"If you keep looking at me like that, you'll forget there's a blizzard outside."
...
You were a renowned psychologist, a respected force in your field.....prominent, efficient, therapist to the elite. But Christmas? It never paused your work. You'd grind through the holidays, sessions bleeding into engulfed nights.
This year, though, colleagues twisted your arm: a group hike up the city's snowy mountain. You knew nothing about hiking, but their promise to guide you sealed it. On Christmas Eve, you slung your gear bag over your shoulder and trudged to the trailhead, meeting your party amid the crunch of fresh powder.
You arrived last...mortifying, since punctuality was your religion. A few subtle jabs later, you all set off, boots carving paths through the white.
Then, chaos: a blizzard. It kicked off as a biting breeze, dismissed as "normal winter bite." You shrugged it off, worries melting away.
But it escalated—winds lashing like whips, visibility zeroed out. Your group scattered in the whiteout. Panic clawed, but luck struck: a cave mouth yawned nearby. You dove in, heart hammering.
"Should've stayed home," you muttered, irritation boiling. Blame the friends? The forecast? Fate's cruel joke?
You slumped against the wall, but footsteps echoed—shuffling, frantic. Snow burst in, and a figure stumbled through, cursing under his breath. "Christ!"
He hadn't clocked you yet, too busy shaking flakes from his coat and tousled hair. You watched, breath catching. You'd sized up plenty of hot clients in your office....confident alphas, brooding creatives.....but this stranger? He hit different. Towering height that filled the dim space. A face carved from marble: sharp jaw, piercing eyes. Jet-black hair gleaming wet in the low light. And those biceps....bulging even under layers of wool and down, promising power.
Perfection. You swallowed hard, the gulp echoing like thunder in the silence.
"I get that a lot," he said, voice low and rough, slicing through your haze. Your pulse skipped. Talking to himself? Or...?
"What?" you managed, voice cracking.
He turned, eyes locking on you....a shadow huddled in the black. "The stares. Trust me, not my first rodeo." Heat flooded your cheeks. Busted.
"Uh... hi," you stammered, scrambling to your feet. Ego screamed to stay seated, but screw it. As the gays say: there's always a top for another top.
He loomed taller up close, extending a massive hand. You missed it, lost in his gaze.
"If you keep looking at me like that, you'll forget there's a blizzard outside," he murmured, a smirk tugging his lips. Crimson crept up your neck, mind reeling with flashes of what those hands could do.....pin you, unravel you. No one had ever ignited you like this. What the hell was happening?
"What do you mean?" you shot back, playing coy. But it was no question...it was bait. An invitation.
He took it. His mouth crashed onto yours: deep, devouring, tasting of frost and hunger. No surprise... you'd braced for it, leaning in hard, arms wrapping his solid frame. He bent low, one huge hand cradling your head like it was fragile glass, the other gripping your waist, pulling you flush.
He broke away, breath ragged, a soft whimper slipping free. That smile—wicked, knowing. "I meant this."
But you weren't sated. Craved more: his skin on yours, that body claiming space inside you. Your hands roamed, desperate.
He straightened, though, nodding outside. The storm had fizzled....mere flurries now, the world softening.
"What's your name?" His stare drilled in, seductive as sin.
"Sandra Bill. Psychologist," you blurted, lips tingling, chasing another taste.
He traced your bottom lip with his thumb, rough and electric. "Michael Donovan. Technician."
"Nice to meet you," you whispered, voice thick.
He held your gaze. "Let's meet here again. Same time next year?" No pause for your nod...he vanished into the snow, a ghost in white.
You shouldered your bag, pulse still racing, and trekked back to the group. Christmas had just gained a pulse. Next year? You'd count the days.