Page 57 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“It’s been twenty-two years,” she cries.

“They say that revenge is a dish best served cold.”

“Uh, yeah, no, you can’t do this, I’m going to—”

“What?” I counter, “demand dick? How about meet me in the bedroom in a few hours, and I’ll think about it.”

“You son of a—” Serena starts as Whitney sounds before the door opens.

“What the hell is going on in here?”

Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.

I chuckle and step out as Whitney looks between us.

“Uh ... were y’all?” Her lips quirk up. “Did I just interrupt my sister about to get her swerve on?”

“Of course not,” Serena snaps, frantically straightening her clothes. “Why would you think that?”

“Baby,” I drawl, now standing next to Whitney as Serena’s breaths come out like a bull who is about to rage in a China shop, eyes darting between the two of us.

“I was just in here putting up the broom and dustpan,” she picks it up to prove her innocence, “up, and thenThatchcame in here!” She points the plastic at me as both accusation prop and future weapon, “and—”

“Baby,” I call a second time.

“What, Thatch.What?” She snaps, her cheeks reddening.

“You’ve got a hickey.”

I barely dodge the dustpan.

The lighter’s hot metal burns my thumb, and I flinch as I release the flame. Sucking it to soothe the burn, the last candle starts to cast a glow, filling the rest of the space with soft, amber light. Glancing around, pride swells at the result of my handy work. With a little lighting and some stolen Christmas décor, the dusty old shed has been transformed. Space heater set on high, the typical chill in here is absent, only making it more inviting. Nerves firing, I shed my coat just as the door creaks and turn in time to catch Thatch’s reaction as he steps in. Though, I’m deprived of any reaction as his eyes remain zeroed in on me. Every bit of my ambience-altering efforts ignored as he stalks toward me, seeming like a man on a mission. He closes the space so rapidly that I damn near take a step back as he approaches. “Hey, I—”

Lifting me from my feet, he sits me on my father’s workbench, nudging himself between my thighs before silencing the rest of my greeting with his ravenous kiss. Mouthsmolded, he thrusts his tongue in again and again until I’m dizzied and drunk. Kissing me past that until I’m wet and wanton. When he finally pulls away, he glances around and shakes his head. “You made this a date, Serena.”

I shrug, unsure if he’s upset by it. Though his eyes seem a little softer, I’m unsure about everything when it comes to him. After two weeks of meeting in the shed to make out or talk—mostly both—there’s so much about him I don’t know, yet he fascinates me. Though he refuses to get too personal, he’s got a lot of opinions, refuses to talk bullshit, and won’t at all allow me to back away from sharing my own take on things. He seems to be well-read and completely different from most guys I’ve dated in the past. Especially in the way he verbally spars with me. Never once backing down or giving an inch. Something I can’t get enough of. Since our tiff the day he chopped wood, things have gotten a lot lighter between us. Even as our touches and kisses grow more intense and heated.

Much to my frustration, we haven’t gone further than lengthy tongue tangles and heavy petting despite the threat he made that day. Sexually frustrated to the point of madness, tonight, I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands.

As I study the definition of his Adam’s apple, he takes in the glowing candles, the lit garland, and pallet I made, which consists of throw pillows and a few comforters. Expression most definitely softening, he flits his focus back to me, his lush lips lifting. “You’re so fucking hardheaded.”

“Don’t read too much into it.”

“You’ve been with me every night since you got home. Aren’t there friends you want to see while you’re here?”

“I already told you I didn’t keep pen pals, but as a matter of fact, I did hang out with one of them today at the mall when I got myself a Christmas present. Want to see what it is?”

“Shopping for yourself at Christmas, why doesn’t that surprise me?” He taunts.

“Be nice. I was going to let you be the one to open it,” I tug on the bow, which sits tied in the middle of my present-themed sweater, and slowly release it. Taking his maddening time, he fingers both ribbons, which now lay limply against my chest, while shaking his head in amusement.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Nah, it’s not that lethal, just a little lace,” I grip the hand he now has molded to my hip and guide it under my sweater to cover the cup of my new bra. He instantly starts molding his hand around my breast, his touch tender as his eyes heat.

“We fuck around,” he delivers, voice gravelly, “but you need to know you are beautiful, Serena. So fucking beautiful.”

“So are you, Thatcher,” I run my hands through his hair, loving the feel between my fingers. “Will you grow your hair out so I can see the curl?”

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