Page 45 of The Crush of Christmas Past
Either way, my ass is toast.
Because I’m a mature, reasonable adult, I choose actual flames to avoid further contact with Theo.
He curses, arm clamping around my waist to yank me out of the line of fire.
Hard. The move.
But also…wow.
His gruntis rough. Immediate. And then we both have to endure him leaning over me, his chest to my back, his breath haunting my skin, as he snatches the tray from my hands and shoves it into the oven.
When the door shuts, I stumble back, pressing myself deeper into him. His sharp inhale vibrates against my ear, and his fingers dig into my hip.
The growled “I swear to God, Isla…” that follows fries my brain.
It sounds less like a warning and more like a promise. A threat wrapped in a tantalizing invitation.
Hands shaking, I stumble out of his grasp, my heart trying to hammer its way out of my chest. Heat surges low in my stomach as my mind conjures an image so vivid it steals my breath.
Theo. Gripping my waist. Bending me over. His perfect composure stripped bare as he loses himself in me.
Now, lying here in the dim glow of Asher’s room, the pulse between my legs flares back to life. All my thoughts are soaked in Theo—his scent, his voice, the feel of his body molded against mine.
I can still sense him. Everywhere and nowhere all at once.
With a frustrated groan, I yank the pillow from my face and hurl it across the room. It hits the wall with a dull thud before sliding to the floor. The burst of energy fails to temper the needy sensation curling through my body.
No. I’m not doing this. I’m not thinking about him.
The mantra fails, crumbling beneath the weight of want. I spiral deeper into depravity, flames licking at my skin, thick heat pooling low inside me. My blood is made of gasoline, and it’s begging for a match. Every sense is dialed toeleven, nerves buzzing with a volatile kind of energy I can’t contain. Or control.
My thighs press together, desperate for friction, chasing relief. Delicate cotton brushes over my center as my pajama shorts shift. The faint scrape of fabric makes my legs twitch.
Maybe if I just…
Take the edge off?
Purge the feeling, so I can focus and create in peace?
Get off—then get back to work.
It’s a logical plan.Economical, really.
Plus, the house is finally quiet. Asher, my roommate in name only thanks to his nightly Romeo routine with Sienna, is currently sneaking through her window again. Jovie and Willow are hosting a dance class sleepover at their apartment, while Evangeline and Graham continue to make the holiday party circuit. With Felix and Rowan only treating the house as a place to grab free food, and Theo too wrapped up in his business to come up for air, the coast is clear.
Five minutes. One orgasm.
That’s all I need to hopefully stop thinking in graphic rom-com—or, rather,cringy porn—montages.
As my hand begins a languid descent down my stomach, fingers dipping under the waistband of my shorts, I focus on one simple rule:No thoughts of Theo allowed.
Except, the moment I close my eyes, here he comes.
Ready to make me come.
My body—wired to continuously betray and torture me—conjures him in infuriatingly high definition: the sharp angles of his jaw, the dark waves of his hair, those green eyes that blaze when he’s angry. Or aroused.
With a tortured whimper, I force my hand to still.
