Page 20 of An Unexpected Christmas
But I already know what I want. “Shut up and kiss me,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his.
The kiss steals the breath straight from my lungs, heat sparking where our mouths meet. The cold outside disappears like it was never there, swallowed by the rush of him, his hand threading through my hair, then the soft drag of his tongue against mine. He tastes like wine, sweet like cherries, and I want more. When his fingers slide to the back of my neck, he pulls me even closer, and my legs naturally part until I’m straddling him. A shiver rolls through me that has nothing to do with the storm and everything to do with the fact that I can feel how hard he is beneath me.
“Mmm,” I moan into his mouth, the sound slipping out. I move without thought, chasing the heat and hardness of him.
I mutter his name between kisses and groping as his hand slides under the edge of my coat, connecting with my skin. The sensation of him touching me sends fireworks down my spine until it settles deep in my core. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, needing something to hold on to.
Time seems to blur. It could be seconds or minutes, but I don’t care. All that matters is the way his hands are on me, theway his lips move over mine like he can’t get enough and how good he feels against me. When we finally pull apart, it’s only because we’re both gasping for air, our breaths mingling in the small space between us.
His lips are slightly swollen from my kisses, and the sight sends a flicker of pride through me, knowing I’m the reason he looks like that.
“So,” he says, his voice a little hoarse, “are all your house guests greeted this way, or am I just lucky?”
I laugh, leaning my forehead against his. “I’m sorry, I really just climbed on and went for the yeehaw, huh?” I start to move off, but his hands wrap themselves around my hips, pulling me back down to sit right back on his dick.
He grins, his lips brushing against my temple. “I’m not complaining.”
I exhale a laugh. “I practically tackled you.”
His voice drops slightly, rough with something unspoken. “I’m trapped under a beautiful woman right now, Frankie. I’d say Christmas is turning around for me.”
There’s a thread of something magical that snags at my breath from the way his gaze holds mine—steady, searching. His hands shift on my hips, the pressure just enough to make me acutely aware of every inch of space between us, and how little of it there is. And no I’d say I can definitely tell he does not mind, judging by the anaconda trying to get out of the man’s pants.
I think I forget how to breathe. I haven’t been with a guy in over a year; that dry spell really took hold, but now with him beneath me, it’s taking all my willpower not to rip his clothes off and sink down on top of him.
I think he wants it too. I mean, I know he wants it, but what exactly does he want? There’s something in his eyes, in the way his fingers curl against me, that says he’s waiting for me to move first. To lean in. To close the distance.
Then the cold air sneaks in, icy fingers crawling up my back, and I shiver. His expression shifts instantly, concern flashing across his face. “You’re freezing,” he says, already moving his cold hands away.
“The door’s still open,” I manage, my voice a little breathless.
He shifts beneath me, lifting me effortlessly off him. He sits up in one fluid motion, and reaches back to push the door shut with a solid thunk. Then he stands and offers his hand. “Come on,” he says, his grin softening into something more genuine. “Let’s get you warm again.”
I take his hand; a delicious zap travels from me to him as he pulls me to my feet, and I’m wondering what activity might keep us both warm. I have a few ideas.
Sam
You ask so brazenly
I kissed my neighbor. I kissed her. I have no idea what the hell I’m doing as I lead her upstairs. I have every idea of what I want to do, what I had to stop myself from doing right there in her doorway.
Frankie is the only woman I’ve kissed since Lucy, and four years is a long time to be alone. When I felt her legs around my hips, I almost came in my pants like a teenager.
But there’s more to it for me: the nights spent in the quiet wear you down because suddenly you have no one to share even the small parts of your life with, even if it’s between the sheets. Laughing alone isn’t as satisfying as it is with a group of people. It all adds up until I can’t tell if I’m passing time or living at all. The risks are nonexistent because who am I jumping for?
“Sam?” Her quiet voice makes me turn to face her. Uncertainty knits her brow together as she holds my hand still, thumb stroking back and forth. “I need to say this because I just demanded you kiss me, and well, I know I can be bullheaded,but… I won’t be offended if you want to go back to your house and forget any of this happened.”
Her words have a tremble that’s so not like her; she’s assuming I regret kissing her. I could tell her I should leave. That I didn’t trust myself, or her, or the storm that had pushed us together. But the ache in her eyes is the same one I carry. And maybe loneliness recognized its twin. Using my thumb and forefinger, I lift her chin until those brown eyes find mine again, and the uncertainty there nearly undoes me. Maybe I could take a risk and jump for her.
“I’m going to kiss you again, Frankie,” I breathe. “And then I’m going to beg you to let me have a taste of you because I can’t stop thinking about it.”
She whimpers her agreement, nodding, her soft, delicate hands gripping my forearms. Slowly, I thread my hand around into her hair, lingering for a second, watching the way she leans in slightly to my touch. “Tell me now if you don’t want this,” I state, searching her face for any sign that she’s not into this.
She forces a swallow, licking her lips so full and inviting, before she says, “I want this.”
I groan at her confidence. There she is. “I need to hear you say it again,” I murmur, my fingers tightening slightly in her hair. “Say it so I know I’m not dreaming.”
She blinks up at me, her cheeks flushed, her breath coming faster now. Her hands slide from my arms to my chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt as if to anchor herself. “I want this,” she says again, her voice stronger this time, filled with a need that mirrors my own. “I want you.”
