Page 132 of Filthy Rich Santas

Once the sleigh returns us to our starting point, we disembark and wander through the festive streets.

“Do I smell… pretzels?” Tristan asks as we pass a vendor selling them fresh out of the oven.

The vendor grins at us. “Best ones you’ll find in the north east!”

The scent really is too tempting to resist, and we each get one, savoring the salty-sweet taste as we continue our stroll.

It’s not long before I catch the guys exchanging glances, though.

“What is it?” I ask, rubbing my icy cold nose.

Tristan tugs my hand away and taps the tip of my nose, smiling at me. “Maybe we should head back to the hotel. We don’t want to overdo it.”

By “we,” I’m pretty sure he means me, and I’m about to argue, mostly out of habit, when I notice the concern in their eyes. I did promise not to push it, so instead, I nod.

“Good girl,” Beckett murmurs. But then he cuts a glance at Ryder, a teasing smirk appearing on his face. “But since Ryder is such a fan of hot chocolate now, maybe we can head back to the car by way of that cafe over there.”

I laugh, loving this glimpse at a slightly more playful side of him. And loving even more that, no matter how he plays it off, I know he’s suggesting we grab the warm treat because of me.

“If we must,” Ryder says with an exaggerated eye roll, playing along. And soon, we’re all holding steaming cups of rich, creamy hot chocolate.

The warmth seeps through my gloves, and I inhale the sweet scent with a contented sigh as we make our way back to the SUV and all pile in.

I’m practically buzzing with happiness as I settle into the backseat next to Beckett, cradling my hot chocolate in both hands.

Ryder takes the driver’s seat this time, and as we head to a nearby hotel, I carefully remove the lid on my cup to reveal a mountain of whipped cream.

“I can’t believe you didn’t get any whipped cream on yours,” I tease Beckett as he sips from his own cup, watching me.

“It looks like they gave you enough for the both of us,” he shoots back, lifting a brow.

I laugh, but he’s right. I tip my head forward to breathe in the sweet scent, then dart my tongue out to lick the whipped cream.

Beckett’s already dark green eyes darken even more, until they’re the color of a forest at night.

“Careful,” he rumbles, his voice low. “You might find yourself in trouble if you keep that up, little menace.”

A thrill runs through me. I honestly wasn’t trying to tease him. Not like that. But the heat in his gaze makes me feel bold.

I maintain eye contact as I slowly, deliberately swipe another dollop of whipped cream from my drink, this time on my finger, then bring it to my lips.

I lick it. Then I suck my whole finger into my mouth, making sure to do it exactly the way I would if I were on my knees for him again.

Beckett’s eyes narrow, the tension between us crackling. “What did I just say about trouble?”

I slowly slide my finger out of my mouth, then rub the pad of it back and forth over my lower lip as my pulse speeds up.

“I don’t remember. You might have to remind me.”

“Remind you? I think you mean I might have to fuck the brat out of you,” he growls.

I shiver, my mind going blank when he slides a hand between my legs.

“I fucking love these gorgeous thighs of yours. As soft as silk, and thick enough to take a pounding.”

I instinctively tighten them around his hand. Not to block him, but to keep him touching me.

Beckett smiles, a dangerous, wicked look. “You know why I didn’t get any whipped cream?” His thick fingers brush against me, the heat of his touch burning right through the thin layers of cloth separating us. “Because I’d rather taste this. I’d like to live with my head between these pillowy thighs of yours, feasting on you all night long.”

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