The snowballs
flew crazily for several frenzied minutes. She screeched and he hollered, she
laughed and he let out great howls of mirth. She barely missed his head; he
came within inches of hitting her square in the face with a slushy projectile.
Finally, emboldened by laughter and adrenaline, she slipped out from behind her
fort, then darted across the snow to sneak behind his fort and dump her last
three snowballs down the back of his shirt.
He howled in
protest and grabbed her, pinning her arms behind her. “I don’t even have a decent
coat and you do that to me?”
Immobilized
against his strong chest, she could do nothing but look up into his laughing
face. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You’re right,
I’m not.”
“Then neither am
I,” he said, and kissed her.
His lips were icy
cold but the inside of his mouth was warm, his tongue hot as it stroked against
her lips. She opened to him, pressing hard into his heat. Snow and cold
forgotten, she sought only that warmth, that union. His mouth on hers, soft and
mobile, his tongue pressing softly against hers. He pulled her close, his hands
sliding down her back.
She clutched at
his coat, so absorbed it was a few long seconds before she registered the cold,
the wet. As she pulled back, he ducked forward, his mouth still seeking hers
even as she ended the kiss.
“You’re soaked,”
she said. “We should get you inside.”
He dipped his
head one more time toward her, and when he missed, he smiled a little and said,
“Yeah. My shoes are full of snow and my jeans are soaked.”
“You’re going to
catch pneumonia.” Fighting the reluctance of her entire body, she took a step
back. Her hand sought his, unwilling to break the connection totally. “Come on.
I’ll make you some hot cocoa.”
