You lift the mistletoe and gently place it atop my head, a mischievous grin in your eyes. The snowman ornaments on the tree peek around the branches, tiny witnesses, trying not to look but unable to resist watching what’s about to happen.
You press into my back, your warmth seeping through me, dissolving the chill from the room—and igniting something deeper along my skin.
Your hands trace slow, deliberate paths up my sides, leaving trails of heat that make me shiver, breath hitching, pulse racing.
Your lips brush the curve of my neck, the tender slope of my shoulder, the spot that always makes my knees go weak, and suddenly the world contracts until it’s only you, me, and this delicious, electric tension.
The room feels smaller, tighter, alive with the fire between us, glowing in the golden light of the tree, the snowmen still trying not to peek, yet their little eyes follow us anyway, helpless witnesses to the private heat we’ve created.
Your lips find mine—slow, deliberate, certain—and the world tilts on its axis. Everything else falls away, leaving only the soft glow, the warmth, and the private fire we share.
Then…