A Husband In Her Stocking. Christine Pacheco
looked in her eyes and swore he would love and cherish her, forever.
And that part was her secret.
Years later, Meghan still had trouble believing anyone could be as coldly merciless as Jack had been on their first holiday together.
Feeling a tear form, she rapidly blinked, refusing to give in again.
“You don’t believe me.”
Meghan might be a fool once, maybe even twice, but never three times. She met Kyle’s eyes, as bleak as his words. “No. I don’t. Christmas isn’t for everyone. It isn’t for me.”
In a fluid motion that belied his size, he stood, the chair toppling with a resounding crash. He demolished the distance between them, placing his hands on her shoulders and pulling her up to face him.
She tried to swallow, but there wasn’t enough moisture to make it possible. His masculine scent surrounded her, making her thinking clash simultaneously into thoughts of safety and danger. She feared for her own sanity and her ability to keep a foothold on the reality life had dealt her.
His look was purposeful.
Meghan trembled with anticipation.
When he drew her closer with firm pressure, she didn’t resist. Just for now she wanted to succumb to the thundering impulses inside.
She felt his hands in her hair, tangling in the sleep-tousled strands. Gently, he moved a hand down, skimming her neck, her spine, spreading across her upper back and holding her tight.
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