Page 91 of Booked for the Holidays
“I understand.” I lean forward, my lips meeting his. He sighs, a content hum against my mouth. “She’s pissed at you, though.”
“For what?”
“Going out with someone other than me.”
Theo smiles, forehead resting against mine. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”
THIRTY-SIX
BRIDGET
Theo divesto the bottom of the pool to retrieve the shirt he yanked off me.
“I prefer you without it,” he says. “But just in case.”
We slip back inside, walking silently down the hall. His hand is laced through mine and we’re careful not to make any noise. When we reach Theo’s bedroom, he closes the door and locks it. I follow him to the bathroom and shiver, drenched clothes weighing me down every step.
“Shower or bath?”
“Holy cow,” I exhale. “Your bathroom is huge. Did you do all of this yourself? A soaker tubanda walk-in shower? You’re a serial killer, aren’t you?”
He rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest. I can see the outline of abdominal muscles through his drenched, navy-blue shirt. “Pick, Boylston, or I’ll pick for you.”
“Shower,” I say. “Definitely shower.”
Theo nods and turns the knob on, steam forming and fogging up his glasses and the mirrors over the double-sink vanity. His arm stretches out, testing the water. Satisfied with the temperature, he pulls his shirt off and throws it onto the hamper sitting in the corner.
I’m left with an exquisitely bare upper body.
My throat dries. Theo is… beautiful.
He’s toned, tan. An athletic shape without being overly muscular or broad. His tattoos extend up his shoulder and across his pectoral muscles, covering the skin all the way to his heart. Hair dusts his chest and down his stomach, disappearing under the waistband of his jeans.
“Where’s your Bowie tattoo?” I ask. His lips quirk and he turns slightly, tapping the space above his bicep.
“Tattoo twins,” he muses.
My eyes dip and I see a long scar, from his right hip up over his abdominal. A white, jagged line. It’s faded slightly, almost translucent, but still there. Still a memory. I walk toward him.
“Can I?” I say.
His head jerks in acceptance and I don’t think he’s breathing.
My fingers run along the shape of the damage. I trace it from end to end. It’s smooth, slightly raised, warm to the touch. I crouch down, pressing a kiss to the top of the mark. Another kiss, and another. Theo’s body shakes with restraint. With release. With finally letting go of a hidden burden he’s kept to himself. I work up his stomach, over his chest, across his clavicle. My lips brand every inch of skin I can find until I’m on my tiptoes, kissing his neck, then his cheek.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, lips against his. “Perfect. Thank you for letting me see this part of you.”
“There’s not a part of me I wouldn’t show you. That’s what’s been happening all these weeks, why I can’t get you out of my head. I want you to see this side. I want you tohavethis side no one else does. Thank you for making it so easy to let you in,” he whispers in return.
He pulls my shirt off again, chuckling as the material gets stuck in the ends of my hair. He presses his chest against mine and kisses me. It’s more gentle than the pool. It’s learning, patient. Making mental notes of what I like, what I don’t care for. Theo picks up on my cues quickly, and when his hand plays with the drawstring of my—his—shorts, he pauses to look at me.
“Yes.” I nod. “Please.”
He licks his lips and his eyes blaze. “You sure?”
“Positive.”
Dropping to his knees, his fingers loosen the material around my waist. It’s a process that happens in slow motion, when all I want is for him to rip them off. He slides the shorts down my thighs, helping me step out and shove the clothing away. His hand runs up my bare leg, gripping my hips.
