Page 45 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“I like him,” Brenden states, utterly oblivious. “He watches WrestleMania, too.”

“Second daughter,” Dad barks as Whitney whips her face toward him. “Shut your pie hole and Son ...?”

“Yes, Daddy?” Brenden asks, batting his lashes.

“Shut up forever.”

“That’s just not nice, Father. Oh! Can we have pie for dessert, Mom?” Brenden shifts, utterly unaffected. Feeling Mom’s eyes on my profile as she answers, I resist the urge to glance at the door. Stomach roiling, I put my napkin on my plate, hating the indecision I’m feeling. Hating that I have never had to work so fucking hard to get a guy to talk to me in my life. In a way, Thatch is giving chase, and like a damned fool, I’m fucking following like I don’t know better. But I do. So why am I?

Let him go, Serena.

Deciding to do just that, I’m just about to excuse myself when Mom speaks up. “Sun is setting. It’s going to be dark soon.”

She relays this in a nonspecific, roundabout way as she stares out the window, but I know her comment is for me. Glancing over at her and eager for any sign of encouragement, she forks some mashed potatoes and refuses me. It’s only when chatter resumes at the table that her eyes finally find and settleon mine. A wordless second later, I excuse myself. Wrapping my scarf around my neck, I slip out the back door.

Head spinning from far too much rum, I meander into our temporary bedroom after checking on the kids, who, thankfully, are out. The shower runs in the adjacent bathroom as I fight my leggings off and discard my hoodie on the floor. Overheated and slightly nauseous, I curse the fact that my buzz is wearing off so soon, and the imminent hangover is sure to be an epic asshole. Not long after, I’m piling pillows to situate them when a smooth voice—one I know all too well—filters through the air.

“Evenin’, Brat.”

Looking up from the bed to the bathroom, I find my husband dripping wet, a towel wrapped and tucked around his waist, eyes fixed on me in an unmistakable way.

“No, no, Sir, no, tonight isnot your night,bro,” I state, unable to help my smile as he drops his towel with an ‘oops’ pressing his fingers against his mouth like a sexy starlet would.

I’m already laughing through my protest as he wiggles his junk just a little in some sort of sexy drunken man dance. “Oh, Jesus, Thatch. I’m already spinning. Please don’t even attempt it.”

“Sup, baby?” he ignores my signals entirely, the glazed look in his eyes saying it all as he dips his gaze downward to his cock. I follow suit, still shaking my head in the negative. “See anything you like?”

“No, player, I do not. Tonight’s not it, Thatch, so what are you doing? Oh, don’t you fucking dar—” but it’s too late. He’s alreadygot his meat stick in hand and has started the propeller on his fucking ... helicopter.

“Who in the world of fucking stupid told you that was sexy?” I ask, rolling my eyes as my man starts to really work it, his propeller at full speed as he answers confidently.

“You did, wife of mine.”

“The hell I did. Never in the history ofeverhave I told you that’s sexy. Stop it this instant,” I demand as he chuckles, working himself to the point he could get airborne as I sigh. “And we were on such a hot streak. You just ruined it.”

“Yeah?” he teases, dropping it, “what’s wrong, baby? Are theangels not singing?”

In an instant, I’m on my knees on the mattress and pointing at him accusingly. “I fucking knew it!”

“Yeah, well, I did too, minute one,” he says, sauntering into the bedroom buck naked. “But,” his eyes glitter down on me as he moves to stand at the edge of the bed. “I owe you one for making me look so damned good in front of the boys,” he runs a finger down his cock suggestively, “himespecially.”

“It wasall for show!” I refute as he pounces, tackling me beneath him on the bed before his expression dims.

“So the angels really didn’t sing?” He pushes his bottom lip out in a pout.

“They might have sputtered a note or two,” I grant as he moves to lay on his side and runs his finger playfully along the top of my panty line.

“So, you wouldn’t pick my dick out in a police lineup?” he whispers, a perma-grin on his lips.

I can’t help my own. “Exactly how drunk are you, Thatchalamewl?”

“A six-pack and three nogs in,” he reports. “You?”

“Rum, far too much of it and too soon. I should have eaten more. This is going to hurt like a bitch. I took my Advil and drank a bottled water. Did you prep for battle, baby?”

He nods before grinning. “God, you’re brilliant,” he murmurs before kissing along my stomach. “Maniacal and evil, but brilliant.”

“How do you know it was me?”

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