Excerpt
“Your
pick. Traditional snowball fight? Or sledding? I have a sled in the trunk and
that hill”—he points to the far edge of the park—“looks like it would work.”
If
I choose the snowball fight, I might end up with a face full of snow, quite the
risk, but flinging packed balls back at him sounds like fun and might end in
snow wrestling, which would be more than worth the chill. However, if I pick
sledding, there will be a lot of tiresome hiking up and down the hill, but also
a good chance I can ask him to go down with me, allowing me to feel his body
pressed up against my back.
I
look at him devilishly. “Prepare for battle!”
And
I dart away from him before he has the chance to process my answer. I decide to
play tactically, using the jungle gym as a barrier. I throw myself behind the
cover of the slide and begin packing together snowballs as quickly as I can. He
runs after me and copies my strategy by positioning himself behind the
playground’s merry-go-round.
I
thought I had time and the element of surprise on my side, but he is fast, and
before I know it, he is flinging balls my way. The first one smacks the slide
beside my head and explodes into icy dust. Crap! He has good aim. I wasn’t
counting on that.
“You’re
gunning for blood, aren’t you, Addler?” I taunt, throwing one back at him.
While it doesn’t come quite as close as his, it’s not a bad first attempt.
We
continue tossing snow back and forth from a safe distance, trash-talking and
egging each other on. I land a solid hit on the side of his face that leaves
him stunned, and seeing a window of opportunity, I charge at him. I don’t have
another ball prepared, so instead I throw my whole body at his, knocking him
away from the merry-go-round and down into the snow. I childishly and triumphantly
bury his face, shoving heaps of powder down into his jacket as I go. Once he
has sufficiently paid for his smack talk, I sit up, my knees on either side of
him, straddling his body. The position is intimate, and despite the fact that
his face is still covered and he must be freezing, I feel a stiffening in his
pants.
I
gasp at the contact. My momentary distraction gives him time to recover, and he
twists, pulling his body over mine and throwing me to the ground. He hovers
over me, locking my wrists above my head and pinning my body down, sinking us
deeper into the snow. I cower, afraid of his retaliation and waiting for my own
onslaught, but he doesn’t move to enact his revenge. Instead he pants heavily
over me, trying to catch his breath. His cheeks are spotted with redness, and
his hair sticks up from the dampness of the snow.
“You
little hellcat, you. You are so lucky you’re a girl, or I’d totally be
annihilating you right now.”
I
squirm under him, trying to free myself before he changes his mind and stops
taking pity on me. The movement presses my hips up against him, making contact
again with his physical excitement. It doesn’t go unnoticed, this time.
“Fuck!
Are you trying to kill me?”
He
rolls off and kneels beside me in the snow. His breath continues as a series of
sharp inhales before finally slowing and returning to a normal pace. I don’t
even try to get up, but rather I continue laying there, the warmth in my lower
belly enough to shield me from any cold. I imagine pulling him down, kissing
him hard on the mouth, and having ourselves another roll around in the snow,
but I already decided I wouldn’t throw myself at him and risk getting shot down
again. I’d rather wait for him to make the first move. So that’s what I do,
quiet on the outside, but with my mind screaming at him. Kiss me, Jake! Kiss
me!
Unfortunately,
Jake does not appear to be telepathic.
After
giving himself enough time to recover, he lays back on the ground, close but
purposefully not touching. “You know what would be good right now?”
Your tongue in my mouth? I silently reply.
“Hot
chocolate covered in whipped cream and piled high with mini marshmallows.”
Wrong
answer, Jake. Wrong answer. While hot chocolate is not the first-choice liquid
I’d like to be savoring right now—that honor would go to more salivary
fluids—it is one of my favorite winter staples, and I happen to have all the
fixin’s at home.
I
sigh louder than I want, releasing some of the sexual frustration with my
outward exhale. “Okay, Jake. I wouldn’t mind some hot chocolate. Let’s go to my
house.”
