Page 100 of The Crush of Christmas Past
As for the image of Theo cleaning me while I sleep?
Yeah. That flips a switch, too.
Not one a more rational version of me would ever entertain touching.No. This impulse is rooted in some instinct straight out of prehistoric times.
Which is ridiculous. Life in that era was riddled with more than its fair share of arousal-dousing problems.
Hygiene. Shelter. Basic human rights.
Under no circumstances should I be getting excited over the idea of Caveman Theo.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, stepping closer. “Your face is on fire.”
“Cavemen,” I mumble, dazed.
He leans in, knuckles digging into the mattress, trapping me between his arms. “You’re thinking about other men while lying in my bed?”
“Cavemen,” I clarify. “They’re extinct. Your jealousy is highly unnecessary.”
“I’m not jealous,” he murmurs, breath hot against my ear, “but I am suddenly feeling territorial.” Every word soaks through my skin. “You always manage to pull on the most primal parts of me. Parts no one else gets through to.”
The swish of fabric is my first clue Theo is robbing me of the comforter’s safety. Cool air kisses my legs a second later.
“So…your preference?”
“What?” I pant, then remind myself to breathe.
“For next time.” Without breaking eye contact, his knuckles brush the inside of my knee, gently nudging it open. “Wake-up call?” The towel, still warm, begins to climb up my thigh. “Care for you while you sleep?” He drags the cloth between my legs, and my hips buck in response. “Or should I leave you dripping while you dream about me?”
My lips part, but I seal them shut in time to stifle the rogue moan rising in my throat.
I’m not sure what makes me blush harder—discovering this kind of dirty talk is my undoing, Theo’s hand in the intimate act of caretaking between my legs, or his assured use ofnext time.
“I can do it!” I snap, plucking the towel from his hand and escaping to the bathroom like the sheets caught fire under me.
Inside the en suite, I slam the door and brace myself against it, pressing a palm to my face.
My cheeks are burning. My breath is shallow.
And whatever part of me is consumed by the temptation to slide my fingers between my legs to relive memories of last night?
That version of Isla is a liability. She needs to be reined in. Immediately.
A cold shower. An intervention. Possibly a spanking.
No—scratch that last one. The little deviant would probably enjoy it too much.
I flick on the lights and drag myself to the sink. A mini walk of shame—except I don’t feel any shame.
What I feel is…complicated.
And what I look like is suspiciously radiant.
A glance in the mirror reveals a woman freshly fucked yet somehow thriving. My hair has more volume than it’s ever dared to hold, my lips are bright red and kiss-swollen, and my skin is practically luminous. There’s also a traitorous sparkle in my eyes that looks alarmingly close to happiness.
A slogan flashes across my mind like an ad campaign.
Sex with Theo Thorne?
