Page 56 of The Crush of Christmas Past
“How can I not?” She throws up her arms, exhaling in exasperation. “I'm ju—”
“Stop.” I’m on her before she can tear herself apart any further.
No plan. Zero thought.
Just raw instinct.
I cage her face in both hands and drag her mouth to mine, obliterating the space between us.
Isla doesn’t resist—she responds. Immediately. At full-force.
Our lips collide in a brutal clash of lust and longing, years of choked-down want and buried tension detonating on impact.
Fuck fireworks.
We’re live explosives.
A direct hit from a supernova.
The kiss is nothing like the reverent, romantic ones I forged in my illicit fantasies.
There’s no worship. Only rough, carnal warfare.
She tastes like a contradiction. The sweetest temptation laced with a craving I’ve denied too long. Everything I want—yet nothing I’ve earned.
I pour years of silence, guilt, and restraint into her. She meets me with fire, and something that feels a hell of a lot like hope.
At some point, shrewdness cuts through the frenzy overriding my self-control and begs me to slow down.
Take your time. Stay sane.
Too late. I’m already lost in her.
In defiance of reason, I devour her mouth, tongue plunging deeper, reshaping the past with every stroke. History and heartbreak can’t be kissed into submission, but I’m delusional enough to try. I lap up her moans, swallow each whimper, and strip her taste raw until I own every sugary molecule.
Her cinnamon scent floods my lungs. I inhale sharply, greedy for more. If I could, I’d brand her into my soul.
That thought unleashes something primal. Isla senses it—feeds it—and joins me in the ruin. The kiss turns darker. Harsher. More violent.
Her nails bite into my biceps.Hard.
My hands fist in her hair.Harder.
When her teeth dig into my bottom lip, a feral growl rips from my throat.
That’s the only warning she gets before I hike her leg around my waist and pin her to the tree.
Isla gasps, body seizing, muscles tightening.
We share a breath of stillness as our eyes lock.
That’s all it takes.
Then the storm around us erupts, and she’sonme. Rocking. Writhing. Clawing at my back like she wants to tear me open and crawl inside.
I shift, drop my weight, and drive up into her, meeting her need with force and friction. One hand clamps her hip, grinding her down on every ruthless inch of pressure. The other slides up her front—past her stomach, to her breast, then her neck. Possessive fingers curl around her throat, collaring her in place. My thumb tips her chin up, holding her at the mercy of my mouth.
She whimpers. I curse.
