Page 35 of Booked for the Holidays
The look he gives me is serious, borderline sinister. He’s never looked at me like this before. He hums, a low, deep melody I feel in my belly and beyond. He inclines his head, a kiss of feverish warmth tickling my neck, just below the shell of my ear.
“I wouldn’t be opposed to getting on my knees for you, Boylston, if that’s where you want me. But it wouldn’t just be to ask for forgiveness.”
I suck in a breath and look away, because how the hell am I supposed to respond?
Yes, please?
No, don’t, let me get on mine instead?
Go fuck yourself?
A combination of all three but primarily the first and second because this man is both confusing as hell and turning me on more than anyone has in years with just his words?
“Bridget!”
Chandler’s voice yanks us out of the moment, out of the fantasy beginning to form in my head. Of Theo, looking up at me, hands on my hips and skirt bunched at my waist. The drag of his teeth on my skin, whispering “forgive me?” into the apex of my thighs followed by an apologetic kiss, and another, and another.
He blinks and steps back. The air becomes colder the further away he moves. I let out an exhale and my lungs scream in relief. I give my friend a wave and hold up a finger, letting her know I need another minute.
“What else would you do on your knees?” I ask, striking a match and deciding to play with fire.
An arsonist, I should call myself, toeing this dangerous line. A spill of gasoline. A flame ready to engulf every surrounding inch.
“Your meeting tonight has given me lots of new ideas.”
“Guess you didn’t completely hate it.”
“Guess not.”
Two beats of silence. My skin, burning. His eyes, roaming. A twitch of his hand like he’s about to reach out and pull me to him. Another exhale, another moment ofmaybe, and I return to reality.
“Why don’t I give you a heads up next month when we’re planning on meeting? Is that a good compromise?” I ask.
A neutral topic, not the salacious thoughts currently running through my head.
What would the press of his thumb on the back of my neck feel like?
What would his smile look like when he’s satisfied and pleased?
Is he a talker, or would he communicate through grunts and groans?
“I accept your terms.” He digs in his pocket and pulls out his phone. “Here. Put your number in.”
“You don’t have it from the group chat? There have been close to a hundred messages.”
“Your belief in my ability to distinguish who is who in a group chat I haven’t looked at is appreciated.”
I laugh and hold out my hand. Theo drops the device, fingers brushing over mine, featherlight, a gentle glide. When he touches me, whether accidentally or on purpose, he leaves behind an invisible mark, a reminder he’s been there. My skin singes long after he’s gone.
A quick tap on the screen, I type in my name and number, passing the phone back over. “There you go.”
“I’ll let you get back to this.”
“You barge in and you don’t want to stay? Are you sure? Maybe you could learn a few things,” I say.
It happens in slow motion. Theo’s eyes rake down my body. My hair. My shirt. The skirt that suddenly feels far too short. My thighs. My feet. Thenup, up, up, up. When he reaches my face again, he licks his top lip and smiles.
“Trust me, Bridget. It may have been a few years, but I don’t need to learn anything.”
