Page 18 of The Santa Situation
Charlie’s hands slid up from my waist until his palms found my cheeks. His thumbs brushed over my skin—once, twice—while his eyes flicked between mine, searching.
“Hi,” he whispered quietly.
“Hi,” I echoed, feeling my lips curve into a soft smile.
It was our ritual from back then. Seventeen and breathless in the back of his dad’s station wagon, parked in this very field, our hearts racing with the thrill of discovery and forbidden touches.
The car seemed to shrink around us as he leaned in then, his lips parting slightly before pressing against mine with a hunger that made my toes curl inside my boots.
His hands knew where to go—one sliding to my lower back, guiding my hips in circles that made me forget we were making out in a snowy cornfield. The other found that spot behind my ear, and the fact that herememberedafter all these years made my chest ache almost as much as the heat building between my thighs.
As our tongues slid together, my hips circled against him. Slow at first, then faster, muscle memory kicking in. When I shifted slightly to the left, a jolt shot through me, and my fingers dug into his shoulders.
“More,” I moaned against his mouth.
The leather seat creaked beneath us as his body arched upward, an “oh” coming out as a puff of warm air against my face.
“Charlie.” His name escaped my lips in a breath that felt pulled from somewhere deep inside me. The years between us dissolved as his mouth claimed mine again, hungrier this time, the faint taste of peppermint cocoa from the boat still lingering on his tongue.
The car windows blurred with condensation, and I briefly caught my reflection in them—cheeks flushed, lips parted—before Charlie guided my face back to his to see his pupils dilated until only a thin ring of dark blue remained.
His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, a groan escaping when I shifted my weight forward, his hands curving around my ass, fingers digging in as I moved more insistently against him, chasing a feeling I hadn’t felt in years—alive, desired, and present in my body.
“Do you remember when—” I began, but the words dissolved on my lips as Charlie’s mouth found the sensitive hollow where my neck met my collarbone.
His teeth grazed the skin there, tugging with just enough pressure to send shivers racing down my spine before his tongue soothed the ache. The stubble on his chin scraped deliciously against me, leaving a trail of pleasant burning that made me tilt my head back in offering.
His voice dropped to a husky whisper against my ear. “I remember everything,” he answered, his breath hot. “Like how you went wild when I did this …”
One of his hands slid between us, the heel of his palm pressing firmly against the front of my leggings where I was throbbing with need. Even through the layers of fabric, he somehow found the exact right spot, grinding in slow, deliberate circles that made me whimper.
Of course he did. He always had.
His eyes held mine in the dim light. “Tell me what you want, Jem.”
The request made something twist in my chest.Tell me what you want. Always about me. What I needed, what I felt. But what about him?
My hand slid down his chest, fumbling between us toward the hard length straining against his red velvet pants. “What about?—”
Charlie caught my wrist before I could reach him, his grip firm but gentle. For a heartbeat, I froze, afraid I’d misread the situation. But then he brought my wrist to his mouth, pressing his lips to the delicate skin there, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You,” he murmured. “Just like this. That’s what I want.”
Heat flooded through me—not just arousal, but something deeper. Something that was dangerously close to being cherished.
I felt the rigid heat of him pressed between my thighs, saw how his pupils had swallowed nearly all the blue of his irises, the way his chest rose and fell with barely controlled breaths. He wanted me. God, he wanted me. Whatever that gentle redirect had been about, it hadn’t been about disinterest. It was Charlie’s need to give, rather than take. To center my pleasure over his own.
Suddenly, a thought hit me: maybe my pleasurewashis pleasure.
“Touch me,” I whispered, adding a breathy, desperate “please” that made his jaw clench visibly.
Charlie always had liked it best when I begged.
His fingers slid beneath the elastic of my underwear, and when he found how ready I was—how much I wanted this, wantedhim—we both gasped. The pad of his middle finger traced my entrance with agonizing gentleness before dipping inside, my hips rocking forward as it glided between my folds.
I dropped my forehead to his shoulder. His scent—woodsmoke and sweet oranges and something uniquelyhim—filled my lungs as I pressed my mouth to his neck, feeling his pulse flutter wildly beneath my lips.
“More,” I begged, the word disappearing into his skin.
