Winter Kisses (A 3:AM Kisses Novella Book 2)

by Moore, Addison

  That bottle of whiskey I knocked back before hitting the stage has me feeling a little tipsy. I should seriously reconsider my antianxiety routine despite the fact it’s given me the right amount of courage, or, more to the point, stupidity to engage in a conversation with someone who so horribly stomped on my heart.

  “Hell, yes, the offer still stands.” His chest pumps as if he just ran a marathon. He gives the impression of a smile, but his eyes remain fixed on mine—wide-eyed—as if he were lost in a dream.

  “Hey!” Holt comes barreling out of the facility, and I take a quick breath because a part of me was expecting the Mommy and Meg breakup brigade to storm out after us. “What the hell?” Holt nods at our interlocked fingers. Holt is handsome, and sweet to boot, but he’s not the one for me. I may have let him take me out a few times earlier this year when I specifically took to the task of bruising Ryder’s ego, but I felt bad for leading him on, so I broke things off before they could properly take off.

  “I’m fine.” I take a step back from Ryder, and our hands disconnect. “Would you mind telling my mom and sister I had to run?” I plead with Holt. “I think I’m going to turn in early.”

  He eyes Ryder like a snake in the grass, slithering its long phallic member ever so close to my forbidden forest.

  “Yeah, sure,” he says it stern with a threat embedded in the baritone of his voice. I’ve known Holt long enough to know he doesn’t approve of me turning in early and with whom.

  Ryder takes in a lungful of air as we watch Holt disappear back into the facility. “Laney,” he whispers, touching his hand gently to my cheek. His eyes are narrowed in pain, his brows furrowed as if this were all too much for him. “Let’s get out of here.” A smile tugs on his lips as he takes up my hand again. He helps me into his sports car with its fresh from the factory scent, its dashboard lit up like the space station, and we don’t say a word all the way over to Capwell Towers.

  The ritzy high rise that bears the Capwell moniker is located in downtown Jepson which is about a half hour outside of Hollow Brook and a whole hell of a lot of walking miles from my dorm back at Whitney Briggs.

  I’m such an idiot. Way to strand myself at my ex’s place without my purse, which I stupidly left in a bag with all my street clothes. But, thankfully, I left both of those with Baya, so already I know I’ll be seeing my wallet again, which is kind of a comforting thought.

  “So, you ready to get your money’s worth?” I sigh as we step into the glossy brass elevator and glide on up. His warm cologne washes over me, a heated spice with strong undertones of testosterone. I have the distinct feeling Ryder is about to put every dildo on the planet to shame with the things he’s about to do to me, and I’m not too sure I’m going to protest the idea.

  “You ready to give it?” He’s teasing, mostly, but I can tell he’s hopeful.

  “Only in your dreams.”

  “Seeing that half my dreams have already come true tonight, I’m guessing the odds are in my favor.”

  Crap.

  The elevator opens, and Ryder locks his aching navy eyes over mine. He’s in physical pain, hurting so blatantly, and I don’t know why I suddenly feel like everything that went wrong between the two of us was my fault. I’m not the one that left him naked in bed to help out a “friend.”

  Ryder steps into the hall, but I hesitate.

  “I won’t bite.” His brows narrow like maybe he will.

  My feet don’t move.

  “Maybe I want you to.” What the hell am I saying? “Maybe I don’t.” Sadly, tucked somewhere in the middle lies the truth.

  He holds the elevator open and dips his chin. “Come with me.” It rumbles from him deep and sounds more like a sexual command than it ever does an invitation to see his apartment. “I promise, I’ll only bite if you ask nicely.”

  “And if I don’t ask nicely?”

  A dark smile curls into his cheek. “That’s when I ravage.”

  “Careful, cowboy. These heels are classified weapons in twelve different countries, banned in three, and I’m not afraid to use them.” I take a breath and venture out onto the plush carpet that dampens the sound of my footsteps, making this feel even that much more of a bad dream.

  “Duly noted.” He strides alongside me. “By the way, have I mentioned that I have a strict no-shoes policy in the penthouse?”

  “And how long has this been in effect?”

  “Approximately twelve seconds.”

  “Lucky for me I have an affinity for breaking rules.” I glance down at his crotch. “Put the boys on notice, the heels are coming in.”

  I revert my gaze to the ever-expanding walkway. The walls are covered with a creamy stone, while oversized wreaths decorate the long, narrow hall. The wreathes are white with bright red bows set in the center, and it looks festive in a sterile sort of way that only the filthy rich know how to pull off.

  He holds out his hand, and I pause, eyeing it as if each finger were about to morph into a snake.

  His dimples go off. “Again, I’ll only bite if you ask.”

  “I’ll take your hand, but only if you lower your oral expectations for the evening. I have a strict no biting policy I implemented about fifteen seconds ago, unless of course you’ve morphed into a vampire.”

  “Have I ever told you about that meaningful interview I had with Anne Rice several years back?”

  “Very funny.”

  His fingers clasp onto mine and a sigh chokes from my throat.

  How the hell did this happen? How did I travel miles across town only to end up alone with Ryder at his penthouse? Crap. The sudden urge to test out his mattress springs hovers over my head like the skanky ghost of Christmas yet to come, and I think we both know the one really hoping to come is me. Why else would I have tagged along for the ride? To inspect his dinner dishes? God, I’m so stupid to have ever set foot in the car. This isn’t going to end well.

  “Everything okay?” He tightens his grip over my hand, and my face deepens a severe shade of crimson. I get lost in the bionic pull of his eyes, and, for a brief moment, everything actually does feel okay.

  I’m quick to snap out of my Ryder inspired stupor. “Let’s see, I was just auctioned off at a charity ball to my ex, I’m still bound and gagged in this seventeenth-century torture device once pawned off as fashion, and my phone, wallet, and dignity all went back to Whitney Briggs without me. My night, much like my life, just gave me the finger. But otherwise, yeah, everything’s A okay.”

  Ryder pulls me in, raking his gaze over my features until my skin sizzles under his supervision.

  “I’m not opposed to helping you out of that seventeenth-century torture device,” he growls it out with the hint of a devious smile. “And if it makes you feel better, I’ll leave my dignity at the door. We can indulge in hours’ worth of undignified fun—comfortable, without our clothes on. If anything, I’m an accommodating host.”

  Holy holly-laden sleigh bells, this has quickly turned into the nightmare before Christmas. If I’m lucky this will pan out to be exactly that—one long nightmare—and the next thing you know, I’ll be startled awake by my roommate gargling in the bathroom while I violently clutch at my choice weapon of mass destruction, my vibrator. Speaking of weapons, I probably should have one on me. Although, I think in this scenario, a revolver would be much more effective than packing a dildo. I don’t think for a minute it’s a coincidence that a penis is the shape of a .38 special—more like a Saturday night special. And considering this is Saturday night, I’d say his gun is about to be manhandled and fired and made to feel very, very special indeed because God only knows I’ve got a nice warm holster that I’d like to squeeze it into.

  “I bet you’re in an accommodating mood,” it huffs from me incredulous. “I bet one very special part of you can’t wait to accommodate yourself into a mind-numbing delirium.”

  His chest pumps once with a quiet laugh. “The only mind-numbing delirium I’d like to achieve is the one I hope to induce
in you. Oh wait”—his dimples dig in and out—“we’re back to oral fixations again, aren’t we?”

  Crap. It’s like the walls are closing in on me with their spiny white wreathes, and I come to my senses. I pull free from his grasp, only Ryder doesn’t seem to notice because he happens to dig into his pocket for the key at the exact same moment.

  “Here we are.” He swings open the door, and my eyes dart to the brass plated sign to his left that reads Penthouse 007.

  “007?” I ask, disbelieving. Ryder is the only person I know that has the luck to have something as innocuous as his street address proclaim him as a badass. Well, would-be badass. I can’t elevate him to that spectacular level after what he put me through.

  He gives a cocky grin, and his dimples go off, rendering me and all of my hormonal girl parts defenseless.

  “Capwell”—he gives the ghost of a smile—“Ryder, Capwell,” he rumbles in his deepest octave, and my stomach pinches tight. “I’ve always wanted to say that.” He smolders into me without even trying, and, good God almighty, I’m way past the point of being seduced. It’s obvious this night is going to end with a bang, and now I feel like an idiot for putting myself within shooting, or rather bedding, range. Face it. Those cobalt eyes of his have cast a spell over me, and now, I’m voluntarily striding into his penthouse just hoping for some perversion.

  He comes in close, and I’m terrified he’s going to kiss me, and we’ll be tearing off one another’s clothes before I even get to berate myself properly for letting my vagina follow his happy trail right to his promiscuous penthouse.

  “007!” I breeze past him before either of his heads can get within firing range. “That’s quite impressive.” I move into the living room at a lively pace as if I’ve got somewhere to go, as if I’ve been here before, then it hits me like a ton of cheating bricks—I bet she’s been here before. “Do you lure all the women you purchase for the evening to your penthouse?”

  God, could I get any closer to the point? Why not just shout out her name? I’m surprised I don’t jump on his sofa and do a Tom Cruise in reverse, hopping up and down like a baboon shouting I fucking hate Meg! I do, though. I don’t care how many charities she’s commandeering. I couldn’t care less if she’s single handedly winning the war on poverty. I hate her yellow guts, her forked-tongue, and unspoiled liver because God knows that girl wouldn’t have sucked down a fifth of whiskey before being auctioned off like a wench at some Disney theme-park attraction. But, then again, only in her wildest wet dreams would Ryder Capwell purchase her, let alone narrow his sexy gaze into her like he’s doing to me now. I can practically feel him ravaging me with his eyes.

  “Roxy is the only other girl that’s been here.” He presses out a dull smile at the mention of his sister’s name. “She’s visited twice. Not even my mother has set foot in these haunted halls.” He brushes the hair from my face, and I can feel the flames fan from his fingertips. “Everything here, my bed, it’s all been hoping you might show up,” he whispers. “And here you are, Laney, just for me.”

  The sweet spot between my legs clenches when he says it, and I can feel the temperature rising around the two of us like an invisible inferno.

  “It’s nice to see you haven’t changed—optimistic and egocentric as hell. Is that all you think it’ll take to land me horizontal? A little purchasing power?”

  “I don’t think that’s what brought you here. You’re here because you want to be.” He presses in an inch until his breath rakes over me. “And if I’m lucky, you’ll be in my bed for the same reason.”

  I swallow hard and try to distract myself by taking in the place with its dark wood floors, the expensive Persian rugs in the dining and living room. The kitchen is a testament to stainless steel, and there’s an art deco flair going on with clean lines, minimal furnishings. The L-shaped leather couch looks cold and uncomfortable. The television is the size of the wall and looks more like a black hole waiting to suck us in one-by-one, and right about now I wouldn’t mind entering another dimension. Then the piece de resistance, a tall, blue Noble stands like a watchman in the corner.

  “Ryder Capwell with a Christmas tree—fancy that.” I step in further to inspect it with its plain red ornaments, dangling heavy as pomegranates, ready to plummet from the droopy branches. “I like it.”

  “Roxy’s doing.” He flips a switch, and the miniature lights go on in a rainbow seizure, blinking and winking, and, dear God, is that thing spinning? “She’s got it rigged to sing and dance. It spins for hours, and somehow the wires never get tangled.”

  “That’s the nice thing about electronics. You throw in a few batteries, and they can satisfy you for hours—no wires, or feelings to get tangled up in.”

  A tangible silence crops up between us as Ryder gets that deer-in-the-headlights look knowing that I’ve replaced him with a sex toy.

  “People are complicated, Laney.” He steps in and sags, his face suddenly rife with grief. “And, I promise, there’s not an electronic device in the world that can love you like I could if given a second chance.”

  “My broken heart would beg to differ. Besides, that’s the nice thing about electronic devices, they don’t need second chances—they get it right the first time.”

  “Maybe you should do a little juxtaposition?” His tongue glosses his bottom lip. “Conduct a side-by-side comparison by taking me for a test drive.”

  “Been there, done that.”

  “Maybe you need a refresher.” He bears into me with an inescapable sorrow. I can feel his craving to have me, his carnal desperation—the eroticism pouring from his being as if he’s unleashed the floodgates.

  My chest heaves, my breathing grows erratic. Damn it all to hell because I’m right there with him.

  I take a breath, turning back to the tree.

  Somehow the holiday display endears me to him even if it was his sister’s doing. And here I wanted to hate him. I wanted to relegate him to the cold, stainless, dark hardwood flooring, expensive Persian rug department where all the heartless bastards live and wipe the dust off my feet as I walked out the door. And now it’s just so damn festive in here a part of me wants to curl up on the couch and stay the night.

  “So what now?” I take a breath in anticipation. “You want to watch a movie—play a board game?” I meant to say that last part teasing, but it came out hostile, more like a threat. The truth is, I feel dizzy just considering the not-so-platonic options.

  “No,” he flat lines, somber. His eyes glaze over with his lust for me, and I can feel our bodies magnetizing toward one another like a coil that’s been aching to retract for one long year.

  Here I am, in Ryder Capwell’s penthouse at the intersection of run-the-hell-away and lust-filled one-night stand.

  “You want to give me the guided tour?” It’s becoming painfully obvious to me what I’m doing here. And now I’ve no choice but to carry on with my subconscious desire to get him out of my system by way of inviting him into my body. It seems only logical. One good night in his arms—with his body buried deep inside me—and I might finally cull that incessant ache out of my heart—hell, out of my G-spot that’s been weeping for him ever since he took his joystick and walked out of my dorm room all those lonely nights ago. This is my chance to have my way with him one last time. I can blame whiskey and every last dollar he donated to Whitney Briggs in my honor because God knows a whore like me wants to make sure he gets his money’s worth.

  Tears come unexpected, and I blink them away.

  “Kitchen, dining room.” He takes up my hand and speeds me down the hall. “Bathroom. Guest rooms.” He picks up his pace and leads me through a set of double doors at the end of the hall to a luscious, horrifically oversized bedroom that could easily make the commons room at Prescott Hall feel inadequate. According to this cavernous space—the scope of his overgrown furniture—size very much matters to Ryder Capwell. “My bedroom.” He locks his gaze over mine as the trace of a smile wafts on his lips. He’s v
exingly handsome in a dangerous way, still in his business suit. His silver tie gleams like a sword over his chest. “It’s your move, Laney.” He comes in close until his breath sears over my cheek. “It’s a choose your own adventure kind of a night.” He touches his finger to my chin and pulls my face up until I’m looking right into those ocean deep eyes. “What comes next?”

  My heart rattles like a rabid beast trying to break free from its cage. My throat dries out, and my fingers shake because I’ve fallen past the point of no return and a one-night stand with my ex is clearly on the sexual horizon.

  I reach up and loosen his tie. “You come next, Ryder.” I pull him in like the tightening of a noose. “And if I’m lucky, I will, too.”

  Ryder

  Laney Sawyer.

  I stare at her in disbelief. A week ago, hell less than twenty-four hours ago, she wouldn’t give me the time of day, and now, here she is, in a period piece costume from the drama department, looking every bit the nineteenth-century vixen.

  “Are you propositioning me?” My body shakes, and yet somehow my voice manages to sail out smooth as velvet.

  “Let’s see.” She cuts those denim eyes up at the ceiling, and I steal a glance at her perfect tits bulging from her corset. “I’m standing in your home—in your bedroom. You’re the one with a hard-on pointed in my direction, so logic only insists that you, Ryder Capwell, are the one who is blatantly propositioning me.”

  A tiny laugh rumbles from my chest. I’d proposition Laney every day of the week if I knew she’d take me up on it.

  She presses in closer as if she were making an offer.

  Holy hell, the girl has a body that doesn’t know it’s defying both gravity and ten different laws of physics all at the same time. My fingers tremble for her, my hands shake like a crack addict who needs one more fucking hit, but I deny them the pleasure.