Page 54 of Tied Up In Tinsel
“I like it when you call me that.”
His grin deepened, rough edges softening. “Good. Because you’re stuck with it. I’ll always be one call away for you and that little girl down the hallway. Do you understand me?”
I nodded, but the ache inside me didn’t ease. His words were sweet, meaningful, everything a woman would want to hear—but they didn’t erase the reality. He would still be gone, still chasing something on the road, while I stayed here.
And then the thought that had been pressing against my ribs all night slipped out before I could stop it.
“What if you find someone and settle down?” My voice cracked, betraying the fear laced through the question. “How would they feel about me calling you if I needed you? If I…if I was craving your touch?”
The air shifted between us, thick and heavy. Brooks’ breath hitched, his thumb stilled against my skin, and for the first time that night, his composure faltered.
“Red…” His voice was rough, low, like gravel caught in his throat.
I swallowed, the weight of his hand anchoring me in place, the heat of him spilling into me. I set my wine glass down on the floor. “I don’t want to just call you. I want you here. With me. With Ruby.”
Brooks’ jaw flexed. His thumb traced a slow, torturous line across my bottom lip, and my chest rose sharply at the intimate touch.
“I want to be the only woman you touch. the only woman you think about. The thought of you away from here, meeting someone new, touching someone else, makes me sick.”
We were so close, his touch still grounding me to this reality, the one where I laid it all out for him to hear.
My fingers came up, touching his hand pressed against me.
“You’re playing with fire,” he murmured, though there wasn’t a single ounce of warning in his tone.
“Maybe I like fire.”
That was all it took.
Brooks surged forward, his lips crashing against mine with a hunger I hadn’t expected, from this tender moment. His mouth was warm and demanding, tasting faintly of wine and something entirely him. I let out a soft sound that he swallowed with a groan, his hand sliding from my jaw to cradle the back of my neck as he pulled me closer.
The room spun in warmth—the fire, the Christmas lights, the low hum of holiday music we weren’t hearing anymore. All that existed was the feel of him pressed against me, the heat rolling off his body as his other hand found my hip, fingers curling possessively as if he couldn’t stand the idea of me slipping away.
When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed to mine. Both of us were unsteady, hearts racing, breaths mingling in the charged space between us.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he rasped, his thumb brushing my cheek again, softer now but no less intense. “I told myself I could do this without crossing any lines. I told myself I’d be okay when I knew I’d have to leave.”
“Then don’t leave,” I whispered, desperate, the plea breaking free before I could stop it.
His eyes closed briefly, as if the words gutted him. When he opened them, the firelight reflected in his gaze, burning hotter than the flames crackling behind us.
“You make it sound so damn easy.” His hand slid lower, tracing along my collarbone, igniting goosebumps in its wake. “But… if I stay, I’m not sure I could ever let you go.”
My breath caught, every word sinking deep into my bones. I cupped his face in my hands, my thumb brushing along the rough edge of his jaw.
The silence stretched, weighted and alive, before he kissed me again—slower this time, deeper, like he was memorizing me.His hands roamed, tentative but heated, tracing down my arms, my sides, until I was trembling beneath his touch.
“I don’t want you to let me go.”
I straddled him, knees digging into the floor as I rose up, towering over him. My hands framed his face, desperate, trembling. “Don’t. Go. Stay with us. Stay with me.”
I’d sworn, after my husband, that I’d never beg another man. That I’d never hand my hope to someone who could shatter it so easily. But here I was, coming apart on top of my nanny, begging him not to leave.
His hands gripped my ass, kneading, pulling me tight before dragging up the curve of my back and sliding under my sweater. Heat followed his touch like sparks catching dry kindling. Every inch he claimed made me burn brighter.
I leaned down, capturing his mouth. The kiss was a collision—tongues tangling, moans feeding off each other, the kind of kiss that felt like a lifetime condensed into a moment.
I rocked against him, dragging my wet core across the hard ridge pressing up from his jeans. “Take me, Brooks. Have your way with me. I’m yours.”
