Panties or no panties.

It’s a tough decision. We’ve got three days until Christmas, and let’s just say that Boston has decided to spread its holiday cheer with snow, icy temperatures, and no hope in sight for anything above eighteen degrees.

I give Marshall’s house a quick look from where I’ve parked my car in his driveway. He’s not standing by the windows or anything like that, but I know, without a doubt, which option he’d want me to go with.

No panties it is.

Pulling up my skirt, I thank God that Marshall lives in a quiet neighborhood without a lot of drive-by noise. Or neighbors, for that matter. All the houses are separated by a good acre, and so I go about my panty-dropping business without the fear that someone might stroll up to the window and see me flashing my naked goods to the world.

I slip my underwear over my heels and then stuff the fabric in my purse.

Okay, showtime.

All right, almost showtime.

Marshall’s driveway is a sheet of black ice—not appropriate for stilettos.

Like a baby deer learning to walk, I pick my way up the sloping path, cursing my shoes for being pretty but so utterly worthless.

“Having trouble down there?”

I glance up to see Marshall approaching. Dressed in faded jeans, a Blades hoodie, and a backward ball cap, he’s so damn good-looking it almost hurts. I point to my shoes, feeling a little pathetic when I call back, “Kate Spade clearly doesn’t know what it’s like to hike up a driveway in these babies. They aren’t ice-proof.”

His mouth quirks in a crooked grin. “Aren’t you glad you’ve got your own hockey player, then?”

Big hands land on my butt the moment he steps near, and the next thing I know, I’m being boosted into the air and then clutched tight to his chest.

“Oh!”

Cold air hits my bare girl parts, and this time my shout is a little more of a shrill shriek.

Oh My God.

So, so cold. Why did I agree to no panties? Because it is cold, really, really cold, and I can’t help but wonder if things can, you know, freeze down there? Like how guys always talk about their nuts hibernating in their stomachs and their dicks shriveling? Does the equivalent happen to women?

Frozen vagina.

I can’t say that I recommend it.

“You okay?” Marshall peers down at me like he’s uncertain if I’m going to leap from his arms and throw myself back down his driveway. “You seem a little . . .” He presses his lips to my forehead like he’s checking my temperature.

If I weren’t so worried about my vagina freezing, I’d stop to think about how sweet the gesture is.

He shifts my weight as we near the door, and my skirt rides up a little higher.

Naturally, he gets a handful of my butt and that’s when it hits him.

“Gwen?”

“Yes, Marshall?” I bite down on my teeth to keep them from chattering.

I watch his Adam’s apple slide down the length of his throat. “Are you wearing underwear right now?”

“Nope.”

“Gotcha.”

Bouncing me higher against his chest, he bolts for his front door, his feet thudding against the frozen concrete.

“Oh my God, we’re going to fall!” I cry out, clutching his sweatshirt in a vicelike grip. “Slow down!”

“Not a chance in hell,” he growls. “You’re not wearing—”

His weight teeters, which means that my weight teeters, and I have a vision of his knees buckling and us rolling back down the driveway in some R-rated version of Jack and Jill climbing the hill.

“Marshall,” I warn.

“Gwen,” he returns, stepping onto his front stoop and pushing open the door. He doesn’t set me down until he’s locked everything up.

Then he carefully takes my purse and sets it to the side. With two big palms to my shoulders, he backs me up against the door. “Time to warm you up, honey.”

His fingers push up my skirt as he drops to his knees. With a gentle tug, he encourages me to lift my leg over his shoulder. I do, although I can’t help but announce, “My deal.”

“What deal?” He looks up at me through long, dark lashes. He leans forward, and then he covers my clit with his mouth.

Wowza.

It’s as good this time as it was in his movie theater. I thread my fingers through his hair, unable to stop from releasing a moan when he swirls his tongue in tight little circles that has me seeing stars.

I shed my coat, throwing it to the floor beside him. “My deal,” I repeat, trying for the life of me to remember what it is. With his mouth working me to the point of no return, I don’t even remember my own name. “It was . . . oh, yes, yes right there.” His thumb dips into my wet heat, then takes the place of his mouth when he sits back to watch me.

“Your deal?” he prompts again.

Dammit, I’d remember it if he wasn’t doing all that warming-up business.

Not that I’m really complaining because Marshall has magical hands and a mouth that’s equally as magical.

“Fantasy kisses,” I finally stutter out when he thrusts two fingers inside me, just the way I’d once shown him I like it. “You had your fantasy first kiss . . . I want . . . oh my God, Marshall, yes.”

He pushes me over the edge, chuckling against me when I tug on his hair and shout his name at the top of my lungs.

I just . . . did we really . . .

I shake my head, trying to clear it. “I think I have a fever.”

With a sexy laugh, Marshall gives me one last swipe of his tongue before straightening to his full height. “You don’t have a fever, Gwen.”

“I’m seeing stars.”

He winks at me playfully. “I’ll take responsibility for that one.”

“My legs are like Jell-O.”

“Be glad we don’t have any blueberry pie around.”

We burst into laughter, and I can’t stop myself from stroking his face. He’s got a lingering bruise and a cut lip along the right side of his face. Although it’s faded somewhat, I can’t imagine it felt good when he was on the receiving end. “Rough practice?” I ask.

“What?”

“Your bruise. You guys haven’t had a game since Toronto so I was thinking . . .”

“Oh.” He grabs my hand and presses a kiss to the center of my palm. “Yeah. Bordeaux got me. High stick.”

I frown. “Must have been a very high stick.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Marshall’s expression goes blank. “That’s Bordeaux for you. Can’t trust those Canadians.”

“Beaumont is Canadian and he’s your best friend.”

Marshall touches his forehead to mine. “Like I said, can’t trust those Canadians. Now, come with me. I have something for you.”

As I follow Marshall, my hand clasped in his, I can’t shake off the worry that he’s not telling me something. I might be riding on the aftereffects of an orgasm, but still . . .

He twists around and gives me a bright smile. “I missed you.”

Or maybe I’m just crazy. That smile doesn’t kick off any alarm bells. I smile back. “I missed you, too.”