My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance
My Favorite Holidate: Chapter 27

Wilder

It’s not like I’ve visited every cabin here at this resort, but I’m sure we can make one of the honeymoon suites work. I don’t entirely know how it’s set up or decorated, but I’ll replace out any second, and I’ll devise a plan for tonight right away.

A plan to deal with all this temptation pulsing between us.

With my jaw as tight as my muscles, I open the door. When Fable and I step inside, I take in every detail, like a robot scanning the landscape for intel. The king-size sleigh bed is adorned with plush pillows, a fluffy white duvet, and a red fleece blanket draped over the foot of the mattress. The room is L-shaped and in the little nook sits a cozy couch opposite a fireplace. Next to the fireplace is a Christmas tree, decorated simply with strands of lights, some tinsel, and several candy canes. The scent of pine and mint is faint but welcoming all the same.

It’s a lovers’ suite for sure. No two ways about it. But we said that time in my office was a once-only thing. A lapse. Something we needed to get out of our systems. We got it out and here we fucking are—sharing a bed.

My chest burns. My mind unhelpfully supplies a thousand filthy images. I fight the desire to look at the gorgeous woman next to me and toss her on that bed right now to test it out. I’ve got to get this lust under control. Now.

This is fine. This is totally fine. I can work with this suite.

Robot mode activated, I don’t waste a second cleaning up the mess Bibi made of my plans. I grab the bags and set them inside. The second the door closes with a click, I gesture to the sofa. “I’ll take the couch,” I declare firmly. There are no two ways about it. This is not up for discussion.

But Fable swivels around and stares at me like I’ve lost all common sense. Well, I feel a little tossed around. I don’t admit that often, and I’m sure as fuck not admitting it now to her. Fable’s kiss on my cheek knocked the breath right out of me. If anything more happens, I’ll be lost to her and she’ll know what a fool I am for falling.

“Wilder,” she says, arching one brow. “That’s ridiculous.”

My confidence stalls for a second, but then I remember Bibi’s stunt in front of all our guests and decide to stand my ground. “It’s fine.”

“It’s two-feet long.”

“It’s six,” I correct her. To prove my point, I walk along the carpet next to the sofa, measuring the furniture with precise steps. I complete six steps and turn around, victorious. “Six. There you go.”

She rolls her eyes. “And you’re over six feet.”

“Six one.”

She nods like I told you so. “Exactly. And I’m, wait for it, not six feet. So I’ll take it.”

“This is not a logic problem. It’s a manners issue,” I say, sharply. “You’re not taking it.”

She snaps her gaze to me. “Did you just give me an order?”

I did. And I sounded like a dick. But I don’t relent. “Yes. Because there is no way I’m letting you sleep on that couch.”

She crosses her arms. “Is that so?”

“Yes, that’s so,” I reply. As Fable narrows her eyes at me, I can see the gears turning in her head. She’s always been quick-witted and fiercely independent, and I know she won’t back down without a fight. Something in me wants that fight. I’m not sure why, but I do.

“You can’t just dictate where I sleep, Wilder,” she retorts, her voice laced with defiance. “I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions.”

Of course she is. I don’t doubt that for a second. But a flicker of challenge crosses her eyes, daring me to push back even harder. It’s a turn-on.

“This is not about control, Fable,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the current inside me. “This is about chivalry. And as the gentleman here, I’m taking the couch.”

“This is chivalrous?”

“What would you call it?”

She crosses her arms and stares right at me. “You’re bossy.”

“I am the boss.”

“Yes, back at work. But right here,” she says, pointing to the floor, “we’re in this situationship together. And this is a ridiculous solution.” She takes a step closer to me, her voice low and intense. “You can’t control every aspect of this fake relationship, Wilder.”

She’s so infuriatingly headstrong. Like a goddess whipping up a storm. I should stop this argument, but it’s not in my nature to step down. “I’m not controlling it. It just makes sense.”

“You can’t decide for me, Wilder. We both deserve a comfortable place to sleep, and that bed looks plenty big enough for both of us.”

The bed.

Dear god, the fucking bed.

That’s the issue. That’s why I can’t back down. The thought of sharing a bed with her is too alluring. Actually doing it, though, would be my downfall. I would reach for her at night. I would press a kiss to her shoulder as I was dozing off. In the middle of the night, when the world went calm and still, I’d wrap her in my arms and whisper sweet nothings in her ear. Like I’m so hung up on you.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. This is the worst idea. How the hell did this whole situation go so wrong?

Because you’re fake dating, you fuckwit!

And on that note, the voice inside my head has called me a fuckwit for the first time. I need to get a grip. I gave in to my desires in the office. I can’t keep doing it, and I can’t be dangerously close to her. I take a moment to gather my thoughts, breathing in hard, letting it fuel me. But I reach the same conclusion on the bed situation. I dig my heels in harder. “No, Fable. I won’t budge on this.”

Fable’s eyes narrow. “And who are you to decide where I sleep?”

“I’m your fake boyfriend,” I reply, my voice steady despite the tension crackling between us. “And it’s my responsibility to make sure you’re comfortable and safe.”

She huffs, her lips forming a stubborn line. “I can take care of myself, Wilder. I don’t need you playing the hero.”

The tension between us crackles like electricity, sending hot sparks down my spine. “It’s not about playing hero,” I explain, taking a step closer to her and ignoring her dangerous suggestions we share a bed. “And it’s not right for you to sleep on that couch so I will.”

She remains defiant. “What if I want to sleep on the couch?”

She probably thinks she has me in a corner. That she’s caught me on a technicality. But watch this. “Then we’ll both sleep on the couch,” I declare, crossing my arms in solidarity.

She opens her mouth to argue, but then abruptly shuts it. Fable’s eyes widen in surprise at my unexpected compromise. “Why are you so infuriating right now?”

Because you’re spectacular. Because I can’t stop thinking about the way your lips brushed my damn cheek out there in the living room and how much it excited me—a kiss on my fucking cheek. Because if a cheek kiss fires me up that much, what will I feel if I have you again? And I want you so fucking much. Because you’re fighting with me, and no one fights with me. Because I want to push you away and pull you close at the same time.

I don’t say any of those things. I’d give everything away. “Because you infuriate me,” I huff out.

“Well, guess what? The feeling’s mutual,” she says, then she wheels around and marches to her suitcase to unpack.

That won’t do. We’re not done. I follow her across the soft carpet, grab her wrist, and spin her around. The unexpected force of it yanks her against me. Her chest to mine. Her face tipped up.

Like at the party at my house. Like the moment in my office. Like…now.

She gulps, surprise coasting across her red lips. Her eyes widen, beautiful hazel pools that have me intoxicated. Eyes that remind me, too, that I shouldn’t push all her buttons. I need to get a grip. I take a breath and stand down. “I’m sorry I was so…infuriating.”

She pauses, then nods, accepting it. “Couples do that. They infuriate each other.”

It’s said without the fire of a minute ago but with another kind of flame in her irises. A warm, hazy, inviting one.

“They do,” I say, and I don’t let her go. She doesn’t make a move either.

“A fight…it makes this whole thing…more believable,” she says softly, like a peace offering, but also an opportunity—for practice.

“Fighting is authentic,” I admit. “It’s a normal thing. Couples fight, and they make up.”

“We should be able to…believably make up,” she says, breathy, feathery. “Don’t you think?”

But I can’t think anymore. Not with those lips parted, not with her soft body in my arms, not with the snow outside.

And really, the person I should stop fighting with is myself. I’m a goddamn CEO. I’m an expert at concealing emotions. My poker face is unparalleled. I won’t give away all my feelings because I won’t let myself.

With that internal war waged, I move the fuck on.

“Yes, we should,” I say at last, and then I stop arguing and I drop the fierce hold on her wrist so I can cup her face instead.

Fable’s breath hitches as my hand gently caresses her cheek, my thumb tracing the curve of her jawline. Her eyes flutter closed as she leans into my touch. Without another word, I lean in and capture her lips with mine.

There’s no mistletoe this time to justify it. There’s no audience to perform for. We don’t need any more practice. This kiss is for us. This time, I kiss like we fight. I crush my lips to hers. I kiss her hard, a demand for more. Fable grabs the collar of my shirt, twisting her fingers around it.

That.

Right there.

Her hands on me.

Her hungry mouth.

This whole kiss undoes me with its urgency, with the way we’re unleashing the fight into passion. I jerk her impossibly closer, my hand curling around the back of her head. I’m not gentle, though, and she doesn’t seem to want me to be judging from the way she presses against me. Asks for more with her body. I give her a bruising kiss, and she moans into my mouth. I stop to nip the corner of her lips.

“Oh!” It’s said with excitement—a thrill even.

I meet her gaze with a smirk, maybe to cover up the way my heart is pounding too fast. “It’s…believable. This makeup kiss,” I say dryly.

“It is,” she deadpans.

Neither one of us lets go. I don’t want to. And when her fingers twist tighter into the fabric of my shirt, I take that and run with it. “We should be sure, though,” I suggest.

“Yes. Please. Be sure.”

I take another kiss. I deepen it this time. Somehow, it’s more urgent and hungry. I grip her hair more tightly, and she takes a step back, pulling me with her, then another till the back of her legs hit the couch. She tugs me down onto the sofa.

This is so damn risky. And yet I move with her, flopping next to her onto the cushion, then pulling her onto my lap, my arms wrapping around her. She straddles me, hands gripping my face. The kiss is electric, sending shockwaves through my body.

We could kiss all day. All night. All year.

This is hardly a kiss for believability’s sake any longer. It feels all too real in the press of her palms on my stubble, in the heat of her skin, in the subtle grind of her hips. She’s not quite sitting on my lap, but she’s damn close, and she’s rocking slightly.

And that feels all wrong too. All wrong to let her walk away unfulfilled. Good thing I know how to negotiate. I break the kiss, smooth a palm across her soft face. “I’m sorry I was such a dick.”

“You were a dick.”

“Let me show you how sorry I am.”

Her irises flicker with questions and with excitement too. “What do you mean?”

My hand slides down her face to her neck, over her throat. She moves with me murmuring as I travel lower, over her breasts, along her belly, then to her jeans, teasing at the button.

“I want to apologize properly,” I say in a low, smoky voice.

“Wilder,” she says, like a warning, but an invitation too. She swallows, then asks, “How?”

She asks it like she can’t resist.

I pin her with a hot, molten stare. “With my mouth.”

“Oh god,” she whimpers, then slumps forward, as if desire has melted away her bones. Maybe even her common sense, too, since it’s obliterated mine.

In a second, she straightens, shimmies off me, and pops open the button on her jeans. I stand, head to the door, and flick the lock.

When I’ve returned to the couch, my eager fake girlfriend has pushed off her jeans.

“You do belong on the naughty list, Fable Calloway.” I stalk closer.

With a filthy grin, she says, “Why don’t you make sure of that?”

And as I sink to my knees on the soft carpet, I think of nothing but this white-hot need to taste her. She’s wearing that white sweatshirt and pink panties. “I’ve no use for these,” I say, hooking my thumbs into the waistband and skimming them down. She lifts up her hips, helping me along.

Her unchecked need matches my own. And when I slide them off her, the sight of her wet, pink pussy makes my cock thump. I groan in appreciation, then run my finger along her mouth, meeting her gaze. “Your pussy is fucking beautiful,” I tell her.

She gasps, then shudders, then stretches a hand to touch my mouth too. “So’s your mouth. The better to eat me with.”

I grin, like a wolf, then lower my hands to her thighs, spreading them apart, giving me a beautiful view of all that glistening wetness. I run the pad of my thumb along her pulsing clit. She jumps, then moans.

“You really like fighting, Fable,” I tease.

Her hands dart out and she grabs my head, gripping hard. “And you better really like apologizing.”

“Oh, I do. I really do…when it comes to you.” Then I show her how sorry I am. I kiss her pretty clit, flicking my tongue up and down as she gasps and groans. I suck on her, my eyes rolling back in my head from the heady taste of her desire. Her hands dig into my skull. I swear I can feel her nails, and that revs my engine. It amps up my own lust. I suck harder, kiss deeper, lap her up.

She hitches up a leg, gripping my head harder with her inner thigh. Lust ricochets through me, and determination too. I press my palm to her other leg, push her open wider, raise my face. “Part those pretty legs for me, baby. Nice and wide. Let me worship this sweet pussy.”

Her eyes are glassy. Her breath is coming hard and fast. But she takes orders so damn well as she spreads her legs wide, making herself more vulnerable. “Like this? Does this help you say you’re sorry?”

“I’m so fucking sorry,” I growl, then dive back between her thighs, feasting on her arousal, tongue-fucking my Christmas girlfriend till she’s rocking furiously against my face. Grabbing my skull. Cursing the most filthy oh fucks I’ve ever heard.

But I don’t want anyone to hear her. No, those noises are mine and mine alone. As I eat her, I lift an arm and cover her mouth. Like that, I bury my face in her sweetness as she bucks against me, crying out into my palm and then coming on my face. She tastes fucking incredible, better than all my dirty dreams.

I lick her slowly, easing off.

And when she starts to come down, I stop, giving her a final soft, tender kiss before I straighten and meet her heady gaze.

“Like I said, I’m very, very sorry I was such a dick.”

She swallows roughly, then leans forward, cupping my cheeks. “You were a total ass.”

Then, she kisses me, and I think I might die of lust right now.

But there’s a knock on the door and her sister’s voice, like bells saying, “We’re heading to town. The snowball competition is in an hour. Let’s go!”

We wrench apart, and I’m breathless and dizzy. Her chest is heaving. My dick is a flagpole in my jeans. She shudders out a breath and says to Charlotte through the door, “Coming.” Then she looks at me and smiles, too amused as she whispers, “That’s what she said.”

And I laugh. “She sure did.”

She brushes her palms down her sweatshirt and fluffs out her hair. But her lips are bee-stung, and her cheeks are flushed. Good. I hope everyone knows what I did to her. She lifts a finger my way. “Don’t think this means our argument is over.”

I battle a smirk. “Yeah. I figured you liked fighting.”

“I did.”

Did.

But we can’t keep doing it. Or it’ll feel too real for me. “It’s good practice. It makes everything more believable.”

“It does.”

“And now we’ve practiced,” I say, crisply.

She’s nodding too, adamant, on board with the plan. “We should be…good to go? Unless you want me to…” She doesn’t finish—just lets her gaze drift down my body, landing on the outline of my hard-on.

I breathe out roughly. I want that more than nearly anything. But I’d be so fucked then. “We don’t really have time now,” I say in a non-answer.

“Right, but that’s not what I meant.”

“I know, honey,” I say, facing her and her question head-on. “I do, but I don’t want to get…addicted. To practice.”

“Sure. Of course,” she says, nodding. A ghost of a smile shifts her lips. “Just so you know, I haven’t had orgasms like the ones you’ve given me in a long time.”

My brow furrows. “Through oral?”

She shakes her head. “From another person.”

Oh.

Oh.

I shouldn’t ask the next thing, but I do it anyway. “How long?”

She shrugs. “Before the other day on your desk…it was more than a year.”

I flash her a smug smile. “Good thing you threw all those glitter dicks at my face then,” I say, “so you can truly experience how a man should treat a woman.”

She laughs. “It really is.”

I rise, look down at her. I should walk off, but I can’t help myself. I need to crow about one more thing. “By the way, I was right.”

“About what?” she asks, her eyes still a little foggy.

I take my time, lick the corner of my lips. “You taste fucking delicious.”

Then, I turn away from her as she pops up and rushes for her suitcase. I head to the en suite bathroom, where I remind myself that once is all I’ll allow.

I liked it far too much to let it happen again.