Page 120 of Holiday Romance
“You,” I say. “I want you. All of you.”
Heat fills his gaze, as though charged by the same electricity I feel running through my own body. “You have me, Moll. You’ve had me for years.”
“Then stop teasing,” I mutter, and grab the back of his neck, pulling him down to me.
This kiss is stronger, surer, our lips moving against each other in seamless synchronization like we’ve done it a million times before. Andrew’s hands drop to my waist, unbuttoning the front of my jeans before he slides them down my hips. I don’t even break the kiss as they fall to my ankles, stepping out of them and kicking them to the side. My sweater comes next and I raise my arms as he grabs the hem and pulls it over my head. There’s a slight edge to his movements now. Like with each piece of clothing, we grow more frantic and he follows me in our less-than-elegant striptease until we’re both making out in our underwear, still rooted to our spot against the door.
He steers us toward the bed and my mind whirls, forgetting to be embarrassed by the noises I make and the cellulite on my thighs and the stretch marks on my hips. These are things I’d usually be thinking about the first time with someone new, but Andrew isn’t new. And even if he was, I’d still be too distracted trying to get enough of him to care. Because no matter how much I try, I can’t get enough. I want him to touch me everywhere, I want to feel him everywhere. I want ten hours of kissing and foreplay. I want him in me now.
And Andrew seems just as torn as I am, his hands moving up and down my body as if he doesn’t know where to focus. When he’s not kissing my lips, he’s on my neck, my throat, licking down between my breasts and back up again before nipping me hard enough that it’s just short of pain, a spiking pleasure that I know will leave another mark. I want it to leave a mark. I want proof of this night, of this moment, so that when I wake up in the morning, I’ll remember exactly what happened.
“Bra,” he mumbles in my ear, and I nod jerkily as I push up, reaching behind for the clasp.
“Do you have a—”
“Yes,” he says, almost diving off me as he kneels beside his suitcase. I try not to stare at his ass in his black boxer shorts and then remember I can stare all I like now, and when he comes back to the bed with a victorious expression, I raise a brow at the row of foil packets in his hand.
“Do I want to know why you brought condoms home for Christmas?”
“It’s called sexual health, Molly. And I have an old girlfriend in the village who—”
“Not funny,” I snap, launching myself at him. He laughs as we fall to the bed and I straddle him, carefully tearing open a packet as his eyes skate over my bare chest before focusing on the pendant around my neck, the present he got me. He tugs it gently, positioning it in the hollow of my throat before sitting up to press the lightest kiss to it.
Our underwear is the last to go and they go quickly before I’m rolling the condom onto him and then suddenly our places are switched, his movements confident and sure as he pulls me under him.
“You good?” he asks, and I nod, grabbing his face to kiss him again. He lets me do so only briefly before he breaks away, skimming his nose along my jaw before he moves downward. It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s not coming back up.
“Andrew?”
He only hums against my skin, his tongue tracing a circle around my belly button before he keeps going.
“You don’t have to—” Shutup, Molly. My head hits the pillow, fingers digging into the bedsheets as he gently parts my legs.
The first touch of his tongue has me squeezing my eyes shut. The second has me squeezing my thighs, but Andrew doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, it seems to spur him on as he grabs hold of my hips, keeping me as still as he can as I move against him. The man can take direction, I’ll give him that, and he follows every movement of my body as I silently tell him where to go and what I need until he learns me better than I even know myself. Until he needs no direction at all. And when one hand leaves my hip to join his efforts, I’m a goner. Pleasure ripples through me, almost unbearable in its sweetness.
I can only lie there, my breathing ragged as he waits for me to still before licking his way back up to my mouth.
“Okay, good job,” I say, patting the side of his face. “Night night.”
He smirks, taking me in before kissing me. My hands go to his back, exploring to my heart’s content. The sudden freedom to do so makes me almost giddy and he encourages my enthusiasm by kissing me harder, by reacting to everything I do. He shudders when I run my fingers up the sides of his stomach, he grunts when I tug at his hair. I am fascinated by every one of his movements, every sound that comes from him, every muscle that contracts under my touch.
He feels warm and hard against me, and even though we’re both sweating, I don’t protest as he maneuvers us under the covers, the heavy drape of the quilt over our bodies only making me feel like we’re closer together.
He settles more fully over me, testing his weight against mine, how our bodies fit together. So familiar yet new. And I know that whatever is happening, there’s no turning back from this. This is not a one-night thing.
This is not a mistake.
How could I ever have thought this would be a mistake?
I’m so ready for him now that there’s no hesitation when he moves into me, a moan escaping me as our eyes lock together. An almost pained expression comes over his face at the sound and he bends to kiss me with renewed determination, open, hot, and less skilled than before. The arms on either side of me tremble as though he’s doing his best to keep himself in check and when he pulls back, the slow drag sends my nerve endings into overdrive.
He kisses me like I’ve never been kissed before. Like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it.
Or maybe just ten years.
I grip him harder at the thought, pulling him into me until our bodies are pressed so flush together that there isn’t an inch of space between us. And I don’t want there to be.
I love this man. I love him I love him I love him and all I can think about is how he must love me too. He must. Because he wanted me here. He wanted me with him. Maybe long before I ever wanted him. And I’m so glad I stopped under that mistletoe, I’m so glad fate finally got fed up with waiting even if I don’t have the bravery to tell him as much yet. But maybe I don’t need to. My touch can tell him what my words can’t and so I touch. I touch and I caress and I let my kisses speak for themselves. And as he brings my hands over my head, lacing his fingers with mine, I try to remember if I’ve ever felt this way before, if I’ve ever felt somuchbefore, and then he pulls at my bottom lip and dips his head to press his mouth to the skin just above my heart and I can’t remember anything at all.
