Page 118 of Merry Me
I exhaled sharply. “I hate you.”
But fuck, he wasn’t wrong. I was definitely doing all of that.
Every nerve in my body was tuned to him, strung tight and thrumming. I wasn’t pretending anymore. I wanted him—completely, unapologetically—and he knew it.
I could’ve stopped him. Could’ve given him a look or brushed his hand away.
But I didn’t.
Because I didn’t need to test if I was ready.
I was.
Not just for this slow, torturous game we were playing beneath the table. Not just for the way his fingers curled against my thigh like they belonged there. But for all of it. For him. For us.
That certainty didn’t scare me now. It thrilled me.
And judging by the way his hand moved—higher now, slower, full of dark confidence—he could feel it, too.
His fingers skimmed the inside of my thigh again, retreating just enough to make me bite down on a gasp, then rising once more…teasing, testing, tempting. Every pass edged closer to where I wanted him most.
My thighs shifted…subtle, sure. I opened just enough to tell him everything he needed to know. Not an accident. Not an oversight.
An invitation.
He shifted beside me, his breath brushing the shell of my ear, and his voice followed—low, pleased, laced with heat.
“Still breathing, sweetheart?”
“Barely,” I managed, my teeth clenched in a smile that was definitelynotfor the toast.
“Good,” he whispered. “The moment we’re alone, I’m gonna peel you apart, spread you wide, and fuck you so slow, so fucking deep, my cock will ruin that tight, dripping pussy. You’ll be a shuddering wreck, choking on filthy moans, begging me to pound you harder ’til you’re nothing but a slick, screaming mess, owned by every inch of me.”
Holy fuck. I’d never heard hotter words in my life.
I choked on a moan, my core throbbing, slick heat pooling. At least my clothes were still soaked from the snow…maybe the damp fabric would hide the fact that my panties were soaked through.
“I’m going to kill you,” I breathed in a shaky voice.
His chuckle slid over my skin. “Worth it.”
I darted a glance around the table, heart racing, half expecting someone to notice the way Easton’s hand was teasing me senseless, his slow, deliberate strokes along the inside of my thigh setting my skin on fire.
But no one looked. No one noticed. The oblivious chatter around us only cranked the heat higher, like we were getting away with something obscene in plain sight.
And fuck, that made it so much hotter.
He leaned back, sipping his wine with that smug, panty-melting grin, like he wasn’t unraveling me under the table. But his hand stayed, fingers curling with possessive intent, pressing just enough to make my breath hitch. Each subtle flex screamedmine, and I was already so wet, so ready, I could barely keep from grinding against him right there.
His thumb slid higher, boldly slipping just under the edge of my soaked panties—teasing the slick, sensitive skin so close to where I ached for him. My thighs quaked, a soft, needy whimper escaping before I could stop it.
He heard it.
I saw it in the way his eyes darkened, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his jaw tightening like he was fighting not to drag me out of that room and fuck me senseless against the nearest wall.
I wasn’t the only one unraveling.
His voice dropped, a low, husky purr laced with sinful amusement. “Did I tell you how much I fucking love that dress?”
