Page 57 of My Rival for Christmas

I want to be reckless. I want to be completely unleashed.

Pressure builds and builds, until I have no thoughts left in my head, no voices of protests, nothing stopping me from getting what I want.

“I could?—“

“Kiss me.” Not a suggestion. But a demand.

Nate pulls back, shock overriding his expression, but before he—or I—can question what I just said, before better judgement can find me, I lean up with almost desperate courage and fuse my lips to his.

It’s nothing but a brush, a whisper of a touch. Tentative and unsure, powered by all the nerves that are rolling through me.

Someone check on hell, I think it’s frozen over.

Because as wrong as it should feel, as much as I should probably pull away in horror, I’ve never felt more right in my actions. Never felt more sure than when Nate moans against my lips, his shock instantly melting away, as his hands slide into my hair, fisting the strands, deepening the kiss.

My heart smacks into my chest with wild abandon at the explosion of want, of pent-up frustrations. Of all the grievances that we haven’t said and resentments we’ve worn like badges. More hard than soft, as we kiss and taste and explore each other.

As if this is our first time meeting.

And I guess, in a way—it is.

I whimper as Nate’s tongue traces my lips, persuading me to open for him. I don’t take much convincing, giving in to what he wants with ease. Because I want it, too.

His tongue tangles with mine, and I wrap my arms around his neck. One of his hands leaves my hair, running his palm over my throat, along my stomach, before winding his arm around my waist, pulling me closer.

Chest to chest, my legs wrap around his waist. The heels of my feet push him closer into me, and I gasp at the straining erection rubbing against my sweatpants-covered heat.

A strangled cry tears through my throat, and it’s more than a physical response. Something inside me is coming apart, unraveling in ways I don’t think will be able to be put back together.

It should terrify me. I should stop.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

nate

Paige Montgomery isa violent tangle of my sweetest heaven and cruelest hell as she flips my world upside down, one demanding kiss after the next.

My hands grip her desperately, as if at any given moment she’s going to slip away and I’m going to wake up from this reoccurring dream with a familiar ache of disappointment.

Except my dreams never feel this real, never have my cock this hard. And Paige doesn’t kiss me like she’s kissing me now.

With this almost desperate abandon, like she’s afraid to find out what’s going to happen if she stops.

I don’t want her to stop.

I don’t want this to ever stop.

I’ve never been one to question a gift, that would be ungrateful—which is the furthest thing I’m feeling as I explore my princess’s mouth. Cataloging every whimper and inhale, exploring what she likes and what she really fucking likes.

Likes: my hands on her, coasting over the planes of her body with impatient reverence.

Really fucking likes: when I bite or suck her lip, extracting cry after pleasured cry as I do.

Every brush of my lips, every sweep of my tongue makes her just a little more feral. All the restraints she holds herself back with slowly become more and more unraveled. She withers under me; her fingers feel like claws as they dig into my back.

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