Mistletoe Mischief: Chapter 3 – Sneaking Off for the Real Thing

She finds him alone after the party—no mistletoe, no cameras, no one watching.

It was supposed to be pretend. But nothing about what just happened feels fake.

Now it’s just the two of them, and the truth hangs in the air heavier than the snow outside.

The rules are broken. The kiss is real. And the moment they touch, there’s no going back.

Chapter Two 

Asher 

Too Many Kisses, Not Enough

I find him leaning against the far wall of the hallway near the coat check. Dim lights overhead. One hand in his pocket, the other raking through his hair like he’s trying to pull the tension out. Probably because of me.

He doesn’t look over when I approach.

Which… fair. I screwed this up.

“So,” I start, tone lighter than I feel, “solid fake dating performance, I’d say.”

His jaw ticks. “You think that’s what that was?”

My stomach drops. “I didn’t mean—”

“It wasn’t just tonight for me, Jenna.”

I blink. “I… I know.”

“No, you don’t.” His voice is quiet, controlled. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t have looked at me like that after. Like I was a mistake you couldn’t wait to forget.”

“That’s not—” I cut myself off and glance down. My fingers twist in the edge of my sleeve. “Tonight didn’t feel fake. It might’ve started as fake. But somewhere along the way, it started to feel real.”

His gaze snaps to mine. “Then why say it was?”

“Because I was scared and I didn’t want to admit that every time I kissed you tonight, it got harder to pretend we’re not already something.”

The hallway’s too quiet now.

He steps forward once. Then again. Closes the space between us like he’s daring me to take it back.

I don’t. Instead, I grab his shirt.

His mouth is on mine in a second. No mistletoe, no audience, no excuse. Just heat.

He backs me into the wall like he can’t help it, like he’s been holding back for too long and finally stopped pretending. His hands land at my waist, then slide under my dress in one slow, deliberate move.

I gasp into his mouth.

He growls, low and hungry, and pulls back just long enough to say, “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this.” My hands are in his hair now, tugging him closer. “I want you.”

That’s all it takes.

His mouth crashes into mine again, and then he’s pulling open the door to the coat closet behind us. We stumble inside like we’ve done this a hundred times. Like our bodies already know the choreography.

He locks the door behind us. No idea why there’s a lock on the inside of this, but I’m happy for it.

The room is warm, dark, and small. Shelves on one side, hangers rustling on the other. We don’t care.

He presses me back against the wall and kisses me like he’s starving, like this is the first and last time all at once. Deep and rough. Like he’s trying to pour every unanswered question into my mouth and get something real back.

My dress is bunched at my hips before I realize his hands have even moved. His thigh slips between mine and I gasp, grinding down without meaning to.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice ragged. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me.” He grabs my hand and presses it to the thick length straining against his zipper. “All you, baby.”

His fingers move with teasing touch to the edge of my panties like he’s deciding whether to ruin me or make me beg.

“Already soaked,” he mutters as his hand makes contact. “You gonna let me fix that?”

My breath stutters. I can’t even pretend to be embarrassed, every nerve ending is begging for him to do something about it.

“Yes. God, yes.”

He drags the fabric aside and with two fingers, slides through the slick heat like he owns me.

I arch, breath stuttering. “Asher—”

“I’ve got you.” His mouth is on my neck now, tongue tracing just below my ear. “I’ve always fucking had you.”

He presses two fingers inside me, slow and deep, curling them just right. My head drops back against the wall with a thud. I can’t think or breathe. Every part of me is wound tight, desperate and aching for more.

I reach for him, fumble with his belt. He catches my hand.

“Turn around.”

I blink. “What?”

“Trust me.”

He spins me gently, hands on my hips, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. Then he pulls my dress higher and undoes himself with a practiced flick. The sound of his zipper in the dark makes something snap inside me.

The soft scrape of metal and the rough slide of fabric send a jolt through me. I try to grip the wall harder, heart pounding like he’s about to ruin me completely.

“I’m not gonna last long,” he says, voice wrecked. “Not with you like this.”

“I don’t care, I just need you inside me.”

He grips my hips and slides into me with one slow, unrelenting push.

I bite down on my lip to keep from moaning too loud.

He groans against the back of my neck, hands tightening. “Fuck, Jenna. You feel like heaven.”

He starts to move, deep, controlled, and filthy. Each thrust drives me forward against the wall, and I can’t tell where he ends and I begin. Each thrust sends heat racing up my spine. I bite down on a moan, but my body’s already unraveling, greedy for more.

His mouth is at my ear, voice ragged. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

I gasp, every nerve ending on fire.

His grip tightens. “And I’m about to show you exactly how far gone I am.”

He pounds into me, one hand sliding under my dress to find my clit while the other wraps around my waist, anchoring us both. I’m shaking now, fingers scrabbling against the wall for something solid.

He’s everything. Heat and muscle and want.

“You’re mine tonight,” he growls. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I gasp. “I’m—fuck—yours.”

“It hits me all at once. My body tightens, pleasure crashing through me like a strike to the chest—hot, sudden, impossible to breathe through.

He follows with a groan, hips slamming into me one last time before he pulses inside me, breath hot against my neck.

We stay like that, bodies tangled, breathless and wrecked. His hand slides down my back, soothing and reverent, like he can’t believe I’m real. I’m not sure I can either.

Eventually, he eases out of me and turns me to face him. Brushes a strand of hair out of my face with a gentleness that shouldn’t be allowed after what we just did.

His forehead rests against mine.

Neither of us speaks.

Until I whisper, breath still uneven, “So… still just for tonight?”

He smiles, soft and real. “Not even close.”

The End. Come back next week for another story.

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: December 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix