Page 21 of A Guardian for Christmas

I don’t know how to explain this to the staff. Hey everyone! I happen to know this man who pretended to be a chimney repairman to get to my room.

But the staff will have to deal with it because I’m Esme Fucking Bryant, and I’m not going to let them overwhelm me anymore with all of these decisions.

I don’t have to do anything but be in this moment, right here, with Sagan.

True, I have no business making out with an ex-con and a stalker in my room. Except, oh yes I do.

I’m a grown adult, now moaning like a girl who’s never been kissed before. It’s been so long since someone touched me. Sagan’s kisses make me forget everyone who came before him. My body zings and hums from some deep, long-neglected place.

Sagan is the perfect gentleman, not going for the boobs immediately like some men do. He kisses me like he wants me to remember. He kisses me in such a way that ruins me for anyone else. His hands are in my hair, at my neck, on my shoulders, my back, my hips. Everywhere safe. Nothing shocking. And yet, everywhere he touches becomes an erogenous zone.

At one point, he takes my hand and lifts my wrist to his mouth. He kisses the inside of it, right on the little red bird he tattooed there last year.

“Do you kiss all your clients’ tattoos?”

And for the first time today, I see the playful smile. And I wonder what it means. Does he have situationships with his clients? I’m sure he’s had sex with several over the years. How could he not? Look at him. Tall, beefy, dark, strong. Muscled but not gym-membership-muscled. Intense eyes that take no prisoners. So protective and serious, but sweet and gentle. I’m sure women throw themselves at him.

As we kiss, I wonder if he can tell how inexperienced I am. I’m no babe in the woods, but it’s been so long since I dated. In college, I was a serial monogamist with a lot of unimaginative young men who didn’t understand or tolerate or make do with my special condition—no getting the heart pounding too fast, so no overheated makeout sessions or orgasms for this girl.

Yet the thought of this man kissing someone else—that alone makes my heart pound with anxiety and jealousy.

“What’s wrong?” Sagan asks.

“Nothing,” I say, smiling bravely.

His beautiful dark brows come together. “You look tired. Let’s lie down.”

“What? Together?”

“I told you I’m not leaving.”

“But…”

“Lie down before I put you down.”

I study his eyes, and there’s nothing but concern there.

Slowly, I lower myself onto the bed. Sagan follows, hovering over me. He boxes me in with his legs on either side of my hips and his arms bracketed around my head on the pillows.

I lift my chin, and his mouth meets mine in a heated kiss.

My arms snake around his torso, my body aching for him to press down on me. I’d love nothing more than for Sagan to make me disappear into the mattress, never to be seen again.

Instead, all I feel is liquid heat between my legs as he resists crushing me.

I arch my lower body upward as we kiss, wanting more. I grasp his hands, planted firmly on either side of my face. I slither my legs, trying to get a grip and pull him down. Finally, I fist the front of his loosened flannel shirt and find the warm bare skin of his chest. Letters I can’t quite read. Something-g-a-r-e. The fine chest hairs brush against my fingertips, reminding me he’s real and he’s here. A man. In my bed. What a concept. I should have invited him home the night we met. Sure, and watch Briar and Frye both have a cow.

As our tongues tangle and breath mingles, I move my hand inside his shirt, exploring the hard planes of his chest, grazingover the little nubs of his nipples, then work my hands lower to touch his stomach.

Sagan growls into my mouth, then pulls away, watching me.

I push the flannel away, tugging it. “Off,” I whisper on a ragged breath.

Sagan rolls to his side briefly, losing the shirt. I watch in awe as the small muscles below his pecs bunch and ripple with the movement. And then I gasp in surprise as he gives the knot on my bathrobe one sharp tug. The robe opens and I am on fire as Sagan works the robe off my shoulders, his mouth dragging over my collarbone so sensuously that my pussy flutters in anticipation.

My eyes close as Sagan moves over me, savoring my skin, while his arms cage me against him.

“You’re so damn beautiful, Esme.”

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