Page 35 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“Yeah, well, I fucking do,” he grinds out, even as he continuously sweeps his calloused finger across my lips. “Jesus, I do.”

“Why?” I croak, his effect on me evident as he crooks his finger and slowly whispers it down my cheek. Sitting side by side, facing one another, our gazes hold in a heavy stare that has my skin tingling and my pulse pounding. He continues to stroke me with a lone finger, sweeping it to trace my chin before gliding it down my throat.

Outlining the shape of my oval necklace, he dips even further, tracing the scoop of my sweater. My breaths draw heavier and heavier as he teases me relentlessly with just a finger. Body alight, my lips part to take more needed breath as his eyes drop to trace the pad of his finger when it dips again. Robbing me of air altogether when he runs it over the swell of each of my breasts. In seconds, I’m a puddle of want as my body starts to pulse with need. The beat lowering between my thighs as he runs his finger back and forth over the skin of my chest. Back and forth, the hypnotic sweep pulling me under.

“Thatch,” I whisper urgently, and his eyes close at the sound, his finger pausing briefly before he slowly reopens them. Inside them resides a fiery jade stare that reeks of something far more dangerous than any exchange before. A warning in his gaze that has my heart thundering with surety of my suspicion before he speaks it aloud.

“I’m trying ... really trying to be a gentleman with you. Something I can admit I’ve never been before.”

Done with the game, wanting to unleash what he’s trying so hard to tame, I swiftly straddle him. Palming his shoulders, I slowly start to rock my hips, adjusting myself to grant my pulsing clit the friction it needs from the rock-hard bulge beneath me as I speak. “Well, don’t start on my account.”

“There you go, playing with fucking fire,” he scolds, stopping my movement.

“Now, where were you?” I say, gripping his finger and pulling it back to the last place he touched, the skin still tingling in his wake.

“Serena,” he objects as I dip and lick along his bottom lip before pulling back.

“All glossed up now, Thatch, just for yo—”

Palming the back of my neck, he cuts my words short with the hard press of his mouth against mine. The contact is like a shot to the chest as he swipes his tongue across the seam of my lips. An instant later, he’s delivering his tongue before it easily finds and tangles with mine in a flawless dance. Our collective moans mingle as the kiss quickly turns. In those first seconds, I lose myself. My panties flood as I begin to move across the bulge beneath me. Moaning into his mouth, I tighten my thighs around him as I get lost in the sensation.

“Serena—”

His kiss is perfect. The pressure, the way he’s running his tongue along mine. The feel of his hair between my fingers, the muscle at my fingertips.

“Serena—”

His clean scent—a mix of soap and freshly cut wood. It’s utterly addicting.

As addicting as his groan, which vibrates on my tongue and in my throat as I capture and suck his. Gently grinding on his hardened cock, he jerks his mouth away again, eyes shut tightly, as he grips my hips hard to stop me.

“That’s why,” he states, his voice coated in lust. “That’s fucking why, Serena.”

“Why what?”

His eyes slowly open, his stare searing while lighting me up. Probing and demanding as he whispers my words back to me. “Just fun, right?”

My chest pumps heavily with the lingering feel of his kisses. It’s then I realize he’s utterly a mess—his hair picked through, his lips swollen. How long were we kissing? Wait ... “What did you just say to me?” I ask, hearing the hint of rejection in my voice.

“I didn’t mean it the way it came out,” he backtracks.

“No, I think you did,” I say, pulling back to glare down at him.

“Maybe I did, but not in the way you’re taking it,” he blows out a breath that hits my tingling skin. “I’m not good with words, Serena. With any of this.”

“I agree. You’re far from smooth, Thatcher,” I move to get off his lap, and he stops me, squeezing both my hips in prompt. As if we already have our own unspoken language, I know exactly what he’s asking even as he remains mute.

“I mean, we can fuck around, and this can be just fun,” I offer, “but I’m not really cool with verbalizing it to the point that it feels cheap.”

“You’re going back to school in a few weeks, right?”

“Three, yeah, so?”

“Okay, so fun ... ‘till then?” he asks, his question seeming ... gentle? It’s his eager return stare and matching tone that has me relaxing slightly.

“I mean, sure. It’s not like I’m looking for a husband, Thatch,” I relay truthfully. He nods easily, though his eyes convey something other than relief at my confession. Palming my neck again, which sends heat straight to my core, he pulls me flush to him, his whisper a balm to the sting he just caused. “I didn’t mean to fuck it up.”

In apology, he takes my lips again, fusing it into me before he deepens it. Not a minute later, he pulls back and shakes his head.

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