Page 99 of The Crush of Christmas Past
I’m not in my best friend’s room—my makeshift home for the past week.
No.
I’m in his brother’s bed.
And it smells likeus.
Multiple orgasms. One unforgettable mistake.
A smug, contented pulse flickers low in my core, purring that the slip-up was worth it. Clearly, that part of me hasn’tchecked in with my heart. Not that I blame it—I’ve also resolved to ignore that pesky little organ until this vacation ends.
My whole future is shifting. The least I can do is enjoy this snow globe fantasy for a few more days. Finish the year off with a bang—no pun intended—then start fresh.
No distractions. No regrets.
A firm grip on reality.
The spot beside me is empty, but the pillow is still warm. I run my fingers over the imprint Theo left behind, resisting the urge to bury my face in it and chase his heat.
To prevent myself from barrelling toward highly unhinged territory, I scan the dim room for something to wear. My gaze snags on the Cotton & Chaos shirts, now folded in neat piles on Theo’s desk. Leave it to the meticulous control junkie to turn our post-coital crime scene into a branded lifestyle shoot.
On the nightstand beside me, dead center in my line of sight, is the custom top.
Theo’s.
I slip it on, pretending I’m acting out of mere convenience. I mean, the thing isright here.And so much more comfortable than my dress.
Who am I to shun practicality?
The luxurious fabric envelops me, caressing places that are still sensitive. Sore.
His.
Three tiny letters, yet they trigger a decadent kind of thrill in places that hold memories of his hands. And his mouth. Also—
The click of the bathroom door puts an end to my spiral.
Theo leans in the doorway, bare-chested, dark gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. The grooves of his muscles catch the light, guiding my gaze to the deep V carved down his abdomen.The lines vanish beneath his waistband in a very suggestive, thoroughly distracting manner.
Forcing my attention to safer territory, I fixate on his damp hair. It’s brushed back from his face, save for a few wayward strands clinging to his forehead.
He looks freshly showered. And I can’t help but stupidly wonder if the goal was to scrub me off.
Isn’t that exactly what you want?
I search his eyes, but they’re too busy examining his name on my chest.
The smile that cuts across his face is devastating. It confirms my hopes—and fears.
He didn’t rinse me off. He’s stillwearingme.
“You were sleeping so soundly, but I was worried you’d get uncomfortable.” He holds up a hand towel. One side of it is noticeably damp. “Spent the last five minutes debating whether to wake you…or handle things myself so you could keep resting.”
At his words, my eyes widen and my thighs clench. Heat floods my cheeks as I shift my hips, focus zeroing in on the mess between my legs.
I’m sticky in a way that should feel gross.
It doesn’t. Instead…it’s a major turn-on.
