Page 15 of The Crush of Christmas Past
As our eyes connect, I’m struck by another sizzling jolt.
My stupid heart didn’t get the memo to keep it together tonight.
For a few shared breaths, neither of us speaks. The air thickens, vibrating with a tension I feel on my skin, in my pulse, deep within the pit of my stomach.
Every-freaking-where.
He breaks the silence by clearing his throat. “Can’t sleep?” His voice is a low, raspy rumble that sinks into my bones and brushes up along other places I’d rather not engage in this betrayal of mind and body.
I shrug, forcing a nonchalance I don’t feel. “Cookie emergency.”
He nods toward the tin on the island. “Mom’s cure-all?”
“The one and only.” As I move through the space, I’m hyperaware of his gaze. There is a physicality in his perusal that slides across my bare flesh, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake.
Popping open the metallic lid, I grab a snowflake-shaped cookie and indulge in a bite. Its buttery sweetness melts on my tongue, and I use every ounce of self-control to hold back the moan that threatens to slip out past my lips.
So, so good.
Evangeline’s recycled containers never disappoint. In all my years at the Thorne house, I’ve never found one empty—or worse, packed with rogue sewing supplies.
The sugary reprieve helps me wrestle back around thirty percent of my faculties. The rest have apparently fled the scene for good. I turn and nod at Theo’s drink. “Milk?”
He shakes his head, tilting the mug until amber liquid catches the light. “Something a bit stronger.” His gaze sharpens, glinting with an unreadable energy as he takes a slow sip.
For as long as I’ve known him, Theo has been disciplined to a fault when it comes to alcohol. The man is so Type A, he controls control. The fact he’s on his third—fourth?—drink tonight messes with my internal compass.
“How very merry of you.” I lean against the counter opposite him, mirroring his detached posture, even as my pulse kicks up with the urge to provoke him. “Trying to recover from your team’s charades humiliation?”
“Trying to survive this week.” His eyes slide to my mouth when I take another bite of the cookie, pausing on my lips for enough time to make me heat all over.
My nipples tighten, grazing the fabric of my shirt, so I casually cross my arms, hoping my lack of a bra stays unnoticed.
“Don’t worry.” I force a smile. “The time will pass in a flash.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Before I can ask him to elaborate on the cryptic statement, his gaze drops, skimming over the picture on my front.
“You look…festive.”
“Sexually empowered Mrs. Claus. Courtesy of your sister.” Freeing one arm from my chest, I use it to tug down the hem of my shirt.
As if an inch of fabric can do much for my exposed legs.
I suddenly regret not dressing more warmly for my pantry raid, but I doubt even a full head-to-toe snowsuit would make any difference.
Theo’s focus falls to my socks, so I wiggle my toes to activate the bulbs. “These are all me, of course.”
“You’ve always had a penchant for interactive footwear.” He lets out a low laugh. It’s a familiar sound that reminds me of decadent chocolate.
The urge to taste it assaults my senses.
That’s it. Both my body and mind are grounded when we get back to bed.
But it’s not all bad. Theo’s expression softens for the first time in forever.
If his laughter is velvety sin, his smile is sunlight amid a storm. Bright enough to burn, yet so rare it feels sacred.
