Page 94 of A Lucky Shot

He caught a ripple of the luscious fabric to let it rustle between his fingertips. If he had it his way, he would see that she only wore silk and velvet for the rest of her life.

“But this isn’t festive.”

“I’m dressed plenty festive enough.”

She turned her gaze back to the photo, gesturing to her date with a chagrined tilt of her head.

“That night was the first time I ever kissed a boy. He tried to feel me up when we were slow dancing that night. I mostly remember how sweaty his hands were, and he wore too much cologne.”

You smell so good she’d murmured drunkenly against him. She was sober now, and by the way she swayed into him, her opinion hadn’t changed. After months of not touching her, being close to her, his blood raged through his veins. His hands still stroked the silky skin at her collarbone, and she didn’t pull away.

He forced his voice to rasp past the constriction in his chest. “That better have been the only time he had the chance to put his hands on you.”

“He started dating one of the girls in my dance squad the following week. You could say it set my pattern,” she said. “The Cassidy St. Claire Story: one bad date that goes nowhere.”

“I’d say our date was pretty good.”

“And what date would that be?” Her eyebrows raised, half question, half challenge.

“Back in Vancouver. I seem to remember you chatting me up outside a film.”

“I chatted you up, hmm?” Her eyes grew heavier with each pass of his fingertips.

“Mm-hmm, and then taking me to several movies.” And then back to his place. The front of his jeans tightened, and he longed to press her up against the shelf behind him and knock every single one of those trophies to the floor.

No one could see them. No Melanie, no Bernie. No Brynne or Dawson or any fucking paps. It was written all over her, in her gaze that dropped to his mouth and the pulse that beat at her neck. She was his.

He grabbed her jaw to force her eyes up and felt her throat work against his palm as she swallowed. Her eyes darkened, the hazel irises a thin golden band that threatened to suck him in.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

Getting just about fucking done keeping his hands to himself. Enough acting like a fucking cuck and sending her out to spend her time with other men. Of holding back and pretending to be indifferent to her effect on him.

She’d imprinted herself everywhere. The way her scent hijacked his senses and crowded everything else out of his mind. A thousand different ways that made him want to rip the world apart and put it back together for her.

He was close enough he could feel her ragged breath on his lips. “I’m sick of watching other men try to give you what you need, and not have a fucking clue what that is.”

“And you know what that is?”

He crowded her against the door, tugging the hair at the nape of her neck to tilt her head back. The strain of Christmas carols floating from downstairs did little to muffle the door rattling in its frame. Her breath hushed against his cheek, eyes widening, as he wedged his knee between hers and dipped his mouth to her ear.

“Are you really going to stand there with those fuck-me eyes and your nipples cutting into my chest like diamonds, and tell me I don’t know what you need?”

“What do I need?”

The dam of everything he’d held back for months broke, and he crashed his mouth to hers. Her hand wrapped around his bicep, her other under his sweater on the small of his back, and her lips parted like water.

Fuck, she still tasted like cinnamon, sweet and spicy, and her hands snaked up under his arms to close over his shoulder blades. She closed her lips around his tongue and sucked gently, and he wanted to rut into her like an animal. Each urgent whimper she made into his mouth sounded like yours. Or maybe it was more. He’d take them both.

He slid his hand up the front of her shirt, over the silky skin of her belly, and thrust his thigh against the apex of her legs. Her breath caught, pulling at the air in his lungs, like only enough oxygen existed for one of them. The last of his exhale escaped in a hiss as his hand moved around her ribs and over the swell of her breasts.

Fresh heat washed over him, tight and frantic. There they were, those glorious tips firming under his fingers as he traced their peaks, her back arching to chase his touch. He didn’t know what she was wearing under her beautiful clothes, but he wanted his mouth on it before the night was over.

“Fuck, baby, you feel so good,” he groaned into her hair. “Take off your shirt.”

She shuddered, hips rolling against his thigh. “There are people downstairs.”

“And we’re up here.” He pressed her more firmly against the door, pinching her nipple, swallowing every moan she released against his mouth. “You want this as much as I do. Say it.”

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