Page 79 of Booked for the Holidays
My cheeks warm at our position. I jut my chin up and stare into Theo’s eyes. A scalding shade of brown that wasn’t present seconds ago stares back, unblinking. I suck in a sharp breath and lean in closer.
Closer.
Closer.
“Bridget,” he whispers. Soft, hushed, only I can hear the word. It mimics a caress down my skin, fingers teasing their way from my slightly-tangled hair to my hips, dancing across my curves.
It’s a lover’s touch. Cradling my cheek. Staring devotedly into my eyes, like I’m the only one in the world. A tender embrace hugging me tight, similar to the intimacy between two individuals who know each other wholly. Completely. Deeply.
It’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard from him. A beautiful melody of hope, of passion, of pain.
Pain of not being able to do exactly what he wants.
Further, still, I lean. Even closer, drawn by an invisible force. The tug of a string. The push of a gentle breeze, guiding me and alighting me.Beckoningme. His right arm moves, palm landing directly on the counter. I’m caged in, body virtually fused to his. Heat crackles from his muscles, the resistance of staying put. Ifeelthe blaze burning me, marking me on its devastating path.
“Theo,” I answer.
A verbal blockade prevents me from speaking further. I don’t need to. Our actions speak volumes, emotions and sensations conveying what mere dialogue cannot. Words wouldn’t be sufficient. Only touch and taste and smell and kisses and intertwined limbs, breaths mingling as one would work.
It’s only him and me. Gazes locked. Heartbeats synchronized. Pulse racing. Not another soul in the world. His eyes flick over my face. They move from my colored cheeks to the curve of my mouth. The freckles over my nose. They drag down to the column of my throat, the space beneath my ear. He licks his lips.
Everything around us dissolves, fading away into mist and whittling away to nothing. Theo and the searing, white-hot intensity passing through my veins are the only things that remain.
I want to kiss him.
I want him to kissme.
The realization, the desire, the frantic, desperate urge barrels into me. My insides explode like dynamite. Yesterday was sensual. His thumb. My tongue. Parted thighs.
This is different. This is tender. Exploratory. His neck tilts down, the slightest, most indistinguishable inclination. All I can think about is his mouth meeting mine. His hands fisting my hair, dark brown waves tangled within the grasp of beautifully inked skin. Our hips pressing together, Theo possessing me…Claimingme… as if I were his and he were mine.
I push up on my toes. Is this the moment? The kiss that sweeps me off my feet, surrounded by books of other poetic gestures? The moment in our story I’ll point to and say, “that’s it. That’s when I knew”? His fingers reach out and drag up my cheek, finding their way to my hair.
A flash goes off, a bright, blinding light. Stars form in my vision and I blink, clearing away the spots.
“What a perfect shot!”
The voice hurdles me out of the fantasy, out of pretend, and back to earth.
“Shit,” I curse, trying to step away. As I move, I knock into Theo’s arm, locking me in place. He withdraws immediately, accommodating my escape with a flex of his jaw, the twitch of his hand, and the bob of his throat.
He grabs the whisk, returning to his task. A red color creeps up his skin, settling on the nape of his neck, below the tufts of his hair. I turn my back to the cameras so I can wash my hands.
It’s an unnecessary act, one designed to give me an opportunity to level out my breathing. Quiet my sprinting heart. Avoid thinking about the moisture pooling in my underwear, images of strong, deft fingers gripping my hips tightly as I’m lifted onto the counter eradicated from my memory.
“I think we’ve got everything we need here. We’ll take fifteen minutes then head over to the hardware store for the next batch of photos,” a photographer says. The group watching us begins to pack up their materials, folding up lights and turning off their cameras. They talk amongst themselves, ignoring us and our incomplete baking.
Theo adds chocolate chips to the bowl. “We might as well finish this, right?”
“Right. You can pour it into the pan now.” My voice is rocky, outlined with longing and lust. I speak as if the moment before was a dream. A single action–an infinitesimal touch–has sent me into a downward spiral, on a collision course for devastation.
Theo’s forearms flex, sculpted muscles hardening as he scoops the batter into the greased, glass pan.
Strong. Masculine. Controlled. Thorough. All adjectives to describe his tenacity and focus. The careful attention to detail, prevalent in the way he rotates the bowl ninety degrees to get every ounce of chocolate into the pan. He slides the dish into the oven in a fluid motion. Upon completion, his eyes meet mine for a second time.
His fingers dip into the bowl, salaciously coating the digits in leftover batter. Theo steps closer, reforging our contact. The tip of his boots nudge the tip of my sneakers.
“All done,” he says. Husky, low, an undertone to the observation. “But I think we’re missing something.”
