Page 36 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
We kiss like we’ve already gone too far to turn around.Like we never want to.
When we come up for air, her lips are swollen, her chest rising fast against mine, her eyes dark and stormy and searching.
She stares at me like I’ve ruined her for everyone else.And fuck me, part of me hopes I did.
“Nice boys don’t kiss like that,” she whispers.
I grin against her mouth, still close enough to taste her breath.“Oh yes, they fucking do.”I drag my thumb across her bottom lip, slow and sure.She shivers, like she’s unraveling beneath it.
“But I’m not a nice boy, Eve.I’m a kind man.And kind doesn’t mean I won’t fuck you like I’m memorizing every inch.Doesn’t mean I won’t make you lose control.Doesn’t mean I won’t…”
A soft laugh escapes her, almost a deflection.“Cocky,” she says, the word an attempt at distance.A step back in disguise.
I catch her wrist gently, and guide her hand halfway, until it hovers above the hard length pressing against my sweats.No further.
Her eyes flick to mine.Waiting.Measuring.
She closes the space.Her hand curves around me, slow and sure, and the sound I make is almost a groan—low, broken, helpless.
“Not cocky,” I manage, voice raw.“Certain.”
And fuck, the way she’s looking at me now, like she wants to consume and memorize and match me beat for beat?It’s all I can do not to lose it right there.
“So yes,” I say, forehead resting against hers, her vanilla cupcake scent ensuring I’ll never pass Sweet Nuttings Bakery, or any other bakery in the universe, without a hard-on.“I’m kind.But kind doesn’t mean I forgot how you said you wanted to be touched.Like in those romance novels I read to you.”My hand finds hers again because if she keeps on touching me, I might explode.I pull her flush against me.Just heat, and the truth between us.No more screens.No more space.“Kind means I never forgot a single fucking thing.”
I let my lips brush below her ear.“I remember how you bit your lip trying not to wake Claire up in the other room.How your eyes squeezed shut before you came until I told you I wanted to see.”
Her pulse jumps beneath my mouth as I trace the path I’ve imagined a thousand times.
“I remember how you wanted to be kissed like you’re the air I need to breathe.”My fingers trace the skin between her pajama pieces.I notice how she shifts, avoiding pressure on her left hip.Something I catch from years reading animals’ body language.“Touched like every inch deserved to be mapped,” I murmur, adjusting to better support her.“Fucked like we were writing our own damn romance novel.”
She trembles, her analytical composure fracturing as her hips press against mine.“Adam,” she whispers, a mix of surrender and challenge.Then, almost to herself, “Elevated heart rate, vasodilation, pupillary response…” She’s cataloging her own symptoms, because science is still the steadiest ground she trusts.It might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.
“I remember how you laughed when I said I’d make you forget every medical term you ever learned.”
Her lips part.“That would take a lot.Dissertations are hard.Like rock-hard.Adam-hard,” she manages, blushing in a way that takes me back to our first video chat.“I know over four thousand medical terms.”
“Challenge accepted.”I smile against her neck, teeth grazing skin.“I’ve always been thorough with important research.”
She shivers, hands sliding under my shirt, tracing the muscles of my back.“Adequate sample size is essential for valid conclusions,” she murmurs, and fuck me, even her nerdy talk is sexy.
“So...sex,” she whispers, almost to herself, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest that are making it really fucking hard to think straight.Each touch sends heat straight through me, especially when she unconsciously follows the path of my muscles like she’s writing a new chapter in our story.
“Let’s… I mean, clearly, we both want...but I should probably warn you I have the flexibility of a stressed-out Great Dane.My ex was big on showcasing positions like we were auditioning for some sort of sexual circus and—” She catches herself, that familiar mix of humor and vulnerability in her voice.“My therapist would say I’m deflecting with humor right now because I got really good at pretending I was fine with being told I wasn’t enough and—”
I catch her wrist, stop her.“Eve.”My voice is rougher than I meant it to be.
She doesn’t look at me right away.Her fingers twitch against my chest, like she’s bracing for words she doesn’t want to hear.
I slide my hand under the hem of her pajama top and press my palm against her stomach, firm, warm, holding.Not to fix anything, but because I want to.Because there’s no other possibility.
“You sure?”I ask, searching her eyes.
“Yes,” she breathes.“I—”
She hesitates.Her whole body tenses.
I pull back.“What?”
