Page 49 of The Hanukkah Hoax
“Was that too much?” she asked. “Should I not have said that? I don’t know how to do any of this?—”
“Where’s your hand?”
Fucking Christ. Had he really just gone and blurted out the first thought that came to mind, like a creep with an agenda? He fisted his hand in his hair, again wishing he hadn’t cut it so short. He was about to apologize, to beg for forgiveness, mercy, blessings, anything she’d give him, when what she said next froze every bone in his body—except one.
“On my breast.”
Fuuuck.
Alec coughed. “I’m wearing a T-shirt,” he said, like a fool. What was it about this woman that stole whatever was left of his good sense?
“If you were with me, would it bother you if I said I wanted to see you without your shirt on?”
Before the T had landed on the word shirt, he’d ripped his off and resettled the phone on his bare chest. “Already gone. And no, it wouldn’t bother me at all.” Then he paused, his thoughts growing darker through the filter of the phone. “What would bother me would be not knowing how you’d like your breasts touched.”
They were doing this. She was really fucking letting him do this, and he was at a complete loss for why he hadn’t gotten in his damn car and driven over to her place a good ten minutes ago.
“Slowly,” she breathed. “Nothing too aggressive.”
“There’s no force in the world that would prevent me from taking my time. Tell me, how do they feel?”
“Heavy. The nipples are sensitive.”
“Only delicate affection, then. Bloody perfect. I’d want to take my time. Savor every bit you’d want to offer me. Learn what you like.”
He slammed his eyes shut, his chest heaving as he imagined worshipping every flawless inch of skin that had been carefully concealed from him thus far.
“I like your kisses,” she said airily.
“Then that’s what you’ll get. As soft or hard as you please. I’d start by tracing the curve of your breasts with my lips.”
“Mapping out a breadcrumbs trail?”
He chuckled. “Wouldn’t want to lose my way, though I wager it’d be a happy accident to get lost in the valley of your curves.”
“Oh my God. You’re so?—”
“Where would it lead me, such a trail? If I kept going with my kisses?”
Alec was being bold now. Way too bold, and the heat in Cal’s apartment must have been set to scorching. The sweat misting his skin was beginning to make him forget he was in bed alone and not with the woman his hands itched to caress.
“You’d go lower.”
Please let me go lower. For the love of any holiday with miracles still on offer this late in the game, let me go lower.
Through the phone, he could hear the distinct rustle of sheets, the rearranging—or was that pounding?—of pillows, and he cursed the too short of a time he’d spent in her apartment, when he was regrettably at his least masculine, getting his damn boo-boo iced by Marisa while three of her mountainous male friends, all with criminal records, casually threatened him with implied New Jersey hospitality if any harm came of her at his expense. And having spent enough time in the Garden State with Cal, Alec knew what that hospitality likely entailed.
Him wearing a pair of cement shoes and enjoying a trip down the Hudson River.
But he’d not seen her bedroom, and that had been a catastrophic mistake, especially as he took himself in hand and imagined ducking beneath her sheets to taste what only she could offer.
At this point, words fell away from them both and were replaced by throaty breaths and short, eager moans.
“Alec . . . are you feeling . . .”
“I feel you, lass. I feel you all over me. God, Marisa, you’re perfect. You’re bloody perfect. Come with me.” He pumped himself harder, angling his hips toward the ceiling in rushing thrusts, relying on the power of his fantasy to provide any sort of anchor lest he fly off the bed entirely.
She wasn’t really his, but his heart remained focused on the duties that would have been his responsibility had she been.
