Page 37 of Pining for Christmas

I shiver.

“You sure about that?” His question is casual, polite, as he strolls back toward the bed, hands tucked in his pants pockets, but Saxon isn’t fooling me. I see the tense set of his shoulders; the hard clench of his jaw. The way his gray eyes bore into me, like he could pin me to the mattress by gaze alone. “You seemed twitchy back there.”

He stops beside the bed, but he doesn’t sit. Doesn’t beckon me closer. Doesn’t do anything except loom over me in the moonlight, so big and broad andright,waiting for me to make the next move.

“I was.” My throat is dry, and I swallow hard. “I was twitchy, but not because of you. Never because of you.Please, Saxon.”

His eyes slam shut, a shudder rolling through his big body beneath his suit. Think he likes hearing me beg.

And hey, I have zero shame about begging for what I want! Not from this man, anyway. So while his eyes are closed, while he’s straining for the last shreds of his self control, I slip off my bikini top and drop it silently to the rug beside the bed. Warm air washes over my bare skin, and goosebumps break out on my arms.

When Saxon opens his eyes again, he curses under his breath. Sucks in several long, labored breaths, his chest working under his shirt, and drags a shaky hand down his beard.

“Ali,” Saxon rasps. “Baby girl. You’re killing me here.”

“Good.” I wet my lips, heart hammering. “Come down here and teach me a lesson.”

For such a big man, Saxon moves fast when he wants to, exploding forward with power and grace. From one breath to the next, he’s kneeling over me on the mattress, hands on my wrists, shoving me back against the bed with my arms above my head. And he’s not gentle, not wholly in control, but that’s okay.

Unlike those assholes out there at the pool party, I trust Saxon. He would never hurt me.

And besides, Ilikewhen he gets wild like this; I like when he tosses me around like his plaything. Saxon hunkers over me, blocking out the starlight, dwarfing my bare limbs with his huge, warm body, and I swear: there’s nowhere else on the planet that I’d rather be.

“You’re a brat, you know that?” The words are dark and low, and my blood simmers in response. My body arches up against him, and I choke back a breathless laugh.

“You love it. And besides, if I didn’t push all your buttons, you’dneverget around to kissing me.”

It’s true, and we both know it. Saxon would’ve stayed in the background for years, watching over me, silent and steady. Never presuming to offer anything more; never imagining that I might want him back.

This is so much better, and I’ll never be sorry for teasing us to this edge. Already, his heat and scent and presence is nearly overwhelming, and my eyes are damp with relief and joy.

This has got to be it, right? I’ve kissed his mouth. Gone to my knees for him in the library. How else can I possibly prove that I want this man?

“Ali,” he says quietly. “Alison.”

Then he ducks his head, and… brushes his cheek against mine.

It feels good, don’t get me wrong, but I poke at his shoulder. “What are you doing? Kiss me.”

Saxon makes a rumbly noise, then rubs his face against my neck. And it finally twigs, my brain too soupy and slow after the night’s events—this is his revenge after my antics in the library.Hisstolen kiss.

Without my brain even getting involved, my thighs spread apart.

And Saxon laughs, smoky and pleased, as he sniffs and rubs andalmostkisses my chest, my bare nipples, my stomach, my hips… my trembling thighs.

“Oh, please,” I whine, tangling my fingers in Saxon’s dark hair. He’s still fully dressed down there, looming over my bare body in his suit, and the contrast makes something twist in my lower belly. My pulse thuds between my legs, heavy and insistent, and the cry spills out of me without warning: “Please, daddy.”

Saxon turns to stone. He’s rigid down there, a breath from my bikini shorts, every muscle in his body suddenly tense.

Oh, god. Oh, god, oh, god.

Why did I call him that? I’ve blown it.

Because sure, I’ve called Saxondaddya thousand times in the privacy of my own mind, especially when I’m having a little me-time late at night, but that doesn’t mean he wants to hear it out loud. Doesn’t mean he won’t think I’m a freak for even thinking it.

“What did you say?” Saxon says at last, his voice strained. The words rumble against the juncture of my legs, even without his mouth on me. His breath torments me through the last layer of fabric.

“Nothing!” My voice is too high, breathy and strangled. “Sorry. No, I didn’t—didn’t say anything. I mean, I did but I said, ‘Please, Saxon.’”

---