Micah didn’t answer her right away.

Mostly because he was busy trying not to choke on his cocoa.

That smile she gave him—the one with the raised brows and the fake-innocent sparkle in her eyes—ought to come with a warning label. The fact that it came right after the words “any more baby names?” just about short-circuited his whole brain.

He looked over at her, mug still halfway to his lips, and let out a slow, low whistle.

“Well now,” he drawled, letting the words settle slow like molasses, “I was not prepared for baby name warfare in the cocoa corner of the church.”

He took a sip, eyes still on her, head tilted like he was trying to figure out what exactly she was playin’ at—and loving every second of it.

“You throwin’ that at me after marshmallows and manger cleanup?” he teased, bumping his shoulder into hers gently. “You’re tryin’ to kill me, woman.”

But Lord help him, she looked so good standing there—all mussed hair and cocoa-warmed cheeks, glitter on her wrists like she’d been touched by some kinda holy mischief. And then that voice—light and teasing, but holding something real underneath, something she wasn’t hiding.

He turned toward her fully, leaning a little closer now, letting the warmth in his chest spill out slow and deliberate.

“Alright,” he said, tapping his mug against hers again. “You wanna know the truth?”

His voice dropped, lower now. Smooth.
That grin curved up slow, just one side of his mouth, all charm and challenge.

“I got a note on my phone,” he said, “hidden between my grocery list and the sermon quotes I pretend are for you.”

He leaned in slightly, just enough to brush his mouth near her temple—close enough to make sure she felt it in her spine.

“It’s called ‘Operation Baby D Names.’”

He pulled back just enough to catch her face and damn near melted at the look she gave him.

“Maisie, Millie… and who knows, maybe a third with dimples and your bossy little brow.”

He lifted his mug again, eyes locked on hers, that grin deepening.

“But if we’re talkin’ future recruits,” he added, voice dipping into something rougher now, something just this side of dangerous, “you might wanna quit touchin’ my sleeve like that.”

He glanced down at her fingers still brushing his arm, his brow lifting with mock scolding.

“Unless you’re tryna skip the cocoa and go straight to the part where we practice.”

The look he gave her wasn’t church-appropriate.
Not even fellowship-hall appropriate.
But it was honest.

And when he stepped in just enough for their toes to touch, he tilted his head and murmured, low and fond:

“I meant what I said, you know. 'Bout lovin’ the process.”

His fingers brushed lightly down her wrist, over the bracelet he’d given her last Christmas.

“Every single part of it,” he said. “The mess, the magic, the makin’—all of it.”

Then, because he knew how to toe the line just right, he tipped his mug toward her with a wink.

“But for now,” he added, feigning restraint, “I reckon I better behave, or we’ll be raisin’ more than nativity scenes before midnight.”

His smile?
All spark and slow burn.

His eyes?
Already imagining a dozen little versions of her running wild through these pews.

His voice, when it softened again?

“Still want that list, sweetheart? Or you wanna help me make it?”

Mila didn’t even pretend to hide her reaction—her breath caught, her eyebrows lifted, and her lips parted in a stunned, slow-building smile that started small and then bloomed into something soft, warm, and deeply feminine.

And then she laughed.

Not loud. Not teasing. Just this quiet, breathy little sound that slipped out of her chest like he’d just knocked the wind out of her in the best way.

She angled her body toward him, shoulder brushing his, eyes flicking down to the mug he was pretending to be so serious about and then back up to his face—specifically, that grin that always gave him away.

“Oh my Lord,” she murmured, hand coming up to press lightly against his chest. “A note? On your phone? Hidden in the trenches between produce lists and half-finished sermon quotes?”

Her laughter softened into something else—something that warmed her cheeks and loosened her voice.

“Operation Baby D Names?” she repeated, savoring each word like it was chocolate on her tongue. “Micah, you… you are going to be the death of me.”

She shook her head, biting back a smile that kept threatening to take over her whole face. She slid her hand down his chest, fingers brushing over the fabric of his flannel in a lazy, affectionate drag.

“And you say I’m the one startin’ warfare,” she teased softly. “Meanwhile you’re out here building secret lists and thinkin’ about dimples that don’t even exist yet.”

Her eyes drifted down briefly—toward their feet nearly touching, toward his knees angled just slightly toward hers—before lifting again, slower this time.

“You realize,” she whispered, “this is the part where I’m supposed to blush and get flustered and scold you, right?”

She rose on her toes just a little—not enough to kiss him yet, but enough to let her breath brush his jaw.

“But then you go and say things like ‘lovin’ the process’ and suddenly I can’t remember a single reason to behave.”

Her hand slid to the inside of his elbow, thumb brushing small circles he’d definitely feel.

“So don’t tempt me, baby,” she breathed, her voice dipping into something warm and intimate. “Because I remember exactly how you practice.”

Her lashes lowered for a beat before she lifted her gaze fully to his.

“And I’m not opposed to raisin’ anything before midnight,” she added softly, wickedly, “but we are still in a church building.”

She leaned in—slow, slow, slow—until her lips hovered an inch from his.

“And I’d like to make it out the door without needing absolution.”

She nudged his nose with hers, barely-there and impossibly tender.

“As for your list?” she murmured, voice softening into something that made the space between them feel holy. “Yeah, Micah… I want it.”

Her lips brushed his—feather-light, a promise more than a kiss.

“And I want to help you make it.”

Then she kissed him fully—soft and certain, cocoa-sweet and glitter-dusted—like she knew exactly what those words did to him.

Micah swore under his breath. Real low.

Not out of frustration—but reverence. Reverence for the way her lips just barely brushed his. Reverence for the way her voice slipped through the air like a hymn rewritten just for him. Reverence for the fact that she somehow managed to sound like both a gospel and a temptation in the same breath.

And maybe a little reverence for the iron-clad willpower it took not to back her against the nearest fellowship hall wall and prove just how much he remembered the process, too.

His hands stayed exactly where they were—one cupped around his mug, the other clenched at his side like he didn’t trust himself if it got anywhere near her waist.

“Darlin’,” he murmured, slow as syrup, “I ain’t never wanted to disrespect a building less in my life.”

He let out a breath, stepped back half an inch—not much, just enough to keep from sinning where the Lord could hear it loud and clear.

“But I’m gonna tell you right now,” he continued, voice rough with restraint, “the only thing keepin’ me from gettin’ you in my truck and drivin’ us home this second is the fact that you look too pretty in this light and I’m scared God might smite me for interruptin’ it.”

He took a long sip of his cocoa like it might cool him down—spoiler: it didn’t.

Then he looked at her again, and this time his gaze dropped to her mouth, slow and deliberate.

“You say you want to help me make that list?” he asked, voice low and heavy, honey-warm and velvet-dark. “Sugar, I want your help so bad it’s practically a prayer.”

His eyes lingered a moment longer, then he gave a crooked smile that didn’t do a damn thing to soften the heat in his tone.

“But I’m also a man of some restraint,” he added, even if it was barely holding on by a thread, “and you did say somethin’ about wantin’ to make it out the door without askin’ forgiveness.”

He stepped around her slow, deliberate, brushing his hand lightly across the small of her back as he passed.

“So let’s finish our cocoa,” he murmured near her ear, “and then let’s get ourselves outta here before one of us forgets where we are.”

He looked back at her with a grin that promised everything waiting for her just on the other side of tonight.

“Stable’s fixed. Sermon’s prepped. Cocoa’s drinkable.”
He tipped his mug toward her.

“Only thing left now is gettin’ you home.”

And Lord, he’d never wanted to do anything more holy than that.

Mila didn’t move for a beat.

Couldn’t.

Because that voice—low and warm and dipped in that dangerous kind of honesty—sent a shiver right down her spine and pooled heat low in her stomach. Because the way he stepped past her, slow and intentional, brushing his hand across her lower back like it was nothing… when it absolutely was something… nearly took her knees out.

She swallowed, steadying herself, and then turned toward him with a look that was half warning, half invitation.

“Micah Daniels,” she said quietly, her voice a little too soft to be innocent, “you cannot say things like that and expect me to keep walkin’ in a straight line.”

She took a slow breath, letting it cool the parts of her he was very much heating up.

“And don’t you dare act like you’re the only one fightin’ off holy temptation right now,” she added, stepping closer—not enough to crowd him, just enough to let her fingers graze the edge of his sleeve. “You whisper in my ear like that again, and we’re both gonna need to tithe double on Sunday.”

He chuckled under his breath, and the sound alone made her grip the rim of her mug a little tighter.

She lifted it, took a sip, then sighed—one of those little breaths that said I’m barely holding it together right now, and it’s your fault.

“You know…” she said slowly, eyes drifting to his mouth for half a heartbeat before back to his eyes, “you talk about restraint like you’re some kinda saint.”

She stepped in front of him again, tilting her head just slightly, her hair brushing her cheek in a soft wave.

“But we both know you’re only half a step from forgettin’ what building you’re in.”

Her fingers hooked lightly into the hem of his flannel, tugging once, gentle but unmistakably wanting.

“And don’t act shocked. I’m right there with you.”

She let out a soft, breathy laugh and shook her head.

“Finish cocoa,” she echoed, voice dipping low, teasing with a sweetness that made even the air feel warmer. “Sure. We can do that. Bein’ responsible. Respectful. Upright citizens of Evergreen Community Church.”

She bumped her shoulder into his lightly, like she needed the grounding.

“But just so we’re clear…”

She reached up, tracing one finger slowly along the line of his jaw, soft and deliberate.

“…the second that door closes behind us?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper—warm, sinful, intimate.

“All that restraint you’re braggin’ about?”
Her lips brushed the corner of his mouth—barely a touch, more a promise than a kiss.

“I don’t want you to keep a single bit of it.”

Then she stepped back, smoothing her sweater like she didn’t just set his soul on fire, and lifted her cocoa again with a sweet little smile.

“Drink up, baby,” she said softly. “We’ve got a list to make.”

And the look she gave him said she wasn’t talking about baby names anymore.

He felt it all at once—that spark she lit every time she got close enough to tease and just far enough to leave him aching. And Lord help him, the woman knew exactly what she was doing.

That whisper? That brush of her lips on the corner of his mouth? That sweet little smile paired with a threat dressed up like a blessing?

Micah Daniels was a goner.

He watched her sip her cocoa again like she hadn’t just delivered a line that made his knees feel a little untrustworthy. And the worst part? She did it with that halo-soft look on her face like butter wouldn’t melt on her tongue.

He let out a low chuckle—one of those deep, slow ones that started in his chest and rolled right into a crooked grin.

“You tryin’ to get me smote?” he murmured, voice rich with amused disbelief. “Because that’s exactly how a man gets struck down in the middle of a fellowship hall, Mila.”

He set his mug down, flexed his hand once like it could shake off the fire she’d just poured into his blood, then stepped toward her slow—real slow—until the only thing between them was air he was about to make holy.

“Now I don’t mean to sound like a man ridin’ the line between reverent and reckless,” he said, dipping his head just enough to let his breath skim the shell of her ear, “but the second that door closes behind us, sugar…”

He let the moment hang there, let it hum.

“…you better believe I’m not keepin’ a damn ounce of restraint.”

He leaned back just far enough to look her in the eye—just far enough to make her feel the promise behind every word.

“That list’s gettin’ made, alright,” he added, voice like smoke over silk. “But I ain’t talkin’ about nothin’ that starts with baby names.”

He reached down then—took her cocoa gently from her hands and set it on the counter beside his like it was breakable, like she was. And then he stepped back again, slow and deliberate, like he didn’t want to but had to.

“Which is why,” he said, a touch of drama in his tone now as he clapped his hands together once and gestured toward the door, “we are gonna walk outta here. Upright. Decent. God-fearin’.”

He cast her a wink—arrogant and sweet and entirely hers.

“And we are not gonna stop to bless any more corners of this church with our sins, no matter how fine you look in this sweater.”

He turned toward the exit, motioning for her to follow.

“But just so we’re clear, Mrs. Daniels?”

His hand hovered over the door handle, and he glanced back at her with a grin that could’ve made the saints blush.

“You start makin’ eyes at me in that truck?”

He opened the door with a flourish, let the winter air rush in, and tipped his head toward the night like a dare.

“Don’t expect me to wait ‘til we get home.”

And Lord willing, she wouldn’t.

Mila didn’t even pretend she wasn’t affected.

Her breath hitched—just barely—but enough for her to feel it in her ribs, that sharp flutter that only ever came from him. From that voice. From that look. From the way he could stand across a room and still put heat in her bloodstream like his hands were already on her.

She watched him talk, watched him move, watched him set both their cocoas down like he was putting away the last barrier between them and something inevitable—and her whole body went warm.

Slow.

Heavy with want.

Dangerous with it.

When he opened that door and that winter air rushed in around him—cold outside, heat rolling off him like a promise—it did something to her. Something electric. Something reckless.

And she didn’t hide it.

She stepped toward him, soft but certain, letting every inch of her body language say I heard you. I felt you. And I’m not done.

“You talk a big game, Pastor’s husband,” she murmured, coming close enough that her sweater brushed his flannel, close enough for her breath to warm the space right between their mouths. “Bigger than I’ve heard from you in a minute.”

Her fingers found his jacket collar, tugging him just an inch down—not enough to kiss him, just enough to make it very, very clear she was choosing not to.

“For a man so focused on bein’ ‘upright and God-fearin’…”
Her eyes darkened, voice slipping quiet and velvet-sweet.
“…you sure do talk like someone ready to break commandments with me in the church parking lot.”

His jaw flexed. Good.

She rose onto her toes, bringing her lips just beneath his, a hair’s breadth from contact, letting the almost be the weapon.

“And just so you’re clear,” she whispered, barely brushing her mouth against his lower lip in the softest, cruelest tease, “you don’t get to warn me about makin’ eyes at you in the truck.”

Her fingers dragged slowly down the front of his jacket, stopping right above his belt buckle.

“Because I’ve already been makin’ ’em.”

Her smile curved—slow, sinful, and entirely private.

“And you’re gonna have one hell of a time drivin’ straight if you keep talkin’ like that.”

She finally slipped past him—her shoulder grazing his chest as she stepped out into the cold night—but she paused in the doorway, turning back just enough to let her gaze sweep over him from boots to eyes.

“Oh,” she added sweetly, almost offhand, like it wasn’t a direct shot to his self-control,

“…and Micah?”

She leaned in, brushing a single, feather-light kiss to the corner of his mouth—the exact spot she’d branded earlier.

“That wasn’t me makin’ eyes.”

She held his gaze, soft and devastating.

“That was me bein’ polite.”

Then she stepped fully outside, letting the winter air swallow her warmth, her voice floating back to him like a dare wrapped in silk.

“Now come on, baby.”
Heat flickered in her eyes.
“Let’s see if you can hold onto that restraint ‘til the truck.”

Micah swore under his breath, low and reverent, like a man just watched the gates of heaven open and knew damn well he wasn’t getting in if she kept looking at him like that.

That was the thing about Mila—she didn’t have to touch him to ruin him. One look. One breathy tease. One brush of her lips that almost counted as a kiss and didn’t.

And she knew it.

Oh, she knew exactly what she was doing.

That kiss to the corner of his mouth? That was her signing her name in fire.

That voice? That slow, Southern silk she slipped between her words when she wanted to make him lose all sense of Sunday morning manners?

She was the storm. And she was daring him to chase it.

He didn’t move right away—couldn’t. His pulse was a drumbeat in his ears, his hands flexing once at his sides like he had to physically stop himself from hauling her back inside and making good on every single promise she’d just teased out of him.

He took a slow breath, let it scrape against the back of his throat, and followed her out into the cold with a look in his eye that didn’t belong anywhere near a church building.

“Polite,” he muttered, like he was tasting the word for the first time. He shut the door behind him, locking it with slow, deliberate ease.

His boots crunched against the gravel as he caught up to her—hands tucked in his jacket like restraint could be conjured from fabric alone—but the grin on his face?

It wasn’t polite.

It was trouble.

And it was all hers.

“You keep talkin’ like that,” he said low, stepping behind her close enough that his breath curled against her hair, “and this truck’s gonna have some very foggy windows before we even hit the road.”

She glanced back at him, smug as sin, but her breath hitched again when he brushed past her—barely touching—and circled to the passenger side instead of the driver’s.

He opened her door for her, slow and smooth.

Tilted his head.

Smiled.

“After you, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice dipped in heat and honey. “Wouldn’t wanna risk forgettin’ my manners after all that talk about bein’ God-fearin’.”

He watched her slide in, eyes catching hers just long enough to make her pulse skip, and then leaned in—one hand braced on the door frame, the other resting on the roof—his body a wall of warmth against the cold.

“But just so you’re clear…” he said, voice softer now, hungrier, like a secret only meant for her, “you might’ve gotten the first word, Mrs. Daniels…”

His lips brushed just beneath her ear—not quite a kiss, just a promise.

“…but baby, you know I always get the last.”

He shut her door gently, like she was precious, and then rounded the truck with the kind of purpose that didn’t belong to cocoa or nativity scenes or anything righteous.

This wasn’t about being polite anymore.

This was about finishing what she started—and showing her exactly why she shouldn’t poke the bear unless she wanted the full heat of the wildfire.

And Lord help them both?

He wasn’t planning on making it a long drive.

Mila slid into the passenger seat slow, letting her coat fall open just enough to tease, just enough to let the warm air of the truck brush her collarbone. She watched him circle around the hood with that same unhurried swagger that always meant trouble—and usually meant she was going to lose an article of clothing before the night was over.

He opened his door, climbed in, and the interior filled instantly with the heat of him—cedar, cold air, and the leftovers of cocoa on his breath. The dome light caught the jaw he was clenching and unclenching like he was fighting a losing battle with every bit of restraint he had left.

She didn’t give him time to settle.

Didn’t give him time to breathe.

She turned in her seat, one knee bending toward him, her voice a velvet-wrapped jab.

“So…” she drawled, lifting her brows at him slowly, “you plannin’ on bitin’ me again tonight, or was that a one-time performance, Pastor’s Husband?”

His head snapped toward her so fast she almost laughed.

Almost.

Because the look he gave her?

Oh, that look.

Heat. Shock. Hunger. And something downright feral simmering under the gentleman veneer he pretended he still had.

She leaned in—close enough he could feel her breath on his neck but not close enough to let him touch her yet—and let her smirk curve slow across her mouth.

“I mean,” she added lightly, tapping one finger against her lips in mock thought, “if you were planning on it, a girl should be warned. Maybe stretch. Hydrate. Say a prayer.”

His jaw flexed. Hard.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

And she did it anyway.

She let her fingers trail lazily down the front of his jacket, not gripping, just tracing, just enough contact to undo him without giving him anything he could grab onto.

“Just need to know what kind of evening I’m signin’ up for,” she murmured, eyes flicking from his mouth back up to his eyes. “Sunday-night sanctified… or Monday-morning bruised.”

Then she sat back in her seat, buckled her seatbelt with a click like she hadn’t just lit the match and thrown it directly into his lap.

Her smirk deepened, all sweet mockery and challenge.

“So which is it, Micah?” she asked, chin tilted just enough to be dangerous. “Truck manners… or teeth?”

Micah stilled.

Right there in the driver's seat, hands on his thighs, jaw clenched tight, chest rising slow and thick with the kind of breath a man takes when he’s tryin’ real hard not to sin before the ignition even turns over.

She’d gone and done it.

He should’ve known the second she walked out that door with that look on her face. The kind that said bless your heart and I’m gonna ruin you in the same breath.

And Lord, was she doing both.

Her voice was still humming in his ears—Sunday-night sanctified or Monday-morning bruised—and she was sitting there like she hadn’t just undone him with words alone. Seatbelt fastened. Smirk cocked. Eyes like firelight on wet skin.

Micah flexed his hands once.

Twice.

Gripped the steering wheel like it could tether him to the godly man he was supposed to be. Like she hadn’t just whispered the very edge of his restraint right into his bloodstream and dared him to hold it.

He looked at her.

Really looked.

Mila Daniels—his wife. His center. His reason. The only reason he’d even become a man who could sit in this truck and wrestle with the tension between reverence and wreckage. The only reason he wanted to be better in the first place.

But Lord help him—she made it hard.

Because she didn’t just tempt him.
She offered him holy ground and then asked if he wanted to worship or burn.

And Micah?
Micah was a man of faith.
But he was also a man of flesh.

His gaze dragged over her—her parted lips, the open collar of her coat, the tease of skin she let him see on purpose—and he made a decision.

He wasn’t gonna wait until they got home.

Not tonight.

She wanted teeth?

She was gonna feel them.

Micah let out a slow exhale, low and dangerous, and turned toward her without a word. His hand reached across her chest, deliberate and steady, and unclicked her seatbelt with a sharp snap.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

And then?

He was on her.

His mouth crashed into hers with a hunger that had no business being this silent. It was a kiss that stole. Claimed. Branded. No warning, no preamble, just Micah—his flannel, his hands, his heat—and a low growl that rumbled straight from his chest into her throat.

And when she gasped?

When she arched that little inch forward like her body didn’t know how not to follow him?

That’s when he bit.

Not hard enough to mark permanent.
But hard enough to promise.

His teeth caught the plush of her bottom lip and held it just long enough to make her whimper—just long enough to make her remember. And then he let go, breathing against her mouth like a man who had no regrets about giving in.

He pulled back one inch.

Just enough to see the fire in her eyes.

His voice was rough velvet.
Southern. Sacred. Hers.

“You wanna start somethin’ in this truck, darlin’?” he rasped, thumb brushing slow against her cheek. “You better be ready to finish it.”

His knee slid along the bench seat, crowding her without crushing, and his hand slipped behind her neck—gentle but firm, reverent but possessive.

“This ain’t Sunday manners anymore, Mila.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth again, slow this time, tongue barely tracing the spot he’d bitten.

“It’s Monday-mornin’ bruises.”

The truck stayed off.

The windows stayed clear.

But the space between them?

It was already on fire.

Mila didn’t flinch.

Didn’t wilt beneath the weight of his stare or that low Southern velvet in his voice. Didn’t shy from the way he crowded her against the cold leather seat like a man who’d forgotten what restraint even meant.

If anything, she looked… thrilled.

Dangerously so.

Her breath shivered out of her in one slow exhale, fogging the two inches of air between their mouths. And then she tipped her chin up, eyes locked on his, giving him the kind of smile that never once belonged in a church parking lot.

“Micah,” she whispered, her voice warm and sharp at the edges, “you should look at your face right now.”

Her fingers slid up his forearm—slow, deliberate—dragging over the tense line of muscle like she was mapping every inch he was trying to hold together. She didn’t stop until her hand cupped the back of his neck, thumb grazing the spot right above his collar.

“You look like you’re about two seconds from losin’ the last bit of self-control you pretend to have.”

She tugged him forward—not hard, but decisive—pulling a low sound from his chest.

“And I love that look on you.”

Then her lips brushed the exact place he’d bitten her—just a featherlight kiss, but intimate enough to make his breath stutter.

“Monday-morning bruises?” she echoed, her mouth curling against his skin. “Baby, I asked if you were gonna bite me again because I’ve already planned where I want the next one.”

She tapped her finger lightly against his jawline, eyes flicking downward, slow and sinful.

“Right here,” she murmured. “So I feel it every time I preach this week.”

Micah’s inhale was sharp, deep, wrecked—and she smiled, because oh, she felt it, the exact moment she stole the air from his lungs.

She dragged her hand down his chest, over every hard line of him, until her fingers curled in the front of his flannel.

Her lips ghosted across his again—just a tease, a whisper, a spark.

“And look at you,” she added softly, eyes half-lidded and gleaming. “All fire and no patience. Can’t even get the engine on before you’re on top of me.”

She leaned back only far enough to drag a slow, assessing gaze over him—down his throat, across his chest, then back to his mouth.

“You wanna know the truth?” she said, voice steady and sure. “I didn’t get in this truck to be polite.”

Her smile grew smug, wicked, devastating.

“I got in this truck because I knew the second we were alone, you’d fall apart first.”

Micah’s jaw flexed at that—sharp, hungry—and she didn’t waste a second.

She hooked two fingers into the collar of his shirt and dragged him close until their foreheads touched, breaths tangling in hot, uneven waves.

“You say I better be ready to finish what I start?” she whispered.

Her lips brushed his.

Ever so lightly.

“Sweetheart… I’m the one who starts what you can’t finish without beggin’.”

Then she kissed him—slow, deep, claiming—before pulling back just enough to whisper against his mouth, breath trembling with heat:

“Now bite me again…
or drive.”

A beat.

A challenge.

A smirk.

“Your call, Mr. Daniels.”