Page 116 of The Finish Line
“You do.”
In the next breath, I’m cursing as she strangles my cock in a vice-like grip through my jeans.
“You were saying?”
“Not to be messed with,” I grit out as she briefly tightens her hold before letting go.
“It’s a shame that men are so vulnerable there.” She bats her eyelashes. “And I fight dirty.”
“As do I,” I remind her, pulling her to her feet and surveying the whiteout.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
I nod. “I thought it was going to be just a dusting.”
“A cold front came in, and so we got a lot more than anticipated.”
I nod.
“We deserve a good snow day after the last one we had,” she says softly, bringing me back to the day I confessed all in her father’s back yard as heavy snow fell around us. The guilt resurfaces as I picture her, freezing, tears falling as she begged me to acknowledge us, to admit what we both knew was true. And I refused her, breaking apart the whole time, knowing I wouldn’t outlive the truth or that memory.
“I’m sorry,” she says, reading my reaction. “I didn’t mean to play that dirty.”
“I thought about that day the whole time we were apart.” I slowly lift the hem of her knitted cap, pressing a long kiss to her forehead before tugging it back down. “We’ll make this day far more memorable, so you’ll never think of that one again.”
She nods, the clouds in her eyes slowly dispersing as she slinks down to the ground, a curve to her lush lips as she gathers snow in her hand.
“Revenge is a dish best served cold, right?”
“Don’t even think about—”
She slaps the ice to the side of my face before she turns and makes a good showing of trying to get away. This time she makes it five steps.
Chapter Thirty-One
Cecelia
Tobias turns his nose up as I pop open the top of the sweetened condensed milk with the triangle tip of the can opener. He scrutinizes the label as I separate the snow into two bowls and drizzle the milk on top before grabbing two spoons out of the nearby drawer.
“I told you, Trésor, I’m not eating snow.” He wrinkles his nose in clear distaste. “That can’t be... sanitary.”
“The top few inches are clean.”
“No, thank you.” He moves to walk off, and I stop him and swivel us, pinning him between me and the counter.
“You will try this,” I demand, but he’s already shaking his head.
“No, merci, but no.”
“This isn’t optional, King,” I say, lifting a spoonful toward his mouth.
He turns his head. “I’m not eating that.”
I shake my head. “I swear I just had a flash of the future, trying to feed a French brat, a little replica of you.”
His eyes immediately drop to my stomach, and he slowly lifts my sweater, covering the flesh with his palm before lifting a questioning gaze to mine. There’s a deep sorrow etched there, and I put my threatening spoon back in the bowl, concerned by his reaction.
“What?”