Snow Angel: A Winter Romance

by Lush, Tamara

  I shake my head and half-laugh, half-sniffle.

  “Your father and I had been dating six months. And I was so in love with him, even then. He asked me to his house. He didn’t tell me his parents were coming over because it was supposed to be a surprise, so I could meet them. I took it upon myself to wear nothing but a trench coat and high heels. Red high heels.”

  I gasp. “No! You must have been mortified.”

  She nods. “See? Your father and I made it through that, and I didn’t die from embarrassment. It’s no big deal. Even if it involves vibrators or trench coats and red fuck me heels. Silly and crazy and wonderful things happen when you meet the right person. It’s all part of life, kiddo.”

  “I hope so, Mom.” I lean my head on her shoulder and think about Oliver and I staring into each other’s eyes while standing on snowshoes in the woods. “Because I really, really like him.”

  Chapter 12

  CHARLOTTE

  Hours later, we’re all sitting around the dinner table. It’s Mom, Dad, and me, along with Oliver and his parents. Uncle Colin and his wife Samantha are here, too. They’d arrived with my parents but mercifully missed the scene in the bathroom.

  The golden lights of the tree are twinkling, Mom whipped up a giant cheesy vegetarian casserole, and Oliver and I are sitting next to each other. He donned a turtleneck to cover the hickey. Under the tablecloth, our legs are glued together. Every now and then, one of us will dip a hand under the table to squeeze each other’s leg or knee or hand.

  My cheeks are warm with pink champagne and love. As much as I adored being alone with Oliver, having our families here feels…right. I know some guys would be embarrassed, or even pissed, about the bathroom incident.

  He’s not. We’ve been secretly cracking up about it all night.

  The conversation with our families is easy and light. Dad asks Oliver about the conditions on the mountain. Aunt Samantha wants to know if there’s a skating rink. Oliver tells them about how we went snowshoeing the yesterday (but leaves out the details of our kiss, of course).

  As Oliver talks, he leans back in his chair. I smile a little, because he’s practically mirroring his father on the other side of the table.

  In one smooth movement, Oliver slings his arm over the back of my chair. I’m sure it’s an instinctual gesture, but it speaks volumes to the adults around the table. I glance around, and no one seems to notice.

  Except Uncle Colin. His head is tilted to the side and he’s smirking. He looks like my dad, with salt-and-pepper hair and bright blue eyes. My girlfriends have always thought he was hot, which skeeved me out. He’s just Uncle Collie, and for as long as I’ve been alive, he’s loved to tease me.

  I sense that tonight is no exception, and I steel myself.

  “You know,” he drawls, pointing to me and then to Oliver. “The two of you make a good looking couple. Anybody ever tell you that?”

  My dad coughs, and the bronze skin on Oliver’s face takes on a pink tone. Maybe it’s the champagne, or maybe I feel emboldened after my conversation with mom. But I slide my hand under the tablecloth, squeeze Oliver’s leg, and grin at my uncle.

  “You think so?” I purr then steal a flirtatious glance at Oliver, who’s now turned the same shade as the pink champagne in my glass.

  He looks at me, and we both laugh.

  * * *

  OLIVER

  Where are you?

  I’m in my room. About to jerk off, thinking about you. Where are you?

  It’s nearly one in the morning, and I know I should go to bed because Dad wants to get an early start on the slopes tomorrow, but I’m wide awake and texting with Charlotte. Keyed up and horny and yeah, desperate to have Charlotte next to me in bed.

  Come to my room and jerk off here, she responds. I laugh out loud at her text.

  Ummm you should come down here. Everyone is upstairs. I’m the only one downstairs.

  True. Be right there.

  I turn on the bedside lamp. No, too bright. I click it off. Maybe leave the bathroom light on? I scramble out of bed and flick it on. Too yellow. Weird shadows. I turn it off. The moonlight’s coming through the trees and it’s bright enough in here to see the blue geometric pattern on the duvet.

  Should I stay in bed? Stand up? Sit against the headboard? I’m naked. Does she expect me to be clothed? Probably not, since she’s the one who encouraged me to sleep naked.

  By the time I settle back between the sheets, my dick’s already half hard. Fuck, I want her so bad. Being interrupted in the bathroom left me edgy with lust. During dinner I almost couldn’t keep my hands to myself, and I’ve got to get a handle on my need for her while our parents are around.

  Or maybe I should just man up and tell our parents how I feel about her.

  The bedroom door swings open, and I see her faint silhouette. Without saying a word, she closes the door and locks it. A few seconds later she’s sliding into bed next to me, snuggling up to my chest.

  My hands go everywhere. On her back, in her hair, over her ass. She’s wearing a flimsy tank top and little booty shorts, which of course make me rock hard.

  “Hey,” she whispers. “I was worried you wouldn’t want to see me tonight.”

  I chuckle a little. “No. Not even close. I don’t think I can sleep without you next to me.”

  I pull her hair gently, tilting her head back, so I can kiss her. She makes a little mewling noise and wriggles out of her shorts.

  Her body presses against me with all her strength, and I can tell she wants me to roll onto my back. I do, and she straddles me. My hand extends to the nightstand, where I’ve left a condom.

  She moves back while I sheath myself, then resumes her teasing, grinding her wet heat next to my dick.

  “Babe?” I whisper.

  “Mmm.” She feathers kisses down my neck, and I want to throw her down and fuck her hard. Like we did last night.

  “Sharkie, I was thinking.”

  “What were you thinking about?” She sits up and strips off her tank top. I cradle her beautiful breasts, stroking her nipples with my thumbs. “Because I was thinking about fucking you.”

  “Well, that goes without saying. I’ve pretty much thought of that since you arrived.”

  Reaching between her legs, she takes my dick in hand, then sinks down. I let out a strangled exhale. It’s amazing how wet and perfect she feels. Are all women like this? I don’t care to find out, because why would I want to improve on perfection?

  “What were you going to say?” She lifts herself a little, then impales herself again.

  “I was going to say—” I roughly grab her ass cheeks and grind her into me. “—that Burlington isn’t that far from Boston.”

  She leans down, her mouth on mine. I can feel her smile against my lips. “No, it’s not. Not at all. Do you think we could see each other at least once a month?”

  I flip her onto her back, pull out, and reach my hand between her legs. I stroke her clit, just like she taught me.

  “I was thinking more than that. Way more. You ok with that plan?”

  She lets out a breathy gasp, and I circle her clit with a little more pressure.

  “Oh, Oliver. Yes. God, yes. Every fucking weekend.”

  She comes against my fingers. Is it wrong of me to feel accomplished, triumphant even, every time I make her come?

  She’s breathing hard when I again drive my cock into her. Somehow this feels more intense between us tonight. Is it because we’re trying to be quiet? Maybe it’s our pent-up need after being interrupted in the bathroom.

  Or.

  Or it’s because I can no longer wait to tell her the truth I’ve held in my heart for years.

  “Charlotte?” I stop thrusting and still while inside her.

  “Oliver? Why are you using my real name?”

  “Because I want to tell you I love you. I might not be your first in bed, but I want to be your last in everything.”

  For a moment, I worry I’ve said the
wrong thing. Let it slip too soon.

  “You are my first, babe. First love. Maybe we just weren’t ready for each other all those years ago.” She reaches up and strokes my face with her hands. “But we’re ready now. I love you too.”

  Grinning in the light of the moon, fireworks going off in my brain, I fuck her slow and hard. I take her wrists in my hands and pin them above her head. We’re primal. I drive into her until she’s breathing hard, until I’m close to the edge, and then I slow it way down. She draws her knees up toward her armpits, and I’m deep inside. I’ve lost track of everything. Everything but her.

  She claps her hand over my mouth, probably sensing I’m going to let out an animal noise that will wake the house as I come inside her.

  Within minutes, she’s asleep in my arms, and I drift off thinking about how this is the most perfect vacation of my life.

  Chapter 13

  CHARLOTTE

  I sneak into Oliver’s room the next night, and the night after that, and every night we’re at the cabin. Each morning, I tiptoe into the kitchen at the crack of dawn to grab a glass of orange juice or to make coffee. Probably, our parents know—I’m certain Mom does—but no one says a word.

  On our last night of vacation, I’m in the kitchen with Oliver. We’ve got cleanup duty. His dad spent most of the day cooking Cuban food, and we’re all stuffed. Everyone seems to be in a sluggish, wistful mood, not quite wanting to return to real life. Or maybe that’s how I feel, because I don’t want to be apart from Oliver.

  When Oliver’s finished stacking the dishwasher, I slide over to him and stealthily pinch his butt. Our parents are in the living room, far enough away that they can’t see what we’re doing behind the kitchen island counter, but close enough that we can hear their laughter.

  “Hey.” He grins. “What was that for?”

  “You have a cute butt. And for knowing how to operate a dishwasher. It’s a good skill for a man to have.”

  He shrugs. “I kind of like doing dishes. I feel a sense of accomplishment. I do em’ at my place, even though Dad encourages me to get a housekeeper once a week.”

  Okay, I am never letting this man go. I’ve seen how guys our age can be selfish, filthy pigs in their apartments. “Good, you can keep doing the dishes, because I hate them. I’ll vacuum, okay?”

  His dark, glittering eyes meet mine. “You planning our division of labor for when we live together?”

  Oh, shit. Was that a step too far? “Maybe.” I shrug and turn to wipe the counter down.

  I feel his body against my back, his heat seeping into me. His nearness makes me suck in a breath and glance at our parents. We haven’t been this close together in front of them.

  “They aren’t paying any attention to us,” Oliver murmurs in my ear. Tingles race across my skin. “It’s okay if you want to vacuum. How do you feel about cleaning the bathroom?”

  I wiggle my butt into his crotch. “It’s not my favorite.”

  His hand finds my waist and slips around to my stomach. “If I agree to do it, what will you do in return?”

  “I’ll come up with an equitable offer.”

  My eyes shift to the living room, and I notice his mother rising from the sofa. “Another glass of wine?” she asks the group.

  Oliver plants a stealthy kiss on my neck then steps away from me and grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge. He drifts out of the kitchen.

  I busy myself with closing a package of rolls, my skin still tingling where his lips were. “Hey,” I say to Oliver’s mom, grinning.

  She returns the smile. “You in charge of the wine stash?”

  I turn to a cabinet. “What are you looking for?”

  “Hmm. The pinot from Italy, I think.”

  I sort through the bottles in the wine rack and extract two. “Which one would you like, Mrs. Menendez?”

  “Justine. Please, Charlotte. Call me Justine.” She’s laughing, her face a little flushed, obviously in a good mood. She’s so pretty. I think she’s forgotten about the debacle in the bathroom. I set the bottles on the counter, then lean over, propping my head on the heels of my hands. Oliver’s in the living room with the adults now.

  My dad says something, and Oliver laughs, showing his straight, white teeth. His dad musses his hair, a sweet, intimate father-son moment. It’s amazing how much he looks like his father.

  Mom walks in and stands next to me, reaching for a honey-covered nut in a bowl and nibbling as she studies me.

  Mrs. Menendez pours two glasses of wine and slides one to Mom. The three of us are staring in silence at everyone in the living room. We all have little, goofy smiles on our faces.

  Mrs. Menendez pours a third glass of wine and hands it to me. I straighten and take a sip, never taking my gaze off Oliver.

  “What do you see in there?” Her voice is soft, and my mom beams, her eyes crinkling at the edges. She reaches over and rubs my back.

  First, I look at Mom, then at Mrs. Menendez, then back at my handsome Oliver. The boy I’ve loved my whole life. The man I’ll love this new year. And the year after that. And beyond.

  The thought makes me swoon.

  “I see the future,” I say softly. “Our future."

  THE END

  Thank you for reading my story! I’d love to introduce you to two new characters — Skylar Shaw and Luca Rossi. They’re the hero and heroine in my book DIRTY LIES, which releases in March 2019! Read on for an exclusive excerpt!

  Also, I’d love for you to join me in my private reader group on Facebook! Check out the LUSH LIFE group here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/LushLife00

  DIRTY LIES

  LUCA ROSSI

  The reporter's press pass dangled in between her full, gorgeous tits and a red bikini flashed like a stop sign under her white dress.

  I rubbed my lips together. My hand went instinctively to my hip, and I realized with a pang of unease that I'd left the gun on the terrace. Exhaling, I hated myself for automatically being so paranoid. This woman wasn't a threat. She was just a young, eager reporter. Harmless.

  I shook my head and tried to ignore her gorgeous face.

  My eyes settled on a clump of sand clinging to her ankle, and I was struck by an overwhelming urge to brush it off with my fingers and then run my entire hand up, up, up the inside of her smooth leg. Over her calf, skimming the side of her knee, grazing her inner thigh.

  All the way up until my fingers reached something hot and wet. I licked my lips and shook my head again. "I don't want to be in the paper."

  She flashed a little smile, and her gaze lingered on my chest. Oh. Right. I wasn't wearing a shirt. Her eyes shifted to the tattoo on my left bicep, her smile grew wider and her gaze skittered to my abs before she raised her eyes.

  "My name's Skylar. You can call me Sky. I understand that you don't want to be quoted, but could you tell me anything off the record?"

  I was struck by the pale blue hue of her eyes, the color of the Gulf on a clear day, a startling and beautiful contrast with her deep chestnut-colored hair.

  I stepped back and smiled despite myself. "I don't do off the record. People should never talk to the media, you know."

  She laughed. "Ohh, come on. I'm one of the good reporters. I won't misquote you."

  "Really? Don't all reporters say that? Why should I trust you?"

  She stopped laughing, which was too bad, because the sound was sweet as honey. She blinked and stared at my hand, which was suspended in mid-air because I was trying to make a point while talking. I lowered my hand, suddenly self-conscious of the broad way I gestured.

  "Trust me? Of course you can trust me. And, anyway, I'm really looking for the person who helped the man hit by the plane. One of the paramedics said the Good Samaritan was young and maybe had a tattoo."

  I shrugged when she pointed to my arm. She couldn't make me talk. Even with lips like hers.

  "You have an accent," she said, undeterred. "Where are you from?"

  I swallowed, not prepared she'd
try to get so personal so soon. "Europe," I muttered.

  "Well, that narrows it down." She grinned and rummaged through her straw tote bag then handed me a business card. Plucking it from her fingers, I studied every inch of her face. Even the freckles on her nose were impossibly sexy.

  I glanced down and read her card aloud. "'Skylar Shaw. The Palmira Post.'"

  She took a pen and notebook out of her bag. The pen's end was frayed with bite marks. I arched an eyebrow. "How long have you been a reporter, Skylar Shaw?"

  "Three months, not counting my internship. I got this job at the newspaper right after graduating from journalism school."

  I looked at her, then at her card and back. She tapped the end of the pen on her bottom lip and opened her mouth to chew on it. Her lips were plump, and I entertained a filthy fantasy of rubbing my thumb over them. Shoving my thumb in her mouth. Commanding her to suck.

  How I'd love to play with this girl.

  How bad of an idea was it to ask her inside for a glass of wine?

  PRE-ORDER DIRTY LIES TODAY!

  About the Author

  Tamara Lush writes sexy books for smart women.

  Constant Craving, was a 2018 Romance Writers of America RITA© Finalist in Erotic Romance. Buzzfeed said Constant Craving is "the perfect read for when even chocolate can't satisfy your cravings." Scandalicious called the book "smart smut," with "diversity, a hero you love to hate and a kinky heroine."

  She's married to an Italian and lives near a beach in Florida. During the day she writes real-life stories that don't end happily.

  Tamara is a fan of vintage pulp fiction book covers, Sinatra-era jazz, 1980s fashion, tropical chill, kombucha, gin, tonic, seashells, iPhones, Art Deco, telenovelas, coloring books, street art, coconut anything, strong coffee and newspapers.

  To say hello:

  www.tamaralush.com

  tamara@tamaralush.com

  Facebook