Page 65 of My Favorite Holidate

Wicked images flash before my eyes.

Me scooting up on the mahogany then lying back, tugging him on top of me.

Him hiking up my leg.

Him grinding against me.

“Oh god,” I gasp into his mouth.

I didn’t plan to say that out loud.

He breaks the kiss, eyes wild, mouth lush, and—I steal a furtive glance down—cock hard. It’s tenting his tailored suit pants. Wilder Blaine is outrageously aroused by me.

This is like waking up to learn I now speak French. I have a whole new way of understanding the world—a world I want to take a delicious bite of. I wind my fingers tighter around the collar. “I’m ruining your shirt.”

I say it with zero guilt.

“Don’t care,” he mutters with even less concern then scoops me up, lifting me onto the desk, making sure I don’t knock the lights around it as he sets my ass on the wood.

I tremble, then glance around the office. It’s huge, with windows overlooking the field. With a massive desk for the owner. With me on that desk. Have I had boss fantasies before? I don’t think so but right now, all I want is to be taken in the morning by this powerful man.

I lean back farther, making my intentions clear. The Christmas music is my wingwoman, the song turning sexier.

“Fable,” he says as a warning.

“Yes, Wilder?”

His eyes squeeze shut. There’s that battle again. But only I can assuage it.

“Practice,” I urge. “Practice with me.”

He opens his eyes and shakes his head, but it’s not a no. It’s resignation to this lust. “You,” he mutters.

That’s all. Justyou.

In one fell swoop, he pushes a folder of papers off to the side. My skin tingles from the thrill of watching them fly.

He roams a hand along the outside of my thigh. I’ve never been more grateful to be wearing a skirt. His strong palm travels down my leg, and I whimper. I actually whimper. It just feels so good. His touch is nothing like the caresses I’ve received from other men I’ve dated. Wilder is strong, determined, and focused completely on me. When he reaches the hem of my skirt, he plays with it then murmurs, “What am I going to do with you?”

Touch me.

But I’m afraid to say that out loud. Afraid to voice how potent this lust has become. I’m not sure I need to speak though. I use my body instead, letting go of his shirt collar and grabbing his tie. Then I find words.

“Kiss me again,” I say as I tug his mouth back to mine. His stubble whisks across my face, and I’m sure I’ll have whisker burn when I leave.

He kisses me deeply but with tenderness too. With a sigh. And a groan. With one hand on my skirt. His mouth coasts down my jaw, then to my throat, and he’s kissing the hollow of it. Has anyone ever kissed me there, like this? Like I’m precious and sexy all at once? No. No one has. I feel like I will die from desire. I’m clutching his tie, and he’s kissing my throat, and his hand…

I gasp.

His hand is inching up and under my skirt.

Yes, yes, yes.

The word beats in my veins. It thrums in my body. I need this so badly. And I don’t want to take a chance he might stop. So I let go of the tie, reach for his wandering hand, then guide him up higher and higher still. A clearall systems go.

“Fuck,” he mutters in a strangled gasp.

I meet his gaze. “Fuck yes,” I say, desperately.

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