behind me before your hands even touch. Your body presses into mine, familiar yet thrilling, sending a delicious shiver straight through me.
When your hands slide to my hips, thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles, my breath falters. Your certainty, your heat, the way you hold me—it wraps around me like a live wire, sparking something that threatens to ignite.
I turn slightly, catching the fire of your eyes reflected in the ornaments, and I swear the little snowmen lean closer, flushed and enchanted by the electricity between us. You don’t need to say a word; I already know exactly what you’re doing to me.
Your lips brush my ear, your hands tighten just enough, and the room shrinks to nothing but us, alive with a heat that even the glowing tree can’t contain. The ornaments gleam, soft witnesses to a private warmth that feels like magic—and entirely ours.
Then …