Page 11 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
What happens in Vegas, right?
I take her hand again, threading my fingers through hers. No words. Just us again.
And we start walking.
I’ve always been bold when it comes to women. I don’t play childish games. No fishing with imaginary bait, waiting to see if they’ll bite. I ask. Once. And if I’m given consent, granted access, then I take it the rest of the way. No hesitation. No apologies.
And tonight?
All I want...is toknowEslin.
Not her body. Not first.
Just her. The woman behind those eyes, behind that laugh. The woman who’s already under my skin and doesn’t even know it yet.
The Strip blazes behind us—neon signs pulsing, music thumping, the chaotic heartbeat of a city that never sleeps. But the farther we walk, the thinner the crowds become. The lights grow softer, more scattered.
The night shifts. The city that never tires...starts to feel like it’s winding down. Like it’s giving us this space, this moment, just for us. And walking deeper into the quiet, it’s as if the whole city knows—some things deserve to be heard in the dark.
“I grew up in foster care. New York City,” Eslin begins, her voice steady, but there’s something behind it. I squeeze her hand.
“Don’t do that, Grant.”
Her words make me jump. “What?”
“Don’t pity me. Don’t start looking at me like I’m—”
I cut her off by leaning down and brushing a kiss against her cheek. Soft. Intentional.
“You’re fierce. A force. I wouldn’t dare see you as anything less.”
She smiles, slow and a little breathless, her gaze locking on mine. I can see it—the way her breath is caught somewhere between her chest and her libido.
And even though it’s clear I’ve knocked her off her game a bit, her hand stays in mine as we keep walking.
“I’m suddenly unsure of what I was—”
“You were telling me about the upbringing that made you a woman I’m ready to change my entire life for after only a few minutes in her space,” I confirm. Because I, one hundred percent, mean it.
She lets out a soft, musical laugh, shaking her head. “Okay. Charmer. Keep it up and whatever happens here will follow us home...”
“Which is where?” I press, voice low, teasing.
She smirks. “Not yet. I want to stretch this out a bit. I don’t know if I trust you to know where I live.”
I chuckle. “You were about to share some pretty heavy stuff, miss. I think we need to pause and reevaluate your definition of trust.”
“That’s different,” she says, with a playful protest.
“How so?”
She lifts a shoulder, the motion graceful and unhurried. “We made a pact. It’s sort of an adventure for us.”
My brow instantly shoots up. “A pact, huh?” I echo, intrigued.
“Yes. Try to keep up,” she teases, and Christ—I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from dragging her into the nearest alley and tasting every inch of that fire she’s been tempting me with all night.
I bet she tastes like black berries and molasses.
