Page 112 of Booked for the Holidays
“You can leave the dishes. I’ll get them later.”
“You cooked. I can clean.”
“Yeah, you can, but you’re also wearing my shirt and when you turn around and reach up, I can see your ass. And I really want to touch it.”
She sets the plate down and walks to me, climbing into my lap and resting her head on my shoulder. “This has been a good first date,” she says softly.
“I’m weeks behind schedule.” I kiss the top of her head. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“You’ll let me use the Christmas lights on you?”
“I wouldn’t be opposed. No, this is about what I said at the mall the other day. About you being around Mac more. I’d love for you to be here for dinner and on Sunday afternoons. I’m not asking you to step into a parent role, but I want Mac to get accustomed to seeing us together.”
Bridget is beautiful when she looks at me. Bright eyes and a wide grin. Care and adoration in the kiss she presses to my cheek. The trail of her hand down my chest, resting over my heart.
“I’d like that, too,” she whispers. Powerful words magnified in the quiet room. They notch their way inside me, breaking down all the walls I’ve ever put up. Crumbling the facade I’ve worked so hard to keep firmly in place. Now that I have a woman who sees me and understands me, now that I haveher, I don’t want anything standing in the way.
“Okay. Maybe we can go grab her from her sleepover together tomorrow morning.”
“You’re in charge. I’ll follow whatever lead you want to take.”
I kiss her then, tenderly, thankfully, utterly confused how a person as wonderful as Bridget Boylston ever found their way into my life. She answers me in return, vigor and fervor behind the grip on my shirt. The shift of her hips to straddle my lap. The fingers tugging the tufts of hair at the nape of my neck, causing me to moan and close my eyes.
“Want you,” I mumble, standing up. I lift her with ease, calves wrapping around my middle like a pesky vine. I drop her on the counter and spread her legs, letting out a puff of air at the sight.
Every time I see Bridget like this—a hickey on her neck, hair tousled and askew, a lazy smile on her face and damp, parted thighs—I think I die and go to heaven.
“Want you so bad,” I add. “Here.” I touch low beneath her belly and she hums, satisfied. “And here, too.” I touch her heart, palm splayed out over the old, tattered shirt starting a renewed life on her body.
“You have both,” she answers earnestly. “You have for a while.”
Her legs drive me closer. Nearer. This isn’t the frenzied passion I expected. It’s a consideration. Patient.Loving. Two people who care for each other deeply. Nails drag up my bicep, marking me with a temporary tattoo I’d gladly make permanent. My tongue swipes down her neck, a sheen of sweat on her throat. Her breath is warm against my ear. I shift forward, ready to take her again, the second of many, many times. Forever, maybe.
“What is it with you and counters?” she murmurs. I chuckle, a kiss dropped to her chest.
“You’re irresistible, I guess.”
“You resisted me for years,” she counters.
“I resistedeveryonefor years,” I correct her. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to let in.”
There’s something else hanging on the tip of my tongue, something else close to slipping out, but I don’t have the chance. Bridget scoots toward me, back flat on the granite. Legs wide, my heart in her hands. Her heels press into the small of my back, encouraging me along. I huff and nod, sliding straight inside.
Our groans are synchronized. Our movements are coordinated. Her hand, in my hair. Mine, on her neck. Her fingers, clawing my back. Mine, rubbing where she’s wet,so wet, and sensitive. Her gasps, my grunts. The building rhythm, the rise of pleasure.
“More,” she whispers. “I want all of you, Theo.”
“You have all of me,” I get out, between thrusts and pants. Between kisses and pleas. “Feel good?”
“Perfect. It’s perfect.”
Her shirt—my shirt—is up near her neck. Bunched up, material wrinkled, chest on display. Her hair is a tangle of beautiful brown. I run my fingers through the strands and give a tug to her scalp.
“Theo,” she whispers. Her hand taps my shoulder. “Theo.” Her voice becomes sharper and I freeze, scanning her face and down her body.
“What? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
“N-no. Your phone. It won’t stop buzzing.”
