Page 111 of Booked for the Holidays
I kiss the top of her knee and rip, literally rip, her underwear away. “You want it raw and rough? The second I slide inside you with nothing between us, that’s game fucking over, Bridget. No other man will ever get to feel your sweet, tight, pussy again, because you’re mine. I’m yours. And I don’t fucking share.” I press the head against her entrance, damp arousal coating the tip. “One more inch and you’re never going to get me to leave.”
“Please,” she begs. Her thighs quake. Her eyes squeeze closed. “Only you, Theo. Take me. I’m yours.”
“Open your eyes,” I murmur. “I want to see you. All of you.”
She blinks, smiling as her focus returns to me. I swallow and grip her calf, rocking forward half a degree, sliding inside.
Every inch of her is heaven; warm, wet, tight. Every thrust is another reminder of how perfect she is. Every moan is music to my ears; a beautiful orchestra. A melodic symphony.
They bounce through the room. She’s loud,so fucking loud, and keeps saying things like,thank youandright thereandyours, forever, over and over again.
She’s close.
My hand moves to her neck, applying pressure to her windpipe. Her eyes widen.
“You with me, angel?”
“I’m with you,” she answers, eyes hazy and smile wide. “Forget jewelry. The only thing I need around my neck are your hands. Harder, Theo. You know you want to. And I want it, too.”
It’s the last piece of composure I have and I watch it crash to the floor. My fingers push,harder. I thrust,harder. I bend down and kiss her,harder. Ruining and ruining and ruining until I hear the shift in her breathing.
“Thatta girl,” I whisper in her ear. My thumb snakes over her body, pressing her clit. “Once you finish around my cock, angel, I’m going to fill you with my come, feed you dinner, then fill you up again.”
That does her in. She lets out a sob. A moan. Her hands grip the armrest of the couch as she tightens around me, convulsing as she comes down from her high.
“Yours, Theo,” she whispers. Her heels push into my lower back, bringing me closer to her body. It’s like we’re one person now. When she looks me in the eye and I see the satisfaction there, I trip over the edge too, following her down.
“That was…” Bridget starts. She licks her lips. Rolls her hips into mine. “Incredible.”
I untangle the lights from her arms. My fingers run over the marks left behind, kissing each spot as I pull the strand away.
“Dinner time. Then round two. Forget the earlier plans.”
FORTY-THREE
THEO
“You’regood at a lot of things,” Bridget says. “But you’re exceptional at cooking.”
I scoop another portion of pasta onto her plate. “High praise from the woman who has a line of people out the door of her shop, waiting for baked goods.”
“Baking is different,” she explains. “Cooking involves timing and balancing eight different parts of the meal. You can’t go socialize with someone and expect things to be in the same place when you get back. Look at the latkes! I couldn’t even do that.”
“You also had a sous chef who was socializing and not paying attention,” I add. “I can change things as I go with cooking. With baking, it’s a lot of guesswork and estimation. You don’t know how they turn out until the end. I couldn’t make muffins to save my life, and you do them perfectly.”
“I’ll make the muffins, you make the chicken,” she proposes.
I stick out my hand and she shakes it, holding onto my palm for an extra second. “Deal. Where’s Ziggy tonight? You could have brought him.”
“He’s with Chandler. She offered to watch him for me.”
“That was nice of her.”
“Yeah, until she told me how weird it is to have a dog stare at you while you have sex. I don’t want to knowhowshe has experience with it, but I took her advice.”
I grimace. “That’s not a visual I need to see.”
“You’re telling me,” Bridget giggles. She stands, bringing her dirty dish to the sink.
