Page 45 of Christmas Is All Around
She opened her mouth to reply, but it was already covered by his again, his tongue tracing her lips, sliding into her mouth to tangle with her own. His stubble scraped against her cheek with a rasp, then against her throat as he moved lower. He was hard against her stomach, and she hooked a leg around his hip, angling her hips upward to try to relieve the pressure of the relentless pulse beating between her legs. The door was at her back, thedoorknob an awkward, occasional bump against her hip, but she barely even noticed, all of her senses occupied by the warmth of his body, the feeling of his hair slipping through her fingers, the bare skin of his back where she slid a hand down to dip beneath his shirt. He pulled back, tugging his sweater and shirt over his head in one jerky motion, and Charlotte’s mouth went dry at the sight of his bare chest, his taut stomach, the lean muscle in his arms. His glasses had been dislodged in the shirt removal, and he raised a hand to straighten them, swallowing as Charlotte pushed off the door, reached for the hem of her dress, and, in one smooth motion, tugged it over her head.
Only at this point did it occur to her that she should have removed her tights first. “Ugh,” she said now, pushing off her boots, then hopping on one foot as she removed her tights, “this has to be the least sexy stripping in human history.” She transferred her weight to the other foot, and tugged the other leg of her tights down and off.
“I beg to differ,” he said, his voice a bit hoarse; Charlotte glanced down, pleased to be reminded that—in a fit of inspiration—she’d worn her favorite black lace bra this morning, and the bent-over hopping was definitely doing her breasts some favors, as Graham’s riveted gaze was testament to.
She straightened, and then nodded at him. “Jeans off, please.”
“Are you always this bossy?”
“I said please,” she objected, hands on her hips, having to fight against the desire to reach out and rip his pants off herself, because the sight of him shirtless was causing some sort of horniness-induced short-circuiting in her brain, and she wasn’t feeling very patient at the moment.
“Fair enough,” he said, his mouth curving up into a half smile as he toed off his shoes, then unbuttoned his jeans and tugged them down to reveal…
“No.” Charlotte shook her head. “You arenotdoing this to me right now.”
Graham’s smile had widened, his dimple putting in an appearance now. “In my defense, I didn’t put these on thinking you’d see them.”
“You did,” she said definitively, crossing her arms. “You hired those sheep, all so that you could seduce me in a B and B—”
“No one isseducedin B and Bs, Lane.”
Charlotte ignored him. “—and then wait until I was practically naked to reveal thatyou have reindeer on your boxers.”
Graham shrugged. “The Christmas spirit moved me this morning.”
“You do not understand how deeply unsexy that sentence is to me,” Charlotte said, frowning, but unable to prevent herself from taking another, extremely appreciative glance at the sight of Graham Calloway, in nothing but a pair of Christmas boxers, his cheeks a bit flushed, his hair mussed, eyeing her with naked hunger.
And suddenly, she was no longer thinking about reindeer boxers—or about anything at all, really, other than thewantthat coursed through her, and her need to feel his bare skin on hers.
She reached a hand toward him, and in a moment he was there, his hands in her hair, his mouth on hers—then on her throat—then on her breasts, the lace of her bra going damp beneath his tongue. She could feel his erection against her stomach as he reached behind her to unclasp her bra, his hands coming up to cup her breasts the moment she tossed it aside. She gasped against his throat, then bit down, her teeth gently grazing the spot where his neck met his shoulder, and he groaned, his hips rolling against her almost helplessly. Her hands came to rest on his hips, and she urged him backward, crossing the tiny room in a breathless stumble, laughing against each other’s mouths, until he wrapped his arms around her waist and turned them in one smooth motion, easing her backward onto one ofthe beds. He settled over her, bracing his weight on his elbows as he gazed down at her, his expression softening. “This is why I kept my glasses on,” he said, in a low, hoarse voice unlike any that she had yet heard from him. He reached out a hand and traced a slow line down her throat, between her breasts, down her stomach, her pulse jumping in each spot that he touched. At last, his fingers latched into the waistband of her underwear, and gently pulled them down her legs. She kicked them off, and he settled into the space between her thighs, leaning down to kiss her again, more urgently now. Her arms twined around his neck and her breasts were crushed against his chest and she hooked her leg over his hip, trying to generate enough friction to ease the growing ache at her core. He drew back enough to allow a hand to slip between them, his fingers assured as they slid through the wetness between her legs; she covered his hand with hers, helping him find a rhythm, and then her hand fell away again, her eyes fluttering shut as her breathing grew more ragged, his thumb rubbing increasingly tight circles until she came with a cry muffled against his shoulder.
The sound of her own breathing was loud in her ears, and she opened her eyes at the feel of his fingers at her temple, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ears. He was breathing heavily, his cheeks even redder, his eyes slightly glazed as he took in the sight of her, and she thought she must look absolutely wrecked, legs splayed, unable to catch her breath, but she didn’t care—she just wantedmore. He leaned down to kiss her again, wet and messy and heated, and her hands went to the waistband of his boxers; he tore his mouth away from hers long enough to say, “One second,” then turned to fish his wallet out of the pocket of his discarded jeans, producing a condom with a triumphant smile.
From there, things moved quickly—he yanked down his boxers and rolled on the condom with a sure hand, and then he was on hisside next to her, pulling her leg back over his hip as he slid into her; he pulled back, a slow, agonizing movement leaving friction in his wake like sparks, and then thrust forward again—and again—and again—and she was conscious of nothing except the warm, sure feeling of his hand flat against her back, holding her to his chest as he moved within her, the slap of their hips meeting, the groans that worked their way from his chest to fill the space around them. At one point, he pulled out entirely, rolling her onto her stomach, and she braced herself on knees and elbows as he thrust into her once again, and again, a fast race to completion now, his hands a warm anchor at her hips, her own hand working between her legs, and she bit into the pillow as she cried out again, his cries muffled in her hair.
She didn’t know how long they lay there, his weight a heavy, warm comfort above and around her, their breathing slowly evening out.
“Twin beds were not designed for this,” she murmured at last, and his laugh was a warm huff of air against her neck.
“Better a twin bed than against a wall, or the floor,” he said, his voice still in that hoarse, smoky register that was apparently his bedroom voice, which she didn’t think she’d ever be able (orwant) to unhear. “My back wouldn’t have been able to take it.”
“Very hot.” He poked her in the side, and she smiled. “I need a shower,” she added after another moment, and let it dangle there, an invitation to be picked up if he wanted to.
His mouth curved against her skin. “Shall we see how large it is?”
It turned out that it was large enough—though just barely—for Graham to prove to Charlotte that he had a very,verytalented mouth. And when the water turned lukewarm, and then cold, and they yelped and swore and Graham hastily helped Charlotte rinse the shampoo out of her hair, she thought, ridiculously, that the sound of their laughter, echoing off the tile, was one of the best things she’d ever heard.
It was later—much later. The night outside their window was dark, the village streets quiet, their room full of shadows. They’d scrambled out of the shower, shivering and laughing, and dried off and tumbled onto her bed and picked up right where they’d left off, pausing only briefly for Graham to fumble for the box of condoms he’d apparently picked up on his toothpaste mission earlier that evening.
“Optimistic, were you?” Charlotte asked, arching a brow at him from her spot on the bed, resting on her elbows.
“Lane,” he said, crawling back onto the bed and placing a lingering kiss at the base of her throat, “how could I not be? It’s the most wonderful time of the year.”
And then, laughing, dodged the pillow she aimed squarely at his head.
Now, hours later, they were still curled, spoonlike, in her tiny twin bed; she would have thought he’d fallen asleep, except for the occasional, slow stroke of his hand down the bare skin of her arm, leaving goose bumps in its wake.
“You can’t sleep here,” she mumbled, her voice slurring slightly from exhaustion—and quite possibly from some sort of postcoital drunken stupor, becausegood god—and he laughed silently, the only indication the warm huff of his breath against her neck.
