Chapter 2

CYAN

On the first day of Christmas, another bathroom incident

I’m sitting on a couch covered in Christmas pillows and sipping a mug of hot cocoa, the awkward silence settling over me like the blizzard’s settled over the landscape outside. It’s cold and white, the snow endless and unbroken, a virgin landscape of nothing. Every once in a while, I catch a glimpse of a house or two, Christmas lights bright against their quiet, white yards. But for the most part, it’s just us and the icy road.

“So,” I say, as all four boys from the band sit around and twiddle their thumbs, “you guys are going to the concert in Saint Paul?”

Every year, the Heat the Frost concert rolls into nothing-ever-happens Minnesota to film a winter concert with real live snow and everything! I’m joking, but … also not. They come here for the weather, to make it authentic. And people love it. Last year, it took the record for most concurrent live-stream viewers at one time. Yeah, the video itself has accumulated thirty-million hours watched.

At least two dozen artists are participating this year in an over-the-top holiday performance, culminating in Inked Pages’ pop/rock/hip-hop hybrid versions of the most popular Christmas classics— Jingle Bells, O Holy Night, and O Tannenbaum.

Nobody answers right away, so I just nervously blurt out, “And what do you think of Minnesota so far?”

“It’s a desolate nightmare with crazy girls hiding in bathroom stalls,” Aspen says, lying on his back on a nearby couch, a cold compress over his eyes, his ankle boots and toilet-water jeans traded out for a pair of … green and red striped flannel pajama pants?

Okay then.

He looks hot, even in the ridiculous kitschy Christmas wear … and despite the fact that he hates me.

“You need to calm your ass down,” Crispin says, sitting close enough to me that our thighs touch. To be fair, there aren’t a lot of places to sit in this bus. The far back holds a decent-sized bathroom with a shower and toilet, and then along one wall, there’re bunks stacked two high. The wall opposite them has a long bench seat with storage underneath which bleeds into a galley style kitchen. We’re sitting across from the cooling tea kettle, its surface painted with smiling reindeer.

Wow, my dad would freak all the way out over this, I think as I take in the blinking multi-colored lights, timed to twinkle along with Inked Pages’ newest Christmas song, A Gift of Starlight , the one that played on my phone when my mom called earlier. The one about thighs.

Crispin’s leg shifts, blue denim and the soft whisper of my cotton leggings. My attention falls to a particular hole in his jeans, one that shows off the hot skin of his upper thigh.

I look back up at his face, and notice him noticing me. Crap. His smile shifts a little, a secret acknowledgment. Crispin seems like the sort of man you want Santa to leave under the tree, but probably fucks like he was abandoned by Krampus.

Don’t fall for the nice guy ruse, Cyan. Just don’t.

What I should do is call my parents back. I know my dad’s probably clutching his phone in tight fingers, fretting over what that asshole Aspen Carver said to my mom.

Great.

Now they’ll either think I’m a) being kidnapped, b) screwing strangers in bathroom stalls, or c) bringing a man home for the holidays.

Oddly enough, I’m bringing home four of them. I suppress a small smile. Hah. If only.

If Christmas miracles existed, my Gram wouldn’t be— And I’d still have my bookstore. And the apartment we shared together. I wouldn’t be moving home to live with my parents at age twenty-two sans my pride and dignity.

“Calm down?” Aspen breathes out, like he’s been betrayed by one of his own. He adjusts the cold compress on his face and flinches. When he shifts to get more comfortable, his shirt rides up and flashes a slim stripe of bare skin on his taut lower belly. “Have you ever had a can of pepper spray nut in your eyes? Candy-scented poison jizz. It fucking hurts. ”

“Try to act like a gentleman every once in a while. Ain’t gonna kill ya.” Crispin draws a candy cane from the tin on the counter, unwraps it, and then offers it out to me with a lifted brow.

I shake my head and he shrugs, slipping it between his lips like it’s a cigarette.

If our initial meeting hadn’t been so fraught, I’d be absolutely thrilled to be sitting here, watching Crispin gently tap his teeth against the long end of the candy cane in thought. Pretty sure when he offered to help me, he didn’t think I’d be invading his personal space and private time.

“I still don’t understand how a person can accidentally shoot someone in the face with pepper spray,” Aspen gripes, edging the compress up on one side so he can stare at me with puffy, red eyes. Somehow, he’s barely less handsome. His shirt is rucked up over his belly, one knee cocked, biceps generous as he sits up on his elbows.

“To be fair,” I begin, holding my red hot chocolate with green marshmallows close (it’s kind of weird looking but it tastes good), “you were not in any way shape or form acting like a gentleman. You climbed into my stall, took my phone, and said rude shit to my mom.”

Guess how Aspen is advertised by his record company? He’s the noble leader. Psht. Please. I sip the festive liquid and pretend like I don’t see Frost swiping his thumb under his bottom lip. His eyes trace my collarbones, and I adjust myself under the heat of that gaze.

Yep. It was definitely the pictures he saw on my phone. That lingerie was a win, and I only ever got to wear it once. I’m much less experienced than I first appear.

I make myself look at Vale instead, situated in the center of the couch opposite me and Crispin. Aspen’s left leg is tossed over his lap, but neither man seems to be bothered. Frost occupies the final cushion, his ankle resting on the knee of the opposite leg. Arms folded. That white t-shirt taut over his chest.

If I’m confused by Frost’s expressions, I’m not confused by Vale’s.

He’s asleep.

That is his level of interest in me, head thrown back on the cushion behind him, eyes closed. Ah, the shy, quiet artiste of the group. Vale cracks a single golden eye, like a sunrise over the snow. He allows his pretty mouth to shift into a smile, reaching up to tap an earbud in his ear. Without breaking eye contact with me, Vale tugs a pen from his back pocket and scribbles some words onto the leg of his pants.

Are those … song lyrics? Something about a strange girl in the snow. I try not to feel prideful that our odd encounter may have inspired him.

“You have a phone with a stylus, you know,” Frost whispers, but Aspen takes command of the room again. It’s effortless for him, too. Makes sense that someone with this sort of charisma would go into the entertainment business. I bet he thrives on attention.

“I didn’t say rude shit,” Aspen replies belatedly, like maybe he spent a few minutes really thinking it over. He adjusts the wet compress again. “Implying that we were doing it was a favor to you.”

“Oh, it was a favor?” I say, cocking a brow and resisting the urge to throw my hot cocoa in his face. Wonder how that’d feel, red hot cocoa on top of the Peppermint Rage spray? I sit there and glare at him while Frost glares at me. What did I do now? Wasn’t he just checking me out?

“More like a blessing,” Frost retorts in Aspen’s place. “I’m still convinced that you’re a parasocial stalker. I’m your bias, I’ll bet.” Frost pauses and wets his lips, looking right at me. “Ever fantasize about fucking your bias?” He smirks, like he already knows the answer to his question.

I can’t decide who I hate more—Frost or Aspen.

I’m going to have a seriously hard time listening to their music after this; I feel like my dreams have been shattered. They’re not nearly as nice as they pretend to be online.

Oh, and also, I want to find out who their publicist is and hire them for my own life because every interview I’ve ever read from Inked Pages makes each guy out to be an adorable little sweetheart wrapped in hard pecs and too many abs to count.

In reality, only one of them is nice.

“Sorry, but I think scaring the fucking crap out of my parents and making them think I’ve been kidnapped by some sex trafficking group is a little messed up.” I glare at Aspen as I sip my cocoa and try not to think about the fact that my father’s probably called the Minnesota State Patrol to go look for me at the rest stop. Aspen might think his joke is cute and funny, but my dad certainly won’t think so.

Then call him, Cyan. Only, I want to hold onto this yuletide dream a little longer. I’m with the band. Hah.

“Wait, what?” Aspen asks, sitting up and losing the compress in the process. He blinks reddened eyes at me. “There’s no way that’s their first thought.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I say as Crispin clucks his tongue and gives his bandmate a look. Admonishing. A little bossy. Ah, there is the real Crispin. Aspen likes attention, but Crispin is the boss of the group. The position suits his wide shoulders and casual effortlessness.

He’s in charge, and he knows it. Definitely glad I didn’t let those brown eyes get to me.

“Now you see what you done gone and did, you asshole?” Crispin drawls, twirling the candy cane around in his mouth before he bites it in half with a violent snap.

“I didn’t … fuck, I’m sorry,” Aspen says, surprising the crap out of me. He stares at me with his now blue and red eyes, squinting and sniffling against the lingering burn of the spray. “I didn’t realize it’d come across like that.”

“You need to learn to think before you speak,” Vale scolds mildly, his voice warm but spicy, like mulled cider. Just the sound of it’s enough to warm me up. He jots down a line of musical notes on his left thigh, gold eyes half-lidded. He has this lazy, easy vibe to him, like a well-fed house cat. Vale’s quiet and unassuming, but I have a feeling he might have claws between the sheets. “There’s a reason women never last long on this bus, and that certainly isn’t my fault.”

“Aspen ain’t the only one that needs to repair his brain-to-big-mouth pipeline,” Crispin says with a mean grin, flinging his hand out toward the bandmates sitting across from us. “Three assholes worth o’ jaw flappin’.” He runs his fingers through his wavy brown-blonde hair and casts a look my way that’s casual but curious. As I watch, his gaze trails down the side of my neck, past my shooting star tattoo, and lingers on the pulse in my throat.

I find myself wanting to lick my lips and toss my hair. Crispin is a beautiful, beautiful man. He reminds me of a young Chris Hemsworth. Holy Mother Mary, he’s a good-looking son of a bitch.

“So, tell us about the threesome,” Frost says casually, tossing the question at me like it’s a challenge.

“Excuse me?” I nearly spill my hot cocoa, face flushing. “We just met, how dare you. Being part of a famous band doesn’t give you the right—”

“Are those pictures Photoshopped? AI? Bet it never happened.” Frost turns away to stare out the window at the endless black and the swirling snowflakes, the blotches of distant holiday decor on houses that are the only signs of life. There’s not even any traffic. “Weird flex though, to keep fake photos on your phone.”

Hm. Okay, actually I’m changing my mind. I hate Frost more than Aspen for sure. I glance over my shoulder toward the front, where a small window separates us from the driver’s portion of the rig.

The band’s manager, driver, and assistant are all sitting up there in two rows of bucket seats. The bodyguard—Ana Donner is her name apparently—is currently occupying a special single seat near the door.

I can feel her eyes on me, even though she doesn’t speak, sitting there in a green and red jumper with a smiling Christmas tree on the front of it. It’s so goddamn ugly that I can’t help but stare. Looking at it, it soothes some of the random lust I’m feeling toward the band in general.

Rude they might be, but they’re also handsome. So handsome. Life is truly not fair.

“Should a gentleman ask a lady he doesn’t know about her sex life?” Crispin challenges, but Frost ignores him. The dickhead guitarist might smile a little bit, too, like this is funny to him.

“Don’t make this any worse than it already is,” Aspen warns, sitting up even further so that he can glare at Frost. “I’m going to have to apologize to her dad. Did you want to join me or something?”

“Apologize?” Frost parrots as Vale sighs and shakes his head, using the pen to mark his friend’s cheek with a stripe of black. Frost swats at him, but he doesn’t seem upset at having had his face drawn on.

“Just because she had a threesome doesn’t mean she’s interested in us.” Vale scrawls a message on his wrist that seems more like a to-do list than song lyrics this time. Us? Did he say us ? Like him and Frost or … all of them or … my fangirl brain is officially broken.

“She never had a threesome,” Frost asserts and again, I swear that I can see the corner of his mouth twitch up in an almost-smile. He finds this funny, and it’s pissing me off.

“That threesome,” I begin, as I glare at him. Frost’s dark hair and gorgeous green eyes are the perfect complement to his snowdrift skin. His lips pale and pink, slightly parted. “Could not possibly be a flex, since I had zero clue that a bunch of weirdos would illegally peruse my phone.”

Frost shrugs out of his coat—a purposeful move. His arms are a work of art, muscles and ink that my fingers itch to touch. He has tattoos on both arms, these sweeping displays of frosty arctic tundras, dotted with wolves, polar bears, and seals. It’s a unique concept, nothing like I’ve ever seen before. According to the online articles I’ve read, Frost grew up in a very remote part of Alaska. His mother is a local with Inuit heritage, and his father was an Irishman that died in an accident when he was young.

“You just don’t seem like the type to even know what a threesome is,” he continues, and I swear, I almost throw my hot chocolate in his face next. Fucker.

“You mean because you’ve known me for all of two minutes?” I ask with a raised brow. Is it hot in here? It feels hot in here. I tug at the collar of my shirt with a single finger, a bead of sweat sliding along my collarbone. Frost’s eyes track the movement of that lone drop.

“An hour and thirty-eight minutes, actually,” he says, lifting his phone and smiling wickedly as he shows me the timer he has going. “I’m counting.”

“Because each moment with me is so amazing it feels like it’s passing at the speed of light?” I hedge, leaning back and crossing my legs at the knee. Yeah, so, I’m a little awkward and gangly with legs that are too long and yet, I’m a shortie, too. But I can sit and flirt with the best of them. I can recline back into the sea of snowflakes and snowmen and Baby Jesus pillows like a sex goddess.

“Because each moment is torture,” Frost purrs, smiling tightly at me, his eyes narrowed in a penetrating glare. If his nipples weren’t hard, I might believe him. That white tee makes them too obvious.

“Torturous because your cock is rock-solid and you think I’m a fox?” I aim the question at Frost, but it amuses Crispin, too. He puts a huge hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh, crushing the last of the candy cane between his teeth. Aspen is muddleheaded and perplexed, a small divot of concern between his brows.

Vale is … asleep again? Well, his eyes are closed, which is just as well.

“Torturous because looking at you makes my cock retreat so far inside my body that I have a vagina.” Frost leans back, lazy and loose, one leg kicked out. Chin lifted. Expression searching. If that’s not a come-on, I don’t know what is.

Is he … making a move on me? I’d be crazy not to take it. A one-night stand with my celebrity crush (okay, so Aspen was my bias, not Frost, but oh well) would make this Christmas break a little less sad.

“Lucky you. Women have more nerve endings in their genitals, and it’s a scientifically proven fact that our orgasms release like ten times as many feel-good pheromones as a man’s.” It’s possible that I made all of that up. He won’t fact-check me. Please don’t fact-check me.

“Good thing because it takes you ten times as long to have one.” Frost is definitely smiling now, arms folded, a single finger toying with the silver watch on his wrist. He’s stroking it. Sensually.

“Only when I’m with someone that performs as poorly as you,” I fire back, setting my hot chocolate aside and trying to ignore the painfully hardened nubs of my nipples and the needy heat between my thighs. “Because you’re right: when it takes a man thirty seconds to come, it’s a little hard to get off in five minutes.”

I stand up. Not really sure why, but I do.

“You can make yourself come in five minutes?” he scoffs, shaking his head and ruffling up his dark hair with his fingers. He’s flustered, isn’t he? Frost blinks long, dark lashes up at me, and I realize I don’t care if he’s truly a cinnamon roll or just a prick.

He’s as hot as he appears online.

“You wouldn’t find that so hard to believe if you were as good a lover as you say you are,” I reply, slipping out of my cranberry sweater and straightening my white tank with the gold glittery stars across it. It’s part of some hoity-toity designer’s Christmas collection. My dad sent it along with a bunch of other overpriced clothing items in a not-so-subtle bid to get me to dress nice for his myriad of holiday parties this month. “Excuse me.” I say, coughing into my hand and feeling Frost’s eyes follow me around the small coffee table and toward the narrow hall.

“I bet I could make it happen in three,” he murmurs as I pass, and I feel a sweep of desire crawl up my spine. Oh sweet Baby Jesus … His voice is low and suggestive, a dark edged challenge.

How am I vibing with the biggest grump of the group? Does that make any sense at all?

“I’d like to see you try,” I mutter, my skin prickling with goose bumps as I move down to the bathroom, open the door and slip inside.

I don’t lock it, wringing my hands and wondering what the fuck I’m doing in here in the first place.

It isn’t because I have to piss. Remember—toilet seat, butt cheeks frozen to the porcelain throne?

No, I just booty-called Frost Manderach, the guitarist for my favorite band. Oh God, the holidays always drive me out of my damn mind, but this is … an interesting development, even for me. What if I’m completely and utterly misreading his signals?

That threesome? That was a spur of the moment thing two years ago with these guys that worked in the cafe next to my bookstore. They were bisexual lovers in a committed relationship and on occasion, they liked to bring a girl into the mix.

So … I volunteered.

I pace as best as I can in the tight confines of the tour bus bathroom. Isn’t it taking him forever to get in here? I am crazy. He wasn’t hitting on me. He was just—

Frost opens the door and slips inside.

Uh.

Slips inside the room, that is. Inside the room. Not me. Not yet.

He crowds the space, warming the air with his body heat, hands pressed to the walls on either side. He touches both easily enough, blocking me from the door.

“This is just a quick thing between adults,” Frost says, his pupils dilated, his cock obviously erect underneath his black jeans. I swallow hard as his smell overwhelms me, the sweet and musky scent of sage and pine. Oh, merry fucking mistletoe. He smells like the balsam fir incense my dad always special orders in bulk from the Vermont Country Store.

I love that smell.

It’s a part of my goddamn identity.

“Purely a biological need being fulfilled,” I agree, huffing out my breath and reaching up to gather my brunette hair, so I can pull it over my shoulders. “Like … when you’re hungry and you eat a sandwich …”

“Shut the fuck up,” Frost whispers, but before I can protest, he’s scooping my face up in his hands and pulling my mouth to his. He crushes our lips together, tossing aside all the typical niceties of a romantic encounter and going straight for the sex.

Works for me.

We aren’t going to see each other ever again after today, so where’s the harm? I wasn’t kidding about that sandwich thing either. If I’m thirsty, I get a drink of water. If I’m horny, I … screw a random rockstar on his tour bus.

This has nothing to do with my grandma’s death or losing my business. No way.

Frost puts his hands under my ass and lifts me up onto the countertop, stepping between my thighs and pressing the hard bulge in his jeans against my white leggings. He grinds against me as we kiss, moving his hips in a way that tells me this is going to be good.

Beyond good.

Phenomenal.

Our kiss breaks apart and he pauses for a moment, his eyes heavy-lidded, his breath feathering across my wet lips.

“You’re a much better kisser than you are a stalker,” he says, and I grab him by the waistband, dragging him even closer.

“Let’s hope you’re a better lover than your rude and unintelligent commentary implies.” I rip his jeans open and send the button flying across the room. Oops. Whatever. He’s rich, right? He can just go out and buy some more three-hundred-dollar jeans.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters, shoving his pants over his ass, revealing a pair of way-too-tight black briefs. But, oh, the way they cup his family jewels? Beautiful. My star-inked hand slides down the flatness of his t-shirt, feeling his hard muscles begging for skin to skin contact underneath. I cup his junk with my hand and massage him, groaning so loudly that Frost reaches up his own tattooed hand and clamps it right over my mouth. “Shh,” he purrs, “screwing random girls is Vale’s thing, not mine. I don’t want this getting out.”

I flick my tongue against his palm and this time, he groans.

“Shit,” Frost murmurs, pulling open the drawer next to my left leg and digging around inside it. He comes up with a condom and tears it open with his teeth, slowly dropping his hand away from my mouth.

“You’re not supposed to use your teeth,” I start, but he just rolls his gorgeous green eyes and clamps his hand right over my mouth again. Normally, that move would just piss me off, but … no, no, it does piss me off, but I’m totally feeling this whole hate-fuck thing we have going on.

Frost holds the condom package between his lips for a moment, uses his left hand to shove his underwear over his cock, and lets it spring free between us.

Oh.

Wow.

Definitely a sight more impressive than the dudes from the cafe.

“Mm,” I murmur against his palm, leaning my head back against the mirror, body liquid and lazy with lust. I’m so enjoying myself right now. And I’d thought my car battery dying at the rest stop was a bad sign for how the holidays were going to go?

This is a much better way to start my vacation.

Well … my permanent vacation …

My heart twists and clenches in my chest, but I shove away the bad feelings for later. Now’s not the time. No, now is not the right moment to let myself get wrapped up in things that I can’t change.

Frost frees the condom from the package, letting the wrapper fall to the floor and then deftly sliding it on. The sight of him doing that one-handed is foreplay all on its own. He makes it look easy.

“Still into this?” Frost asks, panting a little, like he’s going to go fucking crazy if I say no. Good. Because I’m feeling the same damn way. I make him wait in agony for my answer as he yanks my boots off and then peels both my panties and my leggings down, tossing them aside and onto the—thankfully—closed lid of the toilet.

I nod and he lets out this obscene little noise that basically forces me to put my hand over his mouth again. Not only do I not want anyone to hear us, but I’m sure I won’t last if he makes many noises like that.

Frost doesn’t seem to mind, using his free hand to guide himself to the tight, wet opening between my thighs. My sex is swollen and desperate, wanting the hard length of him buried inside me now . Thankfully, he doesn’t disappoint.

Frost nudges the head of his shaft against my dripping pussy, meets my eyes, and then drives his hips hard into me. I’m empty, and then I’m full, clutching at his neck with my right arm as he fills me in a single thrust.

We both moan so fucking loudly, it’s obvious even with each other’s hands clamped over our mouths that we’re in here and up to no good.

I slap my left hand against the wall and hit the fan. The sound helps but … but then it doesn’t matter because I’m grabbing Frost with both arms and burying my face into the sage and pine scent of his neck.

After releasing my mouth, Frost takes me by the hips, digs his fingertips hard into my flesh and pounds himself into me with a frenzy that mimics our angry back and forth in the living room.

Wiggling my body, I adjust myself so that his rocking pelvis soothes my clit. Hey, I have a point to prove here, and so does he.

Three minutes, huh?

I wrap my legs around his ass and bite this man’s sexy, muscular neck, my teeth pressing into his skin. I know he likes it because his entire body shudders with pleasure against me, his grip tightening even more, fingertips bruising my ass.

Frost slams us together against the vanity, my orgasm starting in my clit and reaching white-hot fingers of pleasure up through my belly and into my breasts.

“Grab my tits,” I plead, but Frost acts like he doesn’t hear me, his panting breaths ruffling the hair by my ear. My hand snags his, prying his fingers from my hip and dragging them where I want him to go.

“You know what you like, don’t you?” he teases, turning his head toward my ear, lips brushing my skin. Frost nips my lobe, and I clench around him. The way his breath hisses out … I flush all over. “Me, too.”

He shoves his hand under my tank top, squeezing my breast and sliding his thumb over a single lace-covered nipple. Frost gets frustrated quickly with the fabric between us and jerks it up, finding my see-through white bra with the glittery gold stars all over it. My mother sent that one, the matching bra. Probably trying to set me up with some douche over the holidays.

But oh.

Frost looks excited about the lingerie.

He tears the lacy cup down and out of his way, dropping his head to my chest and biting down on my nipple—harder even than I bit his neck.

My head falls back against the mirror again as the pleasure completes its circuit from my cunt to my brain. The orgasm hits me so hard that I let out a sharp cry of pleasure, my body locking down around Frost’s and freezing him in place. The squeezing of my muscles is so powerful that his body succumbs to the demands of my own, and he comes with a deep, reverent sound, almost a prayer.

My pussy pulses with the aftershocks of my climax, milking Frost’s shaft as he finishes with three hard, final thrusts. His breathing is wild, dizzying. I think I sound the same way, breathy and tired and fulfilled.

“Told you,” I whisper in his ear as he lifts his head up and then turns to look at me.

“Told me?” he whispers back, raising a dark eyebrow. A few glorious beads of sweat dot his forehead, and I have the weirdest urge to lick them away. Ew, gross. If he were my lover then that’d be one thing. But I don’t even know this guy. “I just proved I could make you come quick.”

“What?!” I whisper back, feeling my mouth fall open in shock. “No, I was proving that I could make myself orgasm fast—even with a shitty lover.”

“Oh, like that wasn’t some of the best sex you’ve ever had,” Frost scoffs, and I laugh, making him groan as my muscles tighten around him again.

“Best sex? That was like two seconds long,” I growl back and he narrows his eyes on me. The twinkle lights on the wall behind him cast his pale skin and icy stare in gold, like a Christmas miracle instead of a grumpy lay.

“Good God, woman. First, you challenge me to give you an orgasm and then you complain when I do.” Frost sighs, but I can see the faintest hint of another smile before he turns his head.

“I said give me an orgasm, not blow your load and end it before it really got good,” I snap back as Frost pulls out of me, slides off the condom, and chucks it in the trash. I see then … that he’s hard. Well, like half-hard, and getting harder by the second. How is that even possible?

“You like what you see?” he asks me, leaning against the glass wall of the shower with a smirk. Frost’s smooth sexuality is crowned with the bright red and green garlands above his head. A felted Santa with a deranged serial killer face rests on the back of the toilet, a stoic observer to our merry tryst.

“You like what you see?” I taunt, flicking my eyes to the side and then looking back at Frost’s cock, the head shiny with his seed. I hate to admit it, but I am impressed.

We meet eyes.

“Guess so.” Frost fists himself, pausing to wrinkle his nose when the automatic air freshener on the wall spurts a puff of cinnamon scent into the air.

I take the opportunity to slide off the counter and grab my leggings, turning away from the arrogant bastard with his dick hanging out of his pants. If I keep looking … I’ll do it all over again. With my eyes downcast, I slip first one leg into my pants and then …

Feel myself get pushed up against the counter— hard .

“Are you sure you’re done?” Frost whispers in my ear, smelling like sweat and man and sex. And underneath it, his pine and sage scent still burns. One set of smells is a turn-on, and the other, comforting and soothing. It’s a nice mix. A tantalizing mix. A dangerous mix.

“I …” I start, but let’s be honest—one of the most beautiful men on the planet is standing behind me, his hard body pressed up against mine. Lifting my gaze, I meet his eyes in the mirror and I want nothing more than his hard cock between my thighs again.

Aaaaand … I’m on my way to my parents’ place. Shit. I’m going to look like a ruffled sex goddess when I walk in and find my family sipping champagne from tiny flutes and eating artisan gingerbread cookies.

I open the same drawer Frost used earlier and pull out another condom, passing it back to him. He watches me in the mirror the entire time, opening the condom slowly and sensually, like it’s part of the sex act, too. My boobs … okay, boob is still hanging out of my bra and my cheeks are flushed, lips swollen. Frost looks about the same—minus the boobs, of course. He has rippling pectorals that I feel like I really need to see.

“Take your shirt off,” I tell him and he complies with an annoyingly smug little grin. Fucker. But oh. Oh. It’s worth it.

Frost tears his top off and tosses it over the shower door, his chest a tattooed paradise that matches the stories on his arm, a tale of ice and snow, of predators in the white-white of an arctic forest. All of that color blanketed over his muscles, it excites me to the point where I’m wiggling, waiting for him to grab me by the hips and enter me again.

I know I’m screwing him to banish bad memories, but he is making me feel better. The moment is hot and immediate, a burst of physical pleasure to brighten up the shit year I’ve had as well as the shit year I’m destined to find after the holidays are over.

Frost moves close enough that his shaft slips between my butt cheeks, using my natural lube to slide around and ignite every nerve ending between my legs.

“Mm,” I murmur, biting my lower lip, long brown hair hanging over my shoulders and into the sink. I’m still wearing the white knit beanie my dad sent me, the one with the matching gold star on the brim. But no makeup, messy brows, cracked and dry lips from the cold. I should feel ugly, but right now, with Frost looking at me the way he is, I couldn’t possibly let myself go down that route.

Frost Manderach of Inked Pages thinks I’m hot as hell. Me. Cyan, the unemployed, homeless loner. How?

Christmas miracles do exist.

“Take your other tit out,” he says, and even though his domineering voice rankles me, he did what I asked so I suppose I can do the same. I reach up with my left hand and free the round, pale curve of my other breast, my pink nipples pebbled and hard. “Oh, fuck yes.”

Frost guides his erection into me a second time, stretching my tight body with his thick shaft. He’s so much bigger than the other guys I’ve been with. And his stamina? He can come as many times as he wants if he can keep getting it up like that.

And I thought his guitar playing was impressive.

Holy shitting snowflakes.

Frost wraps one hand around my hip for balance and leans forward, covering my body with his, so he can fondle my bare breasts with the other. They swing with his motions, the entire show available for me to watch in the mirror.

Christmas lights shimmer around us, the tacky garland catching the golden glow and reflecting it across the walls in red and green sparkles. I guess, looking at them like this, they’re not quite so ugly as I first thought.

“Oh, that’s good,” I whisper as his balls slap my clit, and his shaft finds the very end of me, taking up all the available space inside my body, completing me. It’s that feeling of completion that really gets me, that turns my entire body to flame.

His name might be Frost, but this man, he’s fire and ice.

“So you admit it?” he growls into my ear, filling me up and then teasing me by pulling all the way out, leaving me wanting and aching. I squirm for him, can’t help it. He chuckles, like my behavior is charming instead of annoying.

“We can be equals,” I say as he shoves forward and fills me up again. A groan escapes my lips and I reach out and smack the faucet, turning the water on for an extra sound barrier. Somewhere outside the door, someone turns on a ridiculously loud rendition of Blue Christmas .

Frosty fucking Christmas fudge.

Someone out there can hear us.

“Equals, puh-lease ,” Frost says, screwing me so hard that I’m finding it almost impossible to respond. “I’ve got you, babe. It’s pretty obvious who’s the one in charge here.”

Biting my lip, I push back into Frost’s crotch and squeeze my muscles as hard as I can. All those Kegel exercises are coming in handy. My pussy clamps down like a vise, and a wild, ragged groan escapes his lips.

His hand comes out and grabs my hair, twisting it around his fist and pulling.

Our eyes meet in the mirror and our hate-fuck just amps all the way up. I push back into him, squeezing my muscles, and he thrusts his pelvis as hard as he can. Our bodies clash again and again and again …

We fuck through several different Christmas songs—I’m too far-gone to even recognize what they are. Sweat drips down the sides of my face, over the rounded curves of my breasts. My muscles tense, but I refuse to give in. This is a game now, between me and Frost.

But when he reaches around and puts his fingers to my clit?

All bets are off.

With a violent groan, I curl my fingers around the edges of the counter, my body shuddering as my skin ripples with pleasure, and I come with a wild sound that I’m sure everyone else on the bus can hear.

When the white-hot stars fade from my vision and I can actually see Frost’s expression in the mirror, I can tell I’m not the only one who just climaxed.

“Truce?” he whispers, voice ragged.

We look at each other’s postcoital, slack-jawed reflections, and it takes me three separate tries to swallow past the lump in my throat to answer him.

“Truce.”