Page 33 of Pining for Christmas

Christ, she’s magnificent.

And I figured she was pent up, figured she was needy after being held under lock and key for so long, but I had no idea Ali would be such a goddess. Hungry and pliant, so eager to obey, so beautiful in the golden light of the library, her slippery gray dress pooling over the hardwood boards.

Fireworks burst through the glass, lighting up the night sky. The dark, throbbing party music bleeds through the floor, but that’s all far away right now. On another planet.

I glance up and find myself staring at that crumpled sprig of mistletoe. The thing that started this all; that resulted in two stolen kisses now. Two moments that should never have been.

This is just a game to her, I remind myself for the hundredth time, but it’s not working anymore. Not stopping my heart from beating against my rib cage, like it’s trying to burst out of my body and get to Alison. It doesn’t keep me from muttering strings of filthy praise, and thrusting harder into her mouth, and wiping away her tears with my thumbs, tracking smudges of mascara across her cheeks.

She’s not crying because she’s upset. It’s her body’s natural reaction to me invading her throat, and I’m sure about that because Ali gasps and moans around my cock, grinding down harder against her foot—then freezes up, eyes screwing shut, her whole body shuddering as she comes.

I go still inside her mouth, jaw clenched… and come with a belly-deep groan.

Alison swallows every drop—of course she does.

My perfect, off-limits girl.

Ali

Saxon’s weird after our second encounter—no surprises there. But this time, it’s not that he’s avoiding me. It’s way more fun than that. No, for the whole next week Saxon is glued to my side, his hungry, unblinking gaze fixed to my face, my hair, my body. Never looking away.

Like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory. Like he’s trying to soak me up through his eyeballs. Every time one his men get too close to me, hesnarls.

Saxon doesn’t try to touch me again, but that’s okay. That’s fine. I’ll wait for him to come around. Honestly, I’d wait fifty years for this man.

And in the meantime, I’ve got plenty of distractions to keep me from going loopy with craving our head of security. Things like freelance editing work—rush jobs over the holidays—and buying last minute Christmas presents. Things like daydreaming about arelationshiptogether, and what that would be like.

Would Saxon defer to my father? Let him make decisions about us?

The answer clangs into my brain as soon as I ponder the question: Hell no.

Saxon may work for Dad, but he does not bow and scrape, and he’salwaysput me above his job. It’s laughable to even think it.

In fact, without Saxon around, something tells me the last few years would have been a hundred times worse. He’s alwaysthe grown-up in the room; the voice of reason. My safe harbor and my protector.

And now, the source of my squirmiest daydreams. Oh god, when can I touch him again? When will he touchme? I fan myself, suddenly hot under my PJ collar.

“Doing okay there, Ali Cat?”

Saxon’s deep voice drifts from the living room doorway, and my head jerks around. Forget the holiday movie I’ve been watching to kill time on this Christmas Eve morning—there’s something better to entertain me now.

Saxon’s dressed for work in his gray suit and black tie, his dark hair combed back and his beard trimmed. Don’t wanna pat myself on the back too much, but since we first kissed in his apartment, he looks… younger. Energized, and refreshed by life.

Sure, there are still faint lines at the corners of his eyes, and there are those silver strands in his hair and beard. But Saxon looks vibrant and powerful, his muscles bulging beneath his clothes, and when he stares at me like that, his mouth curving up…

I fan myself again, with both hands this time.

“Please,” I call over, “stop messing with me like this, staring like you’re gonna eat me up. Teasing then never delivering. I’ll catch fire under my clothes, Saxon. I’ll burn to a crisp.”

Saxon grins and shakes his head as he strolls into the room. I shift self-consciously on the sofa as he approaches, tugging at the hem of my pajama shirt, but I don’t looktoobad. Just rumpled and sleepy. I’ve brushed my teeth and combed my hair, because I’m not an idiot, okay? There’s always a chance Saxon is near in this house.

The sofa groans as he sits down beside me, propping his elbows on his knees—and he’s not inappropriately close, but still near enough to touch. Near enough to smell his clean, manly smell, and feel his heat near my legs.

Thump, thump, thump,goes my heart.

Saxon squints at the TV, trying to make sense of the green, hairy creature ranting about Christmas. “Pool party tonight,” he says, acting casual.

Yeah. It’s a Christmas Eve tradition at the Wainwright mansion: a big, blowout pool party, with dozens of rented luxury hot tubs dotting the grounds, and a serve-yourself cocktail bar by the terrace pool. Music and celebrities and barely dressed bodies, every direction you look. Writhing together, wet and slippery.

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