Snow. It's fucking snowing.

Out of all the enemies Coenraad Vierhoven has outmaneuvered, outlived, and outseduced, he never expected to be bested by the goddamn weather.

Standing at the chalet windows in nothing but a pair of lounge pants, Coen glowers at the mocking sky overhead as thick, relentless white sheets of snow blanket the world below. It buries the roads. Frosts the pines. Ices his mood. Ruins the round two honeymoon he'd planned with more care and strategy than he'd ever given to his deadliest missions.

Clear skies, the weatherman had promised. What a fraud.

He'd had everything planned, down to the last filthy detail. An exciting romantic itinerary of speed, danger, adrenaline, and, of course, eye candy of him in flattering outerwear. Or, even better, no clothing at all (if you played your cards right).

Except now the mountain is encased in white, the weather advisories are going off, and his plans are in ruins.

A tragedy.

Behind him, the television murmurs. Fire crackles. Porcelain clinks softly. He turns from the window, his irritation caramelizing into something darker, warmer, richer, when his eyes land on you.

There you are. His lethally alluring spouse. An assassin from an enemy syndicate who's tried to kill him too many times to count. And each time, you only succeeded in making yourself all the more tantalizing.

You're nestled in the velvet armchair by the hearth, barefoot, wrapped in one of his shirts and, judging by the taunting glimpse of silken skin beneath the hem, nothing else.

How cruel.

You don't so much as spare him a glance, even when his molten gaze tangibly roves across your exposed skin. Instead, you lift your mug, taking a slow sip of coffee while your attention remains fixed on the television. Acting like you haven't noticed him staring. Acting like you aren't amused at his beef with Mother Nature at this moment. Except he catches that devious glint in your eyes. He knows what you're up to.

You're ignoring him, aren't you? Deliberately. Starving him of attention so he'll come begging like a needy puppy.

Coen nearly laughs. Nearly groans, too.

You know exactly what that does to me.

He crosses the room slowly, moving with the grace of an apex predator. An assassin going in for the kill at point blank.

And you just so happen to be the target in his scope of desire.

Every step unravels that thread of self-control. Every step feeds into the heat burning low in his stomach.

When he's finally in front of you, he plucks the mug from your grasp and sets it aside with an impatient clink. He leans forward, palms bracing on the armrests, caging you in, forcing you to finally acknowledge his presence.

Warm breath ghosts across your jaw first, followed swiftly by his eager mouth.

A sharp nip. A warning and a tease.

"Looks like we're snowed in," he presses the velvet-soft words into your skin. "How devastating. What ever shall we do?"

Another kiss. Slower now. Hungrier.

His lips drag downwards, smoothing over the exquisite curve of your neck, his senses singing and his thoughts dissolving into that mindless, blissful fog. The fire pops somewhere behind him, but this heat between you has nothing to do with the flames and everything to do with you. This heat, belongs only to you.

The weather report chatters behind him, briefly pulling him from his haze.

"We can expect to get eight inches today," the man announces.

Coen's mouth curves against your throat.

"Eight inches, huh?" He hums low, nuzzling into your skin before pressing another kiss there. A fervent kiss that's as wicked as it is worshipful. Sinful and reverent.

"Looks like you're getting more than that today... if you ask nicely."