Free Frosted by Katy Regnery

in place as he ravaged her mouth.
    Grace had never been kissed like this before. She hadn’t known that kissing like this was even possible. Her fingers, splayed against the hot, bare skin of his waist, flexed then curled, digging into the firm flesh as he lowered her to the couch, carefully rolling on top of her.
    “Is this okay?” he asked roughly, tearing his mouth away from hers for just a moment.
    She whimpered in protest, abandoning his waist to palm his cheeks, drawing his mouth down to hers frantically, feeling her need—a terrible, growing, rolling need—for him building in her belly, in her core, all over her body. Her skin longed for his—yearned for every part of him to touch every part of her, and still, somehow, she knew it wouldn’t be enough.
    She moaned into his mouth as he ran his hands down the sides of her body, cupping her breasts through the thick wool sweater, his thumbs seeking nipples they couldn’t possible find through the layers between them.
    His tongue slid against hers as his feet dug into the couch and he surged forward gently, into her, against her, his hardness pressing intimately into her softness. Her knees bent to cradle him, her legs sliding up instinctively and then suddenly—
    “Oh!” she whimpered. “Ooosh!”
    Forgetting about her injury, she’d tried to twist her ankles toward each other around his hips, and managed to wrench the one that had already been twisted. She froze beneath him, pain slicing up her leg unforgivingly as her ankle protested the movement.
    He drew his head back, panting, then twisted his neck to look at her foot, resting limply on the back of his leg.
    “Sorry,” she half-laughed, half-sobbed, all too aware that they were in an incredibly intimate position with each other and wondering what would have happened if her ankle hadn’t gotten in the way.
    “Not as sorry as I am.” He turned back to face her, his smile telegraphing humor and regret. “Are you okay?”
    “Unfortunately, I think I should elevate it,” she said, dropping her hands from his cheeks, and falling back against the couch in frustrated surrender. She slid her foot back down his leg and he rolled off of her carefully, kneeling beside her on the ground.
    “What can I do, Red?”
    “Give me an Advil?” she suggested, flicking her glance down to the bulge in his jeans as she sat up. “And a rain check?”
    He chuckled softly, standing up and turning away from her to find some Advil in the little office.
    “What time was your dinner date?” he called. “With Stew Witless?”
    “Stewart Whitman,” she said, concealing a grin, loving his little show of jealousy. “Um…eight?”
    “It’s seven,” said Tray. “I still have a little bit of battery left. You should call him and cancel.”
    “What a shame.”
    “ Yeah. A real shame ,” Tray mumbled to himself.
    “Is it still snowing?” called Grace, trying not to sound too hopeful.
    “Hard,” he said, placing the packet of Advil and his phone next to her on the couch before turning to tend to the fire. “Call him and cancel. We won’t leave until morning.”
    He said this quietly, with his back to her, and she wondered—just for a moment—if he was lying about the snow. She wondered if it was possible to go, but if he wanted her to stay. It was dark out, so there was no way for her to know for sure unless she hopped over to the door. Maybe the snow had already stopped, but he wanted these precious hours alone with her as much as she wanted them with him. The longing in her heart made her question the wisdom of spending more time with him. Did they have any chance of a future after today? No, she thought. Their lives were simply too different. But she hushed her worries. For tonight, just for tonight, she wanted him all to herself, and she hoped that’s what he wanted too.
    “I’m glad,” she murmured, staring at the solid breadth of his back.
    “Me too,” he said softly, without turning around. “Grace.