“Shh.” She holds a finger to her lips and begins a slow, sultry strut toward me. Despite my misgivings, my cock starts to stir. By the time she reaches me, I’m hard as a fucking rock.
She kneels between my legs and puts her hand to her mouth in faux surprise.
“Santa left me a present under the tree.” She adopts a breathy voice that’s so ridiculous, I don’t know whether to laugh or to beg. “I’d better unwrap it and see what it is.”
Then she slips the ice cube into her mouth and reaches for the waistband of my boxers.
Beg. I’m definitely going to beg.
“Oh, fuck. Vixen,please—”
The sound of my apartment door opening is so unexpected, it takes me a moment to identify it.
“Wait,” I hiss, trying to peer around Valencia. She notices my distress and climbs off me. A horrified squeak emerges from her throat, and I probably make a similar sound, because there, at the other end of the room, stands Andrea Noble.
Mymother.
It’s ten in the morning, but she’s runway ready in a long white coat and black stilettos. I’ve always thought she looked like a taller Marion Cotillard with a short, wavy bob. Sharp green eyes, the same ones she passed down to me, sweep over us with an all-knowing gaze.
Me, tied to the fucking Christmas tree. And Valencia in her underwear and boots.
Mom sends us an arch look. “Is this why you couldn’t come to Paris, Gideon? I didn’t realize you were so ... tied up.”
Valencia opens her mouth and the ice cube falls out. It lands on my bare stomach, and I yelp at the sudden cold.
Someone else barges through the open door.
“Feliz Natal!”the stranger calls out, then he stops short, taking in the scene. His handsome—and oddly familiar—face breaks into a huge grin, and he turns to my mom. “You were right,minha vida. I think your son isverysurprised.”
Surprised doesn’t even begin to cover it.
“Mom!” I shout, finally finding my voice. It cracks like I’m twelve years old. “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t let me interrupt.” She starts to stroll toward the kitchen, then stops and narrows her eyes.
Next to me, Valencia sucks in a breath. I know why—it looks like my mother is glaring at her, but really, the woman just hates wearing her glasses.
“Torres?” my mother asks, a note of disbelief in her tone. “Valencia Torres? Is that you?”
“Hi, Mrs. Noble,” Valencia says weakly, waving a hand. “Um ... Merry Christmas.”
My mother’s face breaks into a brilliant smile. “Please, my dear. Call me Andrea. Now, shall I let you two finish up?”
Valencia covers her face, and I yell, “You were supposed to be in Paris!”
Five minutes later, Valencia and I are wearing our matching pajamas and standing awkwardly in the kitchen with my mother and her guest.
Mom finally deigns to introduce him.
“This is Caio Pereira. We met during Paris Fashion Week. Caio’s a model and photographer from Brazil.”
That explains why he looks familiar. His tan face is striking, with narrow brown eyes, straight slashing brows, and high cheekbones. His loose brown curls are in desperate need of a cut.
He’s alsomuchyounger than my mom. But it’s been almost ten months since my father passed, and I can’t imagine it was easy being Malcolm Noble’s wife. She deserves to be happy.
However, she’s also a wealthy widow, and I’ll be looking this guy up the first chance I get.
Mom and Caio arrived with a ton of food, and she’s busy selecting dishes from the cabinets. Caio makes espresso for all of us.
