Page 44 of The Bright Side of Christmas
But right now, the look in Adam’s eyes is telling me he very much wants to put his mouth between my legs, and honestly, I want nothing more than tolethim. My fingers itch to move through the hair on his head, to push him against me, to beg him to eat me out until I come on his face.
But that would be crude and probably a little bit rude, so I don’t. Though when he looks up at me, his eyes wide and heated and his full lips parted, my restraint crumbles just a bit.
“You are so fucking beautiful, Wren.”
I blink at him, confused. “What?”
“Every goddamn part of you, gorgeous. Perfect. I should have known, you being my own personal wet dream brought to life, but fuck, you’re more perfect than I could have imagined.” A blush blooms over my cheeks. “I especially like it when I say something like that, and the pretty blush on your face moves down your neck.” He gives me a wicked grin. “Do you know how long I’ve been wondering how far it goes?”
One hand leaves my thigh, and I almost whimper at the loss of his warmth, but then his hand is cupping my breast, lifting it, and stroking a thumb over the nipple. My breath hitches at the caress.
“If it would go down your chest and turn these that same pretty pink?” His fingers meet, pinching and rolling my nipple, and I moan. “Happy to report it does,” he adds. The hand moves to my other nipple, giving it the same treatment. I want to tip my head back, close my eyes, and revel in the pleasure his simple touch is giving me, but I want to remember this moment in vivid detail. He seems to be taking his sweet time, alternating nipplesall the while the thumb of his other hand swipes lazily against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. I tighten, my body desperate for more, for release, and the words tumble from my lips.
“Please, Adam.”
With them, his eyes snap to mine, a teasing grin on his face.
“Please what, baby?” he asks. His hand slides up half an inch, and I whimper. I bite my lip, looking down, not sure of how to respond. I want so much right now, but I don’t know what he is comfortable with. But most of all, I just want his hands on me. I want this neediness to be abated in any way he can.
I take in a breath, trying to steady myself as I look into his eyes and make my request. “Please touch me.”
A small, almost inaudible groan leaves his lips, and his hand leaves my breast to trail down my belly, over my hip, and to my thigh, mirroring where his other hand is. Both shift higher, his thumbs grazing along the crease where my thigh meets my center.
“Where do you want me to touch you, sweetness? Here?” His thumbs are swift, grazing along the close-cut curls, and I nod.
“Yes, yes.” The words are frantic, and he smiles again, but I can’t concentrate on what it might mean, not when his thumbs are moving again, hands sliding up, and he’s urging the digits to tug my folds open, exposing my most intimate parts to his eyes.
“Is this where you want me to touch?” His eyes leave my center for just a moment to lock on mine.
“Yes, please,” I whisper. His look goes almost catlike before he looks straight ahead again. I take in the visual I have as well. This angle is absolute perfection, and I hold my breath for his next move. He’s kneeling on the ground, my legs framing his head, his hands holding me wide, thumbs holding my pussy open for his inspection. I should feel self-conscious—hell, in any other situation with any other man,I would. But the way he groans when the fingers of one hand shift so his thumb can grazeover my center, barely even whispering to me, I can’t seem to find it in me.
“Oh, what I want to fucking do to this,” he murmurs. I clench at the tone of his voice and his words, and a groan leaves his lips again. He must have fuckingseenit.
Again, I shouldn’t be embarrassed by that.
Again, I’m very much not.
“Yes, please,” I whisper.
Again, he looks up at me.
Again, he smiles, but this time, it’s not a kind smile, not a loving smile, not even the smile of a man who knows he’s about to make me come like a freight train. Instead, it’s one of a man who knows he’s about to drive a woman crazy.
“Tell me what you want, Wren.”
The breath stops in my chest, and my brows furrow even though my gut knows where this is going.
“What?”
“Tell me what you want. What will make you feel good?”
I lick my suddenly dry lips and stare at him in feigned confusion. I canfeela deep blush burning my cheeks and moving down my chest, just as he described minutes ago.
“I…I don’t—” I suck in a sharp breath as his thumb grazes over my clit. “That,” I say, nodding quickly. “Do that. Do that again.”
“Do what?” He’s clearly entertained by this game, though I am not. I am becoming quickly frustrated, not just sexually, but also mentally. Why doeseverythingwith us have to be a battle?
Because you like it that way,the voice in my head whispers. I bat her away.
