Page 88 of Booked for the Holidays
He backs me through the doorway, mouth still on mine, hands sliding under my oversized t-shirt again. His voice is rough against my ear. “I’m going to keep you up here for days, Firefly. I’m going?—”
Click.Another door.
We both freeze before turning our gazes toward the sound.
Beck stands in the hallway, barefoot, hair sticking up in every direction, holding a mug like he’s been living here for months.
He blinks at us once—me pressed against Liam, coat half-off, t-shirt bunched up in his fists—and lifts his mug in a lazy salute.
“Wow. Don’t stop on my account.”
I slap a hand over my face. Liam’s forehead drops to my shoulder with a muttered curse. “Goddammit, Beck. Why are you here?”
Beck just sips his coffee—from a mug he stole from my apartment, obviously—and shrugs. “You said I could crash here last night, genius. You know, so you two could have alone time at Juniper’s.”
Beck points the mug at Liam like he’s making a business deal. “You two figure out where you want me. Her place, your place—whatever. Just text me when it’s safe to come back for my stuff.” He slides past us with the world’s smuggest grin, patting Liam’sarm like he’s congratulating him for surviving Christmas chaos. “And don’t do it on my flannel blanket.”
Then, he disappears down the stairs humming “Jingle Bells” like a cheerful elf.
When the door clicks behind him, the apartment falls silent again. It’s just me, Liam, and the sound of my heart banging against his chest.
Liam sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, then looks at me—that wicked, charming grin back in place.
“Firefly,” he murmurs, voice already dark again as his hands slide back under my shirt, “door locked. Now.”
TWENTY-NINE
LIAM
“Door locked. Now,”I rumble against her neck. My nose brushes that spot just below her ear. The one that makes her knees go soft and her breath hitch in the way that drives me fucking insane.
She spins, flicks the bolt shut with a sharp click, then turns back to me. Arms crossed. Cheeks flushed. Eyes daring me to test her patience.
I take two steps and press her gently into the door she just locked. One hand by her head, the other sliding under her shirt. She’s warm and soft under my palm, heartbeat pounding at my touch.
She tries for a glare, but it slips when I brush my mouth along her jaw. Her fingers twist in my shirt like she can’t decide if she wants to shove me away or drag me closer.
“This is such a book boyfriend move,” she says, breath hitching when my thumb strokes over her ribs, just beneath her bra. “Secret wine bar. Secret apartment. Grand gestures for days.”
I grin against her skin. “Yeah? You sound like you don’t hate it.”
She huffs, her laugh caught somewhere in her throat. “God, you’re impossible.”
My heart kicks in my ribs. I can have the bar, the name, the flat next door, but none of it means shit if she doesn’t want me. If she doesn’t say it like she did last year when I was too much of a coward to take it.
“Say you want me anyway,” I whisper against her mouth, my voice low but it cracks a little at the edge.Please.
She looks at me then, soft and a little wild, lips parted. I swear she can see every stupid, selfish hope running through my veins. Her hands slide up into my hair like she’s trying to hold my head together so I don’t fall apart.
“I always want you,” she says, quiet but so certain it steals the air from my lungs.
That’s all I need. I crush my mouth to hers and swallow her breath like it’s mine.
Lifting her off the floor, her legs wrap around my waist easily. She fits there like she was made for me.
I carry her through the quiet flat. She’s half laughing, half breathless, mumbling my name when I kick the bedroom door shut behind us. My hands grip her thighs where they’re locked tight around my waist. When her eyes catch on the mirror on the closet door, she freezes for a second. Her eyes flick to it, then to me, then back again.
We look so fucking good like this.
