Page 46 of The Crush of Christmas Past
No Theo.
I repeat the words like a prayer, a command, and even a curse, but banishing him from my head is impossible. Just the thought of his name sends another rush of heat pulsing through me.
Before I can stop it—before I can stopmyself—I give in. The kitchen scene, sharpened by need and twisted by my vibrant imagination, claims me.
“Stay like that, Sunshine.”
Instead of moving away—like he had in reality—Theo grips my hip to hold me in place. The fingers of his other hand twist in my hair, pulling my head back so he can kiss me with the brutal intensity I crave from him. Mouth devouring. Lips trailing fire. Teeth branding my skin. He consumes me so wholly he infuses himself into my blood, my bones, my breath.
Everywhere.
Logic abandons me. All reason flees. I’m reduced to sounds and sensations, fingers working faster as Theo takes control.
My touch is urgent. Determined.
But it’s still not enough. Not nearly enough to get me there.
I need more. I need…
Theo pulling my skirt up, shoving my underwear to the side, sinking into me so he can fuck me from behind. His voice pours praise and filth into my ear as his muscles flex against my back with every brutal thrust. The soundtrack? His low groans, my ragged pants, the obscene slap of skin on skin. A rhythm of reckoning. Each drive of his hips is a demand. A claim. A call to surrender.
And when I give in—when I let go and break for him—he follows, losing himself in me.
“You’re mine, Sunshine. All of you. Mine.”
The erotic fantasy shreds through me, unleashing a full-body shudder, and I start to shatter. My free hand claws at the sheets, searching for something—anything—to groundme as my spine bows off the bed and my legs tremble. Lips sealed tight, I fight to keep his name from tearing free from my throat.
I fail.
Alarmingly fast, I’ve gone fromNo TheotoYes, Theo.
Please, Theo.
Through my haze, I register a softclick. There’s a slight shift in air pressure as the door swings open. My body stiffens, sensing before seeing.
A gruff curse slices through the rhythm of my panted breaths.
I freeze. My eyes snap open.
Heart. Lodged. In. My. Throat.
One beat. Two. Three.
Shit.
Theo—the real, live one—stands in the doorway, upside down from my vantage point on my back. In one hand, he grips the familiar tattered ornament box, its edges crushed under the force of his grasp. His other hand is white-knuckling the doorframe, fingers clamped around the wood in a vise grip.
Pupils blown wide, his gaze is shadow and storm. He’s not looking—he’sdevouring. Stripping me down, with nothing but his dark stare.
Chest heaving. Jaw ticking.
He looks as unhinged as I feel.
“Fuck, Isla.” His eyes drop, zeroing in on the hand I’ve forgotten to pull away. The view makes his nostrils flare.
“Shit.” I instantly yank my fingers from my shorts and roll off the bed in a graceless tangle of limbs. “What are you—” My question cuts off as I crash to the floor in a horny heap of mortification.
“Ornaments,” he says, his voice clipped. Lifting the box in a half-hearted offering, he makes no other move.
