Page 79 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
That this isn’t pretend.That I haven’t been pretending since the first night, she Kissed me like I was worth being let in.That I ran because I couldn’t deal with my emotions, but now I’m ready for them—for her.
But instead, I whisper, “If you want to stop me ...now’s your chance.”
Her throat bobs.She stares at my mouth.
Then she whispers, “Don’t you dare stop.”
And fuck—I won’t.
I kiss her again, slower this time, deeper, like I’m pulling something sacred from the center of her.Her mouth opens for me without hesitation, and our tongues meet with this aching, hungry sweetness—less desperation, more devotion.We cling to each other like we’re both trying to memorize the feeling like neither of us knows how to do this halfway.
My hands move to her waist, slipping under the hem of her sweater.She gasps into my mouth when my fingers graze bare skin, and I feel it—the shiver that rolls through her as I touch the soft curve just above her jeans.
“Can I?”I murmur against her lips.
She nods.
So I lift her sweater slowly, kissing the underside of her jaw as I go, trailing heat with my mouth while fabric slides over her stomach, her ribs, the swell of her breasts.She raises her arms, eyes never leaving mine, and I pull it over her head and drop it to the floor.
She’s standing there in a pale bra that shouldn’t look like sin, but it does—on her, it does.My breath catches.Not because she’s perfect but because she’s letting me see her like this.
“You’re beautiful,” I breathe.“So fucking beautiful.”
Her cheeks pinken.“You’ve said that.”
“I’ll keep saying it.”I kiss her again, then lower my mouth to her throat, kissing along the line of her neck as my hands move to the front clasp of her bra.I pause.“Okay?”
She whispers, “Yes.”
The clasp gives, and the fabric slides away.I pull back to look, not to stare—to worship.Her chest rises and falls with shallow breaths.Her nipples are tight, peaked from cold or anticipation—probably both.
I kiss her again, this time slower, letting my mouth explore.I kiss her collarbone, the slope of her shoulder, then lower to one breast, closing my lips around her nipple while she gasps and arches into me.
Her hands tangle in my hair.Her body bows against mine.
“Soren,” she whispers, and it’s my undoing.My name has never sounded like that before—like a prayer being answered.
I kiss lower, down her stomach, kneeling to undo the button on her jeans, slow and careful.I press a kiss just above the waistband before I slide them down her hips.She steps out of them, steadying herself on my shoulders.When she’s in nothing but those tiny black panties, I swear I forget every language except the one her body speaks.
I run my hands up her thighs.“Get on the bed for me.”
She climbs onto the bed, moving back against the pillows with her legs slightly parted like she’s trying to play it casual, but I can see the flush crawling up her chest.The way her breath hitches.The way her fingers twitch at her sides, like she doesn’t know what to do with them now that I’m looking at her like this.
I crawl onto the bed after her, slow and steady, settling between her legs on my knees.
Her panties are still on—black, lace-edged, barely there—and fucking tragic because they’re hiding the thing I want most right now.
I slide my hands up her thighs, thumbs grazing the delicate fabric as I hook my fingers into the waistband.“These need to go,” I murmur, eyes locked on hers.
She nods, breath catching.
I lower them slowly—inch by inch—kissing my way down as I go.First, the soft skin of her hip, then the inside of her thigh.She shifts beneath me, already trembling, and when I reach the crease where her thigh meets her center, I press an open-mouthed kiss there that makes her gasp.
She’s already wet.
Fuck, she’s soaking through the lace, and I haven’t even really touched her yet.
“You’re so ready for me,” I whisper against her skin, voice rough, lips brushing the damp edge of the fabric before I tug it down her legs.“So wet for me, baby.”
