“Your capacity for joy,” he says quietly. “It’s…humbling.”
A compliment from Jonathan Frost. And not just any compliment—one that makes the heart of me feel seen and glowing, like candlelight spilling from a window on a dark, cold night.
My vision blurs with the threat of tears. My throat is thick. “You don’t think it’s silly?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Odd? Strange? Juvenile?” I whisper. Just a sampling of the things I’ve been called when my happiness spilled over around those who found it to be “too much.”
Taking a slow step closer, boots crunching in the snow, he holds my eyes. “No, Gabriella. I don’t think it’s silly or odd or strange or juvenile to hold on with both hands to the best parts of who we are when we’re young and not let life take that from you. I think it’s brave and badass and infuriatingly impossible not to admire you for it.”
His knuckles brush my cheek, and my eyes begin to drift shut. It feels so overwhelmingly right, when all I can think is this is so absolutely wrong.
This makes no sense. Jonathan Frost isn’t affectionate or tender. He doesn’t read the shit out of a romance novel that I love or look at me with need burning in his eyes. He doesn’t hold my hand or keep me warm or stare at me like everything he wants in the world is right in front of him.
And yet here he is—large rough hands gently cupping my face, close and calm and intent, his eyes on my mouth. I need to kiss you, his gaze says. So badly.
I stare up at him as his thumbs circle the dimples of my cheeks, as heat pours off his body, so close to mine that our thighs brush, our chests meet as we both draw in a deep breath. I feel this tug toward him in the pit of my belly, and dangerously higher up, where my heart thrashes against a tightening knot of something I’m too scared to even begin to analyze.
I have never understood something less—how much I want Jonathan, how deeply I ache for him. But maybe that’s exactly why this needs to happen, to dispel the tension, to break the twisted bond of enmity that’s braided us together the past twelve months. Maybe a kiss is all we need. And then I’ll be free of this torture.
As I hold his gaze, he sees what I’m telling him: I need it, too.
My palms drift up his chest on a faint swoosh across the fabric. Jonathan peers down at me, dark lashes lowered over wintergreen eyes, that mouth that’s so often tight and stern now lush and parted.
“I shouldn’t do this,” he says roughly, so quietly, I almost don’t hear him. “Not yet.”
I don’t understand what he’s saying, but I’m beyond sense, beyond thought. All I want is to be released from the torment that is wanting him, that’s sunk its teeth into me, and make it let go. I’m going to kiss it right out of my system. It has to work.
Jonathan bends closer despite his words, as I press up on my toes, and finally our mouths brush, gently, then deep. I breathe him in, and it’s pure exhilaration, like a gulp of bracing air while rushing down a snowy mountain. He tastes like rich chocolate and cool water and—Sweet Jesus—his tongue flicks mine and my knees give out. I throw my arms around his neck, thread my fingers through the thick, silky strands of his hair as his arms wrap around me until we’re crushed together, chest to chest, hearts pounding.
Tipping his head, Jonathan deepens our kiss until it’s hot and slick, a desperate dance that beats to the rhythm of yes and more and don’t stop. His fingers sink into my coat, and he drags our hips together. I gasp, feeling him thick and halfway hard already, snug against where I’m aching and wet beneath my clothes. Our breathing’s harsh and ragged, between each feverish, devouring slide and stroke of lips and tongue. I press myself against him. Our bodies rock together.
Jonathan’s hands tighten around my waist and slide up my back, tangling in my hair as he kisses me so deeply, it’s like our mouths are making love. I’m frenzied, wild, sucking his tongue, and he groans, rough and low in his throat, like there’s no sweeter agony than this. A helpless moan leaves me, too. I sound devastated. Because I am.
Why is this the best kiss of my life? Why did it have to be him?
“It’s too good,” I whisper through the knot in my throat, the ache in my heart, even as I kiss him again and again. “It wasn’t supposed to be this good.”
“It wasn’t, huh?” he says softly against my lips. “Of course you’re roasting me. Even while we kiss.”
Kiss. The word echoes in the snowy silence as reality hits me like a frigid slap of winter wind. I wrench myself away, shaky fingers brushing my lips. Oh my God. I kissed Jonathan Frost. More than once. In fact, many times. Passionately.