Free Holiday for Two (a duet of Christmas novellas) by Elyssa Patrick Maggie Robinson Page B

watching the Rudolph special while Griffin and his aunt and cousin sipped an after-dinner drink.
    This was so much better than red-nosed reindeers.
    She cupped his cheek, her thumb sliding down Griffin’s own high-bridged aristocratic nose. That nose had probably come over with the Conqueror. Carrie smiled inwardly, imagining a nose rowing over the Channel and just stopped herself from giggling and spoiling this toe-curling kiss. She knew what she had to do.
    She disentangled herself ever so slowly and raised herself up on her knees. Griffin gave her an extremely hopeful look, and she centered herself over his penis. Cock. Manhood. All sorts of romance words for it bumped into her head, but nothing was adequate, and quite frankly she didn’t want to think anymore. He fisted himself and guided her thigh down, palm flat against her.
    O.M.G.
    Carrie couldn’t move. She was pinned in place, filled completely. Things were actually throbbing and slippery and perfect. She looked down at Griffin. His eyes were bright and unblinking—it felt as if he were staring straight into her soul. She stared back.
    And then he thrust up, and she shut her eyes and forgot to look.
    Even though she was on top, he controlled the rhythm somehow—she wouldn’t argue for it had never felt so good. He coaxed her body, brushing against her nipples, toying with her clitoris until she flared and flamed. A rolling wave caught her and she went with the current, riding out her orgasm, reaching for more. Griffin delivered, then spent himself in an unmistakable burst of dominance. He stilled Carrie’s hips and took total control, rocking and touching her in places she didn’t know she had, a look of pure possession on his golden face.
    She’d opened her eyes—it was too tempting not to.
    Double O.M.G. He was beautiful.
    And then the lights above fluttered and died with a loud popping sound. The carriage house was cloaked in blackness.
    “Was it something I did?” Griffin gasped, stroking her left breast.
    “D-don’t flatter yourself. Though the earth did move.”
    “I’ll say it did. Good God.” He pulled her down and held her close, as though he was afraid she was cold already. “That was . . . extraordinary,” he said against her temple. “Thank you.” He did a delicious little twisty thing inside her and her breath hitched.
    She swatted feebly at his chest. “Stop showing off.”
    “I can’t help it. You bring out the best in me, Caroline Moore.”
    “Carrie. We’re friends, remember?” More than friends.
    “So, friend . . . the power’s out.”
    “Uh huh.” The carriage house didn’t have a generator or woodstove.
    “I suppose we should get dressed.” Griffin made no effort to get her off him. In fact, he held her even tighter.
    “What’s in your bag? We may have to layer up if the heat doesn’t come back on. Poor us.”
    “Poor Jaguar.” There it was again. Jag-u-ar. Carrie could listen to him read the phone book. She’d fallen for a pretty face and foreign accent. Somehow she wasn’t one bit ashamed.
    Of course, she couldn’t see the pretty face at the moment. It was pitch black in and outside.
    “I didn’t really bring much. I planned on leaving day after tomorrow.”
    “On Boxing Day?”
    He tapped her nose. “What do you know of Boxing Day, my little American beauty?”
    She tapped back. She wasn’t beautiful, but wouldn’t argue. “It’s tradition for people like you to give Christmas boxes to servants like me. The poor, too.”
    “Don’t forget tradesmen for outstanding service. In the olden days, they’d come round with their hands out.”
    “Really? I didn’t know that. Like your grocer or tailor?”
    “Precisely. And what do you mean, ‘people like me?’ One might say I’m a tradesman.” He was playing with the tufts of her hair and for once Carrie wished she had long and flowing romance heroine locks.
    “Remember, you’re a viscount, too, with a huge house and