Page 47 of Holidating
Could hebeany sexier? From his rippling abs to his chatty, no-nonsense approach to sex, Weston is making me crazy. I find myself staring up at his bare chest again, at those abs that are now prickled with goose bumps. “You’re cold,” I say softly.
“Abbi, it’s like the Polar Vortex in here. Get under the covers with me. I’ll keep us both warm.”
Now that’s an excellent plan. I hop off the bed and turn down the covers, including the down comforter I had to buy when I realized that the landlady was never going to turn up the heat.
Weston doesn’t waste any more time, either. I hear the sound of a zipper’s metal teeth as he sheds his jeans. I turn away to undo the hook on my skirt, so I miss the view of Weston’s naked body sliding into my bed. By the time I step out of my skirt, he’s already covered himself.
Still—here’s a sight I never thought I’d see—Weston Griggs in my bed, his hands folded behind his head, biceps flexing on my pillow.
Pinch me.
His eyes are smiling up at me. “Get in here before you freeze. Right here, baby.” He lifts one side of the covers. Still wearing my bra and panties, I slip into the bed beside him.
Weston turns and rolls until he’s spread out above me, his warm body pressing me against the mattress. And—hello—there’s a very hefty erection pressed against my thigh.
Holy heck. This just got real.
“Nowthisis where I wanted you on Christmas Eve, Abbi. And on Thanksgiving, and New Year’s. And every night in between.” He strokes a thumb across my cheekbone. “We are going to haveallthe sex.”
I giggle nervously. It’s been a while for me. My life is too chaotic for fun and hookups.
And Weston is a player. Even though I haven’t seen him pick up anyone in the bar in a while, I know how much he likes women. I hope he isn’t expecting me to be a sex goddess or something. I hope I don’t smell like chicken wings and beer. And—wait—did I shave my legs today? At least these sheets are clean.
“Hey. Abbi,” he whispers, kissing the bridge of my nose. “Where did you go just now?”
“I’m here!” I say breathlessly. “We were just about to have all the sex—“ I actually bite my tongue in an effort to stop rambling. Ow. “Sorry. Just a brief moment of performance anxiety.”
“Do we have to sing it out?” His pretty eyes smile down at me. “Should I cue up a song on my phone?”
“What?” I snort in an unsexy way. “No! Oh my God.”
“Hang on. Maybe I’m on to something.” He grins. “Which song would be most appropriate for this? How about ‘Shape of You’ byEd Sheeran? It’s about a bar hookup. I don’t know if I can sing that high, though.”
“Weston!” I clap a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing in his face.
“There’s always the classic—‘Let’s Get it On.’” Weston props himself up on an elbow and looks thoughtful. “Or Bruce singing ‘I’m on Fire.’ But I think I prefer The Kinks. ‘You Really Got Me’ speaks the truth. Because I can’t sleep at night, either.”
I blink up into his handsome face, and wonder if he’s even serious. Then he puts those sexy lips together and slowly hums the Kinks’ guitar riff. And I forget that he’s making a joke as that sexy mouth descends to the swell of my breast, tracing my curves very slowly, his hum vibrating across my skin.
Whoa. Now I’ve got goose bumps, and not because of the cold. As he teases my breast, I forget to be nervous. I even forget to breathe. The tickle and scrape. The heat of his mouth…
Wow.
My bra is in the way, though. Reaching back, I unhook that sucker.
“Good girl,” Weston breathes. He grabs the bra and tosses it away. “Fuck, Abbi.” He brings one roughened hand to my breast and gives me a gentle squeeze. “So pretty.” Then he lowers his mouth to my nipple, glancing up at me as he extends his tongue to lap at my peak.
And I let out a hot gasp of excitement. Playful, dirty Weston does not disappoint. He closes his lips around my nipple and sucks. Then he pops off to torture the other breast. And all the while he watches me with those bright, curious eyes.
Is this real life? I feelworshipped. My hands find his muscular shoulders, and I slide my fingers all over his beautiful skin, tracing the vines of those tattoos.
But then he disappears from view, under the covers. “Weston,” I cry, my hands seeking him under the sheet. “Where did you?—?“
Two hands tug my underwear off. Then his broad hands land on my thighs, and lips begin to trace and kiss the curve of my hip bone.
Oh boy. I lift the edge of the comforter and peek, because this is too incredible to miss.
As I illuminate Weston, a muffled “whoa”comes from under the covers. He lifts his head. “Who’s a bad girl, Abbi? Do you have a tattoo of a black lab on your thigh?”
