Page 89 of Booked for the Holidays
Her hair’s a mess, cheeks flushed pink from the cold outside and the way I can’t keep my hands off her. Her mouth is swollen, her thighs snug around me like she never wants to let go. I don’t plan on letting her.
I walk us to the bed but pause, feeling her shift in my arms. She’s looking around, taking in the throw blanket identical to the one on her bed because I know how much she likes it. She cranesher neck, eyes catching on the stack of books by the lamp. Her books. The ones she annotated and I borrowed for research.
Her eyes narrow like she’s going to give me shit again, but then they soften and her lips part.
Next to the books is the button she’d bought at the liquor store last year.Spice It Up.The one she’d snagged off the counter when I was unloading the cart. She had slipped it into my coat pocket like a secret dare. I found it two days later, back in LA, when I was already filled with regret.
She drops her legs, and I let her go. Reaching for the button, her thumb brushes the metal where the cheap enamel is chipped at the edge. Her laugh cracks open on a shaky breath.
“You kept this?” she whispers.
“You gave it to me.”
“I snuck it in your pocket.”
“Still counts.”
Her mouth curves into that smile that wrecks me every time. “Okay,” she says. “Spice it up, then.” Her voice is all sugar and dare and I’m fucking gone for her.
Whatever thread of patience I was holding snaps.
Hauling her with me, I drop to the mattress and settle her into my lap, legs spread wide over mine.
She glances at the mirror, then tries to duck her head, but I catch her chin. With my thumb stroking her jaw, I force her eyes back up.
“No hiding, Firefly,” I rasp against her ear. “You watch what happens when you say shit like that to me.”
She lets out a quiet, helpless laugh. The kind that’s half a dare, half surrender. But it dies in her throat when I fist the hem of her shirt and drag it up, slow, baring that soft skin inch by inch. She lifts her arms without me asking.
Good fucking girl.
Her shirt hits the floor. She’s breathless, cheeks pink, eyes flicking from my mouth to the mirror and back again.
“You cold?” I murmur, my hands skimming her ribs, thumbing under the soft edge of her bra.
“No,” she whispers, but her voice cracks when I mouth at her shoulder. “You’re warm enough.”
“Yeah,” I growl, palming her breast, teasing her nipple until it peaks under my thumb. “I’m going to keep you warm. Going to keep you sore, too. You still aching from last night? From how many times I made you come on my cock?”
She shudders, hips rolling in my lap like she can’t help it. Her breath catches when my hand drifts down, slipping under the waistband of those tight black leggings.
“Tell me,” I rasp against her throat. “You sore from me?”
She nods, her breath a tiny broken thing when my fingers find how wet she already is. How ready. How perfect.
“It…it aches,” she whispers, her hips bucking when I circle her clit, slow and teasing. “A good ache.”
“That’s mine,” I growl, pressing a kiss under her ear as I work the leggings down her hips. She lifts, squirming to help me strip them off. But the fuzzy socks stay, because fuck, I like her that soft when I’m about to ruin her.
I palm myself through my jeans, rough, desperate. “You want me anyway?” I growl, dragging my cock out, the head flushed and leaking for her. “Want me to stretch you open again? Fuck that sore little cunt until you’re dripping all over my lap?”
She whimpers when I line us up, back arched, her ass snug against my thighs.
“Yes,” she pants, eyes locked on mine in the mirror. “Please, Liam—please?—”
My tip nudges at her slick entrance, the mirror throwing her wide eyes and parted lips right back at me.
She turns her head, brushing her mouth over my jaw, so soft it almost breaks me.
