He snorts. “I’m not that fucking sorry.”
I roll my eyes, “Jace—”
“I’ll take you car shopping. We’ll go this weekend. For a different car—something you’ll love as much as the Mustang but that will keep you safe.” His voice goes raw. Strained. “You’re important to me, Evie. If something ever happened to you . . . I’d lose my mind.”
His words are like a balm to my heart, and the bruised feelings disappear, replaced with something warmer, lighter, more exciting. Hope. Joy. Maybe even the spirit of Christmas, which makes any wish come true.
“Important to you like Kevin and Ryan and Heather are important to you?” I venture, testing the waters. “Because we all work here?”
Say no. Please, god—please say no. Tell me I’m different. Special. Tell me I’m more. Because you want me. Here, now, on the table, over the couch, against the wall, and later, in your bed . . . in your life. Forever. Just say no.
“Yeah.”
Shit!
The Christmas spirit goes up in flames—like a Christmas tree catching fire from a faulty lights wire.
“I guess.” Jace looks toward the lockers, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kind of.”
I hop up from the chair, so he won’t see my disappointment. And I shove the Naughty List in my back pocket so I can stick it in Heather’s locker. But then Kevin pops his head through the door, making me spin around fast.
“Hey kiddies! The slopes closed ten minutes ago and the bowling league championships just finished. It’s a madhouse out here.”
“I’m coming now,” I say, bending down to pick up my apron from the floor.
As Kevin disappears from the doorway, Jace moves to stand in front of me—a solid warm wall of muscle and desirability.
“We all good, Evie?”
“Yep. Sure. Totally.” I reply, a little more chipper than necessary. I tie the apron behind my back and look up into those incredible eyes.
“I’m heading out.”
“Yeah.” Jace gazes back at me. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
I nod. Then walk through the door to the bar, and get to work.
“Are you sure you don’t have it?”
It’s after closing—after what turned out to be a crazy-busy night. The floors are swept, the chairs are up, Ryan is wiping down the kitchen and Kevin and Jace are closing out the register, and restocking the bar. Heather and I are ready to head home . . . except for one massive sticking point.
“I’m sure-sure,” she says, down on her knees looking under the couch. “Retrace your steps. When’s the last time you definitely had it?”
I blow a strand of wavy brown hair out of my face. “Here, in the break room. I was talking with Jace after the “Mustang meltdown” and I could’ve sworn I picked it up and put it in your locker . . . .”
But it’s not in Heather’s locker. It’s not anywhere—we’ve looked.
The Naughty List is M.I.A.
My deepest secrets, my dirtiest fantasies . . . poof. Gone. In the wind. Maybe mailed off to Santa’s fucking workshop—who the hell knows.
I cover my face with my hands. “This is so humiliating.”
Heather squeezes my shoulder. “It’s not that bad. I mean . . . you didn’t put your name on it, did you?”
“No.”
But I sure put Jace’s name on it. All the hell over it.
What a nightmare. Move over Grandma—let me get run over by a reindeer.
“Then you’re fine!” Heather says all cheery-like. “It probably fell on the floor and Kevin swept it up. You know how OCD he can be.”
That’s true. Kevin is pretty anal when it comes to clutter or dirty floors.
“And besides, even if someone read it—they won’t know you wrote it.”
Also true.
And the panic that’s been squeezing my lungs since we realized the survey wasn’t in Heather’s locker, finally starts to loosen and dissipate.
Because wherever the Naughty List ended up—whoever’s hands it may have landed in—they’ll never know I’m the secret someone who wrote it.
Right?
No matter how carefully you plan, the final days before Christmas are always dead-ass crazy. Time goes by in a blur of wrapping, working, grocery shopping and grabbing last minute gifts that you meant to buy a month ago. Heather’s family is in New Mexico and since she didn’t go home this year either, our Christmas Day plan is to cook a small ham and spend the day in fuzzy socks and pajamas watching cheesy holiday movies on the Hallmark channel.
Most likely, while feeling tremendously hungover.
Because . . . the Christmas Eve party at the Black Diamond Bar.
It’s a tradition, a total blowout—an awesome bash. Jace spares no expense. Top shelf liquor, tons of food catered by The Willow, one of the best restaurants in Colorado, and all kinds of sweet, beautifully decorated treats from Flo’s Bakery. It’s an invite-only party—open to employees, locals, regulars and their families.
That’s where I am now, looking goddamn adorable, if I do say so myself.
I’m wearing my “I like big balls” t-shirt, snug black jeans, high boots, dangly green jingle-bell earrings, and a fur-trimmed red Santa hat over my long, glossy, straightened hair.
I’m out on the dancefloor, shaking my groove-thing with little Charlie Butters Jr, to Ryan and his band’s punk version of Silent Night. It’s a pretty cool rendition, but not easy to dance to—so Charlie and I basically just bob our heads and jump around a lot. When the song ends, the band leads right into a rock-n-rollasized Up on the Rooftop. Heather dances just behind me, swaying her head, arms raised, giving Ryan the “I’m going to screw your brains out later” look as he sings.
It turns out Ryan didn’t want to date me at after all. He asked me out to get my opinion on what I thought Heather would think, about him wanting to date her.
And now they are. Dating, that is.
The relationship is only about 24 hours old, but it’s looking pretty solid so far.
When the song ends, I fan my face—trying to cool off. My mouth is dry and my t-shirt is sticky with moisture. I tell Charlie that I’m going to grab a drink and he gives me a thumbs-up before dancing over to his parents.
I feel giddy and light as I walk across the room . . . right into the tractor beam that is Jace’s gaze. He’s leaning back behind the bar, watching the party, wearing jeans and a dark blue Henley that molds to his sculpted arms in an amazing way.
“Hey,” I call softly when I reach him.
He lifts his chin. “Another vodka and cranberry?”
It’s my third, so I’m buzzing but nowhere near drunk.
“Yeah, thanks.”
A minute later I sip my drink and watch Jace—still my top favorite thing to do.
“Everything going okay?” I ask.
He takes a long pull from his beer—I didn’t think I’d ever be so jealous of a bottle.
“I’m good.”
“You’ve been . . . kind of quiet,” I say.
It’s not like he’s normally Mr. Sharer or anything, but the last few days Jace has kept to himself a lot. He’s seemed almost contemplative. Broody.
But still very, very hot.
He gives me a lazy shrug.
“Just thinking about some things.”
My vodka buzz pulls my lips into a teasing smile.
“Oh yeah? What kind of things?”
The music starts up again—this time from the stereo, because the band’s on a break—and Dean Martin’s smooth Baby It’s Cold Outside, fills the room.
Jace’s mouth quirks.
“Naughty things.”
And I almost swallow my tongue. No one around here has mentioned the Naughty List, so I’ve pushed any potential embarrassment from my mind. Until now.
“What?” I choke.
He leans in closer.
“I said, all sorts of interesting things.”
Oh. Right.
Of course, that’s wha
t he said—that makes so much more sense.
“Do you mind staying to help me clean up later, Eves? Kevin already took off and Heather and Ryan seem kind of . . .”
I follow his gaze toward the back of the bar—where my roommate and Ryan are plastered hot and heavy against the wall, putting the mistletoe hanging above their heads to excellent use.
“Busy.” I finish for him.
Jace snorts. “Yeah.”
Hmm . . . extra alone time with Jace Winters? Looks like I got an early Christmas present.
“Sure, no problem.”
He nods slowly, and his eyes seem deeper, darker, more intense.
“Good.”
The families with kids head out first—it is Christmas Eve, after all. By midnight, the Black Diamond is empty except for me and Jace. While he straightens up out front, I bring the trays of leftover food to the kitchen, sliding them into the fridge. I wash up a few serving utensils and wipe down the stainless-steel counters, and when that’s finished I walk back out to the main room.
The lights have been turned down—the only illumination coming from the warm glow of the fireplace, the Christmas lights on the tree, and twinkling white lights strung behind the bar. The festive music is gone, replaced by the soft, sultry sounds of Amos Lee coming from the jukebox.
Set in the middle of the bar is a rectangular box, wrapped in shiny red paper and tied with an emerald green bow.
“What’s this?” I ask Jace.
He drags down the shade on the big picture window, making the room feel even more cozy and secluded—like we’re the only two people in Alpine. The only two people in the world.
“That’s for you, Evie. A present.”
I smile—little sparks of excitement dancing across my skin. We all exchange gifts every year—thoughtful tokens or playful gag gifts. I always look forward to Jace’s. The idea that he was thinking of me when he picked it out is a thrilling thing.
He edges closer as I tug at the silk bow, peel off the paper and lift the lid of the box.
But when I peer inside, my stomach flips and falls, my face goes slack and my hands go numb.
Because The Naughty List is staring right back at me.
My words, my fantasies—Jace’s name written by my hand.
And suddenly he’s right beside me, his heat and scent surrounding me, his voice a rough rasp in my ear.
“Is it true, Evie?”
My heart pounds so hard I can almost hear it. And my breath comes quick, racing.
“Which part?” I ask.
“Any of it. All of it. Is it true?”
Part of me wants to melt into the floor under the hot glare of my embarrassment, like a snow-woman on a sunny day. But another part—a stronger part—wants to go for it. Go for him. To take a chance, make the jump, bare my soul.
Grab him and kiss him and tear at his clothes and tell him every fucking word is true.
And if he doesn’t feel the same? If I have to work here beneath the cloud of unrequited love—or worse—if Jace tells me I can’t work here anymore, because it would be too awkward . . . well . . . then at least I’ll know.
So I straighten my shoulders, and lift my chin, and look him right in his beautiful, midnight-blue eyes.
“Yes, it’s true. All of it. It’s been true for a long time. And if—”
Jace’s mouth comes down over mine. Hungry and hard and desperate.
It’s a kiss meant to claim. To own. To say Christmas is no longer a time for giving—it’s time to take.
And I’m his for the taking. I have been all along.
My soul sings and I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing against him. Jace’s hand delves into my hair, clutching and possessive, holding me where he wants me as he ravages my mouth.
He moves us backward, toward the bar and his mouth slides down my jaw, teeth scraping.
“Jace,” I pant. “What—”
He presses his finger against my lips, silencing my words. “No talking, baby. We’ll talk later, not now. The only words I want to hear out of your mouth now are yes, and more and my fucking name. Okay?”
And I’m really, really good with that.
I nod. “Yes.”
He stops then, and smiles at me. And despite the hungry look in his eyes, the smile is sweet and tender and loving. And every cell in my body lights up with the warmth and joy of this moment.
His strong hands lift me up onto the bar. He steps between my legs, cupping my face. Then there are more kisses, more lashing tongue and sucking lips—more taste of Jace, filling up every needy crevice inside me, making me moan.
My shirt is ripped off over my head. My bra is yanked off my shoulders—my breasts spilling free, baring me to his eyes. Jace steps back, his chest rising and falling with each deep rapid breath.
My first instinct is to cover myself. Because, I’m on the thin side—so to me, my boobs have never been my best asset. But the way Jace is looking at me keeps my arms right where they are. Because he’s looking at me like I’m perfect.
Like I’m the gift he wanted more than any other.
He moves forward and cups my breasts in his two hands, bending his head, laving the pale globes with his tongue and groaning against my skin.
“These tits . . . Jesus, you have no idea. Fucking years.”
The words are jagged and stuttered—but I understand their meaning. He likes my breasts.
A lot.
His mouth covers my nipple and he assaults the tight bud with harsh, relentless sucks. Sensation spikes up my spine and I gasp loudly.
I reach for his shirt, pulling it up. “Jace . . . Jace, I want . . . let me touch you.”
He doesn’t make me wait. Jace unlatches his mouth from my breast and pulls his shirt over his head—revealing ripples of taut, tan skin and the dark swirls of a tribal art tattoo across his pec.
And I almost come from the sight alone.
I skim my hands across his warm chest, down his abs, kissing and licking wherever I can reach. But then he’s stepping back, moving away, grabbing something from behind the bar.
It’s a bottle. A green bottle of champagne.
He sets it beside me, then tugs off my boots and in one swift move, strips off my jeans and lace panties. Leaving me bare on the bar.
His eyes meet mine—and he gives me a filthy smile that makes me shudder with anticipation. “Don’t have time to melt chocolate. We’ll save that for New Year’s Eve.” He reaches for the bottle, twisting the wire and popping the cork with a bang that sends white, liquid foam surging out. “This’ll do for now.”
The next several minutes of my life are filled with alternating gasps, squeals and moans—as Jace pours the cold, bubbling champagne over my body—my shoulders, my breasts, down my stomach, between my legs . . . and then he drinks up every fucking drop. Licking each trace from my heated skin. He’s very thorough.
Then he stands and brings the bottle to my lips.
“Open.”
He pours champagne into my mouth and I swallow, but not fast enough. It dripples from the corner of my lips and onto my chin.
And Jace’s eyes glow with wonderful, dirty ideas. He pulls me forward, kissing my mouth and sucking the champagne from my tongue.
Then he brings me to my feet. But not for long.
“On your knees, Evie.”
If I had any doubt that Jace read every word of my naughty list—those doubts are gone. Holding his eyes, I sink to my knees.
With sure, strong hands, Jace unbuckles his belt and takes out his cock. I only have seconds to admire it—but what I see makes me so hot and wet, I feel moisture coating my inner thighs. He’s thick and long, smooth and beautiful—a hard, delicious looking dick.
He taps my cheek with the broad, round head.
“Suck it like you mean it.”
His abrasive tone scorches a line of heat right to my pussy. And he doesn’t have to tell me twice. I open my mouth and Jace pushes between my lips. I suck and lick, stroke and wor
ship him with all four years of pent-up lust and adoration.
When he pulls out, pulls away, I literally whimper.
Before I know what’s happening, he’s crouched beside me—tying my hands behind my back with the green ribbon from my present. Not so tight that I couldn’t get free—but snug enough so I feel it. So I feel helpless. At his mercy and under his control.
Jace stands back in front of me, his legs shoulder width apart. His hand slides up the back of my neck, gripping my hair.
“Open your mouth wide and relax your throat. I want to fuck it.”
Yes. More. Please.
He fills my mouth, pushing all the way back, nudging my throat and blocking my airway. I gag once and he retreats. He pushes in again, pressing me forward. I gag again and spit dribbles out from my lips, cooling on my chin.
“Easy, baby.” Jace coos. “Let it happen. I’ve got you.”
This time, when he thrusts in, I don’t resist. I let go, give in, and his cock tunnels all the way down my throat. He thrusts twice, then pulls out so I can suck in air, then he re-enters.
When he goans, I feel like a queen. “Oh yeah. So fucking good, Evie. So good.”
Then he’s lifting me under my arms, spinning me around, pressing his bare chest to my back, my still-tied arms trapped between our bodies.
“I was going to tell you I was spanking your ass for not saying you wanted me sooner.” He whispers as he tugs his jeans all the way off. “But,” he growls, “I don’t need a reason to spank this ass.” He grips one cheek in his palm, fingers digging and I jump. From surprise and excitement. “Say stop if you want me to stop. But you won’t because you’re gonna love it.”
He’s not wrong.
The first slap of his rough hand on my ass shocks more than it hurts. But the next one stings. And by the third, I know Jace isn’t playing one bit. By the sixth smack, my ass burns and I know it must be bright pink. Excitement and dirty bliss pulse through me. I feel wild and decadent, powerful and amazing.
“Do you like it?” Jace asks.
“I love it,” I sigh.
He finishes with an even ten—then he’s turning me again. Leaning me back, resting my elbows on the bar, so my pelvis is arched forward.
Jace reaches down and presses his fingers—feels like three—into my pussy. “This sweet cunt is soaked. I might drown when I eat you.”
Naught or Nice Page 8
