“We scratch the itch.” It was a logical proposal. “One time.” What harm could there be in that? Right? Right. Oh God. What was she doing? “Get everything out of our system, and then we’ll be able to make it through until Christmas without all of the unresolved sexual tension in the apartment.”

And the tension on the street, in the stairwell, in the elevator, at the park—basically anywhere she was within ten feet of Nash Beckett.

He threw half of a perfectly good taco into the trash can and closed the distance between them. His jaw was rigid. His entire body visibly tight. Suddenly, he wasn’t a puppy anymore. He was all man. They stood there like that under the streetlight, half a block down from the taco truck, as a black town car idled at the curb beside them.

“Should we kiss on it?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

But he didn’t make a move.

She got it. The next move was hers.

Part of her wondered if it was too late to take it back, but that was only a small bit, a sliver of nerves really. The rest of her was singing “Hallelujah” in all of its lusty glory. She went with that part, rising up on her tip toes, and kissed her for-a-limited-time-only husband like she’d been dreaming about doing since he’d kissed her at their wedding.

His lips were as hot as the snowflakes falling on them were icy cold. Then she slipped her tongue along the seam of his lips, he opened his mouth, and she realized that she hadn’t had any fucking clue what hot was before this. The world turned into August on the equator as they kissed the hungry, needy kind of kisses that stole a person’s breath and filled them with want. His hands were in her hair. Her body was pressed tight against his. Everything felt light and good and perfect.

Except for the fact that he had too many clothes on. Also, that she had too many clothes on. Then there was the fact that they were about a minute away from losing control and getting ticketed for indecent exposure—and possibly getting hypothermia—so she broke contact and stepped back.

“Get in the car, Chelle,” Nash said, his palm on the small of her back as he hustled her over to the waiting sedan. “And don’t even fucking look at me until we get inside your apartment or I can’t promise you that I won’t fuck you in the backseat until you come so hard half of Harbor City hears you.”

Normally, she was more than sick and tired of having to take orders from a guy who seemed to think he knew everything about everything.

This time was different.

This time she didn’t mind at all because it was Nash.