Page 91 of The Crush of Christmas Past
Whatever he wants from me?
I want it more.
Judging by the way his eyes narrow, lips curling with sly intent, he’s reading every desire I’m projecting.
His fingers drift across my cheek, tracing the flush he’s pulled to the surface. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, then lets his knuckles skim my temple.
It’s not a sexual touch, but I shudder anyway.
His exploration continues along my brows, my eyelids, the bridge of my nose. He trails my freckles, sketching a pattern across my skin with the tip of his index finger. Maybe he’s memorizing the constellations. Or, perhaps, he’s marking his territory.
My lashes drop. Not from modesty.
More like…malfunction.
When his thumb finds my bottom lip, it lingers. Just long enough for me to give it a teasing lick.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs as his hand settles at my throat.
“You’re the bigger threat here,” I whisper.
To every part of me.
My pulse thrashes beneath his palm, confessing secrets I don’t dare speak.
How badly I want him.Us.
How much I need this to stay simple. One wild, perfect moment.
No meaning. No promises. No aftermath.
Too bad I’m lying to myself.
Nothing about my feelings for Theo has ever been simple.
Whatever he hears in the beat of my heart shatters his control.
Sensing my permission—or is it perhaps submission?—he pounces, slamming his mouth to mine.
Desperation wrapped in dominance, the kiss is a contradiction. A kind of surrender. Hard and soft. Fast enough to steal my breath, but slow enough to make me savor the rush behind the theft.
My lips part wider, yielding to his tongue, inviting him deeper. His hand glides to my hair, fingers threading through the strands before gripping the back of my head to hold me in place.
Our kisses spiral. Stripped of rhythm or order, they’re reduced to senseless frenzy. Instinct snarls past reason, and the shameless noises I’m spilling onto his tongue sound like nothing I’ve ever made before.
Lit with need, I drag my hand to the hem of his Henley and tug up. Somewhere between his stomach and his neck, the fabric snags on pectoral muscles.
“Off,” I whine. “Naked. Now.”
He hisses out a rough “Are you sure?”
I glare up at him—lips swollen, mind numb—and let out the most undignified sound of frustration. “So sure. We’re done with the Q&A portion of the evening.Strip.”
He complies with my request, yanking the shirt over his head in one smooth swipe.
And…shit.
I gasp. Groan. Gape.
