Page 81 of Merry Me
“Mmm,” he murmured against my lips, the sound low and pleased and thoroughly unfair. “Not flustered, huh?”
“Shut up,” I mumbled, too breathless to sound convincing.
His mouth trailed to my jaw, brushing kisses along the edge, softer now, more intimate. Like he was tracing old memories across my skin. I tipped my head back against the wall, unable to stop the involuntary whimper that escaped when he reached that sensitive spot just below my ear.
Fuck, I hated him. Okay…maybe I didn’t hate him. But I did hate how good he was at this. Atme.
“Easton,” I managed weakly, breath hitching as his mouth skimmed the hollow of my throat, “someone could see us.”
“No one’s looking,” he whispered, lips ghosting just beneath my earlobe. “They’re all too busy arguing over eggnog ratios and whetherDie Hardis a Christmas movie.”
“It’s not,” I said automatically, though my voice was breathless and my brain was barely functioning.
“Agreed,” he murmured, placing a featherlight kiss just below my jaw. “It’s just a winter action film with festive lighting.”
“This is a terrible idea,” I said, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer anyway.
“Awful,” he agreed, nuzzling the curve of my neck. “Disastrous, really. But…”
I felt the smirk before I heard the words.
“Tradition.”
“Your favorite excuse,” I gasped, shivering as he nipped playfully at my collarbone.
He grinned, completely unrepentant, his fingers still curved lightly around my waist. “Can’t argue with sacred holiday laws.”
“Oh, I can definitely argue,” I muttered, even as my hands clutched at his shirt like a woman thoroughly compromised.
He thought he’d won. That one kiss—okay, technically two—was enough to knock me off-balance.
And…fine. Maybe ithadrattled me.
Maybe it had melted a few brain cells and made my knees feel suspiciously like pudding.
But I still had something to prove.
I wasn’t just going to fall back into orbit like some swoony little satellite.
I had control. I had logic. I had a plan.
I reached up without breaking eye contact and yanked the mistletoe clean off the ceiling.
He blinked, caught somewhere between amused and impressed. “You realize that’s cheating, right?”
I didn’t answer. Just stepped forward—slow, deliberate—and lowered the mistletoe until it hovered right above the zipper of his pants.
Easton went utterly still.
“Nat—”
“You dared me, didn’t you?” I said softly, lifting one eyebrow tauntingly. “Still think I’m scared?”
Easton’s breath hitched. His usual smug grin faltered for a second, replaced by something darker, more reverent. “Okay,” he rasped, his voice suddenly hoarse. “Point made.”
“Good,” I whispered, the word floating between us like the brush of a fingertip over bare skin.
I sank gracefully to my knees in front of him, my eyes never leaving his, the mistletoe still dangling between my fingers…held like a crown or a dare or both. His gaze tracked me the whole way down, and when I looked up at him through my lashes, something inside him snapped taut.
