Page 7 of The Holidays with Mr. Mitchell
I exhaled and tried to let it go. Because now, standing in the doorway, was my husband—hungry green eyes locked on me, dark hair mussed from his day, and a grin so devilish it promisedtrouble. Looking at him, I remembered there was still light in my world. I smiled back, then let my towel drop and tugged my hair loose from its twist. His eyebrow arched, slow and deliberate, and my body reacted like he’d flipped a switch.
“You,” he said, voice deep as he pushed off the doorframe, “are going to feel exactly how much I love you and have missed you this past week.” In one move, he scooped me up and slung me over his shoulder.
I squealed, part laugh, part thrill. It didn’t matter that we’d made love last night—my body and my heart had been waiting for this all week. “Where are you taking me tonight, Mr. Mitchell?” I teased, swatting his firm ass as he carried me across the suite.
“Well, now that your squeal probably woke the girls, we’ll have to get creative.”
I laughed louder. “You know they love to knock just to ruin our fun.”
“I know,” he said in that man-on-a-mission tone that always made me melt. “We did the garage last time, didn’t we?”
“There’s still a dent in the Rover’s hood, yes,” I admitted, grinning at the memory. Our creativity left its marks, literally.
“Kind of makes me want to relive the moment that caused the dent,” he said, his laugh low in his throat as he carried me up another flight of stairs. Attic or rooftop—either way, he was determined.
“Attic sex?” I teased, arching a brow.
“Not sure I want cobwebs up my ass,” he muttered, finally setting me down.
I cupped his face in my hands and kissed him. “Damn, I missed you.”
His mouth covered my breast before I could even catch my breath, sending sparks through me. My fingers worked at hisbelt, eager and needy. He groaned, pressing me into the wall, lips trailing down my chest, across my throat, up to my jaw.
“I don’t give a shit about cobwebs,” he growled, sliding his fingers into me and hitting my sweet spot without hesitation. Pleasure made me gasp, my body arching into him.
“It’s either under the stars or in the attic. Where do you want me?” he murmured against my shoulder.
“I don’t give a shit,” I panted. “I just want you.”
The next thing I knew, he had me in the attic. The air smelled faintly of cedar and dust. Boxes towered, stacked with baby furniture, old toys, and other forgotten bits of our life. My eyes landed on a rocking chair I’d sworn to donate years ago. It had been at least a year since I’d set foot up here.
“We really need to go through this place,” I muttered, half horrified and half distracted by Jim’s mouth on my skin.
He caught my tone instantly, smirked, and yanked a blanket from a box. “Later,” he said, laying me down. And then there was no space for thought, just his hands, his mouth, and my body remembering how to unravel for him.
His tongue teased, his lips lingered, his fingers played me like he’d been starved for months instead of days. I bucked into him, gripping his hair, and still my eyes strayed stupidly to a tower of holiday boxes.
Focus, Avery.
For the first time ever, the thrill of Halloween decorations pulled at me while Jim’s mouth worked its magic.
“I need more,” I begged, breathless.
“You’ll get it, baby. Trust me.”
“No—now,” I demanded.
He moaned against me, switching tongue for fingers, deliberately drawing it out. Normally, I adored his patience. Tonight? The boxes were winning, and I hated it.
I yanked his hair until his gaze locked with mine. “I’m not going to come this way. I need you inside me.”
His brows knit. “You never go straight for that. You want it over quick?”
“Yes. Well, no.” I glanced at his freed length. “Wait. Are you losing your hard-on?”
He sighed, exasperated. “Hard to stay in the zone when my wife is mentally cataloging storage bins.”
“We’re in the attic.”
