Page 15 of Pining for Christmas

Jack hums, and the sound is rough. He’s warming over again, coming back to me, little by little. He knots his fingers together, resting his elbows on his knees.

“There are different ways to take that, Clara. Can you tell me a bit more?”

Oh, god. My face burns brighter, but I rally and push on. His sweater is soft in my clammy grip.

“I want…” My eyes drop to his fly, unbidden. Jack grunts, but doesn’t move an inch. “I want you to—to take my… to make me…”

Jeez. There’s really no good way to say this, is there?

“You want me to fuck you, Clara?”

I snort and nod. I guess that’ll do it. And Jack smiles at me, rueful, before shrugging his big shoulders.

“I’m not a poet, baby. But the way I feel about you—that’s poetic, alright.”

He turns to face me, but I keep squeezing his sweater. “It’s my first time,” I blurt out. “And I only want to do this if—if you love me. If it’s more than one night.”

His forehead wrinkles. “Of course I love you. Don’t you know that already?”

But I don’t meanloveas in the way he’d love a good friend and longtime employee. I meanloveas in…

“Clara,” Jack says quietly. “I thought you already knew. I’d marry you tomorrow if you let me.”

Huh.

Huh.

“I think the churches will be busy,” I mumble, head spinning and chest bright. Because no, I didn’t know that, but now that I do…

I swing one leg over Jack’s lap. He leans back, surprised, but then his big hands clamp down on my hips and drag me closer.

“We doing this, baby?” His piercing blue eyes stare at me, awed, and I wind my arms around his neck, heart thumping.

“Yeah.” I shift closer. Roll my hips. Bite my lip at the hard length I find pressed against his fly. “But you might have to show me how.”

* * *

I’ve thought a million times what sex might be like. And specifically, sex with Jack. Because when you’ve got the hottest man alive as your boss, why would you picture it with anyone else?

I figured he’d be hungry for me. I’ve caught him staring enough times to be sure of that. And I figured he’d be tender, because he’sJack, and Jack is good and kind and wonderful.

I’m half right. He’s both those things, but he’s so much more, too. Jack cradles me in his lap like I’m the world’s greatest treasure—then shoves my sweater and pajama top up and sucks my nipple hard enough to bruise.

He kisses me hard. Slides his tongue into my mouth, biting, claiming.

And all the while his hands roam over my sides, so gentle.

Rough and tender. Soft and urgent. I’m tossed around in a storm of my boss’s conflicting emotions for me, and it’s so perfect. Almost overwhelming. Every touch makes me sigh; every nip heats my blood.

He loves me.

I can’t believe it. Since when did a runaway ever get so lucky?

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Jack grinds out as he urges me to stand, tugging my pajama pants down my legs.

I kick them off and climb back onto his lap. “You.”

Theclinkof Jack’s belt buckle is loud in his office. The dawn’s coming faster now, washing the room pale blue, and he secures the blanket tighter around my shoulders.

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