Page 61 of The Grump Who Stole Christmas
Paul sighed. “Don’t know. But between me and Ethan, we’ll figure it out.”
Right. Because he would never put any kind of pressure on me to stay. He’d just got done telling me that.
Instead, Paul would quietly handle it. He’d help dad with the inn, and, of course, make sure the farm was taken care of properly. I had total faith in that.
Then he’d meet a nice woman, settle down, and raise a family here. They might come to The Cow Farm for special occasion dinners. Hang out in the town square on the weekend as they watched their kids play with the family dog.
Oh gosh. There was a dog too!
And every year when Christmas rolled around, there would be the Jamboree in town and now a new tradition of Christmas Eve at the Kringle Inn. His kids would love it.
Because of the magic of Christmas.
While I was back in New York at whatever new job I managed to land, working all hours of every day to get back up to the next rung on the ladder. Hoping like hell my aggressiveness (code word for women making decisions in business) didn’t piss everyone off.
“You’re in your head,” he said, putting the menu down.
“So in my head,” I admitted.
He leaned forward over the table. “Then what do you think we could do to get you out of your head?”
“Lobotomy,” I offered.
“Too final. How about this? I would really like to see your panties.”
“I bet you would.” I laughed, then stopped when I saw his face was dead serious.
We were sitting in a relatively obscured booth, but there was no way to casually hike up my skirt to show him my panties. Not that I had any intention of doing it. I was just noting that logistically it didn’t make any sense.
“I know I said I wouldn’t tell you what to do, but that’s when it comes to your work. When it comes to sex…well, let’s just say that’s open for debate. I want you to reach up under that very conservative black dress of yours, pull your panties down your legs, slip them over those pretty high heeled shoes, and hand them to me under the table.”
No way. Not going to happen. That wasnotme. I didn’t do sexy things at a restaurant. My underwear? What the hell was I supposed to do? Eat my rare steak with my ass bare against my dress?
Oh yeah, I was definitely in my head again, except this time I had visions of him holding my panties in those big rough hands of his. Of him sliding his hand up my leg under my dress where I would be completely open to him. The two of us would be sitting together in this public restaurant and no one would suspect anything unless they noticed how flushed my face was.
“You know you want to,” he whispered seductively in my ear.
I did want to. I wanted to step outside of my comfort zone. I wanted to play with Paul in a way I’d never let myself play with a man before. If we’d already both agreed this couldn’t go anywhere serious, then why not have fun while it lasted?
I looked into his eyes and could see they were sparkling with humor. He thought he was teasing me again. Pushing my buttons. He was probably expecting me to be outraged or to get all flustered because I was, ataheart, a bit of a prude.
What I knew he wasn’t expecting was for me to slip my hands under my skirt. To scooch to the edge of the booth. To lift myself onto my shoes just enough so that I could slip my panties off and over my ass. Then down my legs, over my four-inch heels. Until they were in my hands where I promptly laid them over the linen napkin he’d unfolded in his lap.
He was just staring down at them. Either shocked or turned on by my boldness, I wasn’t sure which.
It was at that moment the server appeared, ready to take our order.
I gulped, but Paul was much smoother than me.
“Yes, hi,” he said to the young man in the black vest, white shirt, and tie. “We unfortunately have had a change in plans and we’re going to need to take our order to go.”
* * *
Paul
I had always heardthe expression, now I can die a happy man. Mostly I thought it was bullshit, because I was pretty sure no one was ever happy when they were dying. But having Kay-Kay, who liked being called Kay-Kay a little bit, riding my cock while I was stretched out underneath her, might be the one occasion where I could use that phrase.
I was trying not to thrust my hips up because I wanted to concentrate on watching her work her body over me, reaching for her orgasm, finding her rhythm. She was groaning and straining and slamming herself down hard on my cock and it was glorious.
