“Not quite Santa’s Executive Helper.”

“But close.”

We’re standing so close that I can smell the lime basil of his body wash—the same scent that lingered on me all night, a quiet reminder of where I’d been and who I’d been with. It was torture.

Like it is right now.

I need to touch him.

“We’re standing underneath the mistletoe,” Asher whispers.

I glance up. “How trite.”

He steps closer and I feel his hand slip around my back as his fingers tangle into my hair, his thumb brushing my bottom lip as his head tilts and his mouth forms a smile. I don’t remember how to breathe.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he says.

“I know you are.”

It starts out soft. He traces our mouths together with careful certainty. It’s slow. He’s teasing me. He knows I’m always in a rush. He’s taking his time, like we’re not on the clock. Making out with my boss was not on the list of responsibilities when I applied for this internship. It’s a welcomed surprise.

He loses his patience shortly after he licks his tongue into my mouth. It’s a whirlwind of missed steps and staggering feet as we bump into walls and desks until we stumble into his office, where he kicks the door shut before lifting me onto his desk.

It’s frenzied.

My hands are in his hair and his lips are on my neck. The fact that I’m sitting on a stapler doesn’t faze me.

“You look hideous in this sweater,” he says into my mouth.

My brain translates that into, “you would look better without it on.”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since you ran out of my apartment.”

“Sorry.” It comes out as a moan when he nips my bottom lip.

“Come over tonight.”

I’m stunned and not because he found the spot on my neck that makes my toes tingle.

“I have a date,” I tease.

“With who?” He doesn’t sound vaguely jealous.

“Betsy,” I say. “I’ve been neglecting her.”

He groans. “She can come too.”

“I don’t think you’re ready to be formally introduced.”

He traps me in a deep, slow, head-spinning kiss. I’m dizzy and breathless. When his hands sneak under my sweater, I’m electric.

“How appropriate is this?” I ask him, my legs wrapped tightly around his waist.

“About as appropriate as you prancing around my apartment in my t-shirt and your underwear,” he laughs. “Speaking of which… you ran out so fast you left them there.”

“Keep them,” I say. “I’m sure they’ll look good on you.”

He smiles into me and I might explode. I want to start every morning this way. Heavy make out sesh and bagels. Who needs fairytales when Asher’s lips and funfetti cream cheese exist?

“Asher—”