Booked for Christmas

saying yes to the universe, of proving that you’re ready for and worthy of true love. Come on. Nothing changes if nothing changes.”
Sophie found herself standing up, careful not to put too much weight on her bad ankle. And then, very slowly, she unbuttoned her shirt and let it fall to the floor. Her bra was next, and then her pants and her underwear. When she was completely naked, she took her voluminous dark hair out of its ponytail and shook it out around her shoulders. Then, without thinking about it too much, she grabbed a pink robe from her closet and wrapped it around herself, feeling the silken fabric grazing her curves.
Limping to the bedroom door, she opened it and walked out into the hallway.
Wolfe was sitting fully dressed on the floor in front of the small brick fireplace. His arms loosely hugged his knees as he gazed into the flickering flames. From this angle, Sophie could mostly only see his back, muscular and strong. The tips of his dark hair glowed orange in the light. The lights—except for the twinkling ones on Bert the tree—were all out. It was perfectly romantic.
It was perfectly petrifying.
Before she could lose her nerve, Sophie cleared her throat. Wolfe turned, his eyes widening in surprise and then darkening with desire at seeing her standing in the doorway. Sophie knew, with the firelight on her, that he could probably see right through her skimpy robe. The idea made her pulse pound faster.
He didn’t say anything, though he clenched his fists and swallowed, as if he was holding back strong emotion—maybe the caveman impulse to grab her and ravish her where she stood. He held steady, though, like a horse whisperer, waiting for the spooked horse to make the first move.
“I have a scrapbook of all the shit you’ve said about my writing,” Sophie said, her hands loose at her sides. The heat from the fire spread across her cheeks, warmed her wavy hair. “I’ve made you a villain in my book and killed you off.”
Wolfe’s eyes held hers, but he didn’t say anything. If the scrapbook thing freaked him out, he was hiding it pretty well.
“We’re a bad idea,” Sophie continued. “Incompatible on every level. A writer and a book critic? It’s like an owl and a mouse trying to go out.”
Wolfe’s voice was controlled and deep. His gaze pinned her, unrelenting. “I wouldn’t say that. Our differences just mean we fit together in interesting ways.”
Sophie swallowed, her heart racing at the innuendo in his words. Wolfe sat there, cool and confident and seemingly relaxed, though a muscle in his jaw jumped, betraying him. The thought of him nervous—or at least unsettled—made her feel better. They were in this together. If this was a colossal mistake, she wasn’t alone in making it.
Sophie’s hands, almost of their own accord, reached for the knot in her robe and untied it. She let the robe slip off her shoulders and fall to the floor and stood naked in front of him, the fire’s heat licking at her golden-brown skin.
Wolfe’s eyes widened, his pupils dilating. He swallowed visibly again, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. He was riveted; an astronomer gazing at a supernova in the night sky. “Your skin is poetry, Sophie,” he murmured, his voice thick and deep. But still, he didn’t move. He didn’t rush to her, and Sophie was glad. She needed to be in control in this moment.
Silently, she limped closer and knelt before him on the rug in front of the fire. Even kneeling while he sat, she was smaller than him. “Kiss me, Wolfe,” she whispered.
He didn’t hesitate. His breathing ragged, he reached for her face, big hands cradling her jaw as his mouth closed over hers. Sophie’s hands fumbled with the hem of his sweater, drawing it up and over his head. They were chest to chest now, hot, bare skin against hot, bare skin, his heart thudding so hard and so furiously it felt like it might be in her chest. Sophie ran her hands up his smooth, muscled back as his mouth drifted to her neck, her collarbone, his tongue tracing small circles against her, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin in the hollow of her throat.
Standing and pulling him up with her, Sophie unbuttoned Wolfe’s jeans and helped him out of them. His boxers were next. For a moment, she stood staring at the full length of him—the perfection of him. She still couldn’t get over the fact that under all that bookish sarcasm and literary criticism lay this … this Adonis.
“Holy shit,” she whispered, staring at him.
Wolfe frowned a little. “What?”
Smiling, Sophie shook her head. “Maybe I’ll write you as the sexy hero next time, instead of the villain.”
Wolfe grinned and stepped closer, reaching for her. “That’s right. This is me helping you write future books. You should thank me.”
Sophie raised an eyebrow and tipped her head back to look at him. “I’ll thank you to never refer to me as a ‘Hart attack’ ever again.”
Wolfe laughed softly. “Point taken. That was discourteous of me, Ms. Hart.” He bent toward her mouth, his lips slightly parted, his hands encircling her waist. “Are you sure this is what you want, Sophie?”
In answer, Sophie tugged him back down to the floor again. “I’m sure, Mr. Wolfe,” she said, climbing carefully on top of him. “The more relevant question is, are you ready?”
Looking up at her, Wolfe half smiled, his hazel eyes dark and hooded. “More than.”
He was right; he was more than ready. As Sophie slid herself onto his hard length, both of them gasping as he filled her, Wolfe’s fingers tweaked her nipples. Sophie moaned and pressed harder into him, making his breath catch in his throat. Wolfe’s big, hot hands slid down the silken skin of her stomach, his thumb reaching her most sensitive spot.
Sophie gasped as he began to rub her, keeping rhythm with her movement on top of him. She threw her head