Page 106 of The Holiday Hate-Off
I remember most of last night, but the end is blurry. All I know is that Enzo forced me to eat a PB&J sandwich and then tucked me into bed as if I were a child. No, that’s not quite true. I remember him lying beside me. Talking to me. Joking with me. I remember feeling really grateful he was there, and sad that he was going to leave. Surely, that was just the alcohol though. And hormones. Lots of hormones. An obscene amount of them are pulsing through me now.
A mild headache is pounding in my temples, but it’s quickly forgotten when Enzo uses our linked hands to pull me toward him, almost as if we’re still dancing the way we did in the candy shop. I’m mesmerized as he easily lifts me into his arms and stalks toward the bathroom, his head bowing to kiss my cheek, my lips. The feeling of him against my bare flesh is sooverwhelming that I can’t think beyond his hands, his lips, his?—
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” I murmur against his mouth. He sets me down just inside the bathroom door, then pulls his shirt off and tosses it to me with the smirk of a man who knows exactly what he looks like shirtless.
I catch the shirt midair and let myself take a long sniff before dropping it.
“Did you just smell my shirt?” he asks, grinning.
“Yes, it smells terrible. You should invest in a new washer and dryer.”
“Liar.” He starts to unfasten his belt, and lust floods my body hard and fast, almost painful.
Oh, God. Is it a bad idea to do this with him?
Sex is different for women than it is for men. I’ve read enough dating books to know there’s a consensus about that. If we do this, it’s possible I’ll continue to soften toward Enzo. I don’t want to start making excuses for his behavior or expecting things he has no intention of giving me.
I remind myself that Enzo doesn’t qualify as Mr. Perfect, the ideal man my mom talked about in her letter.
But he doesn’t have to. I need practice with sex, and he’ll give it to me. Simple as that.
It doesn’tfeelsimple as I reach down to undo the button of his pants, then lower his zipper. He watches me with an inscrutable glint in his eyes.
“Were you afraid I would catch your dick in the zipper?” I ask.
“You’re terrible at guessing my thoughts.” He pushes his pants and boxer briefs down, and I gasp a little at the sight of him completely naked. Hard for me.
God, he’s gorgeous.
“You like what you see?” he asks, ruining the effect.
Okay, only tarnishing it.
“Your arrogance needs no encouragement,” I say, but I run my hands over his chest, feeling the ridges of muscle, and then stroke my fingers over his proudly jutting dick, tracing it from base to tip before playing with the head. It feels like there couldn’t possibly be room for it inside of me.
Looking up into his hooded eyes, I say, “Uh…I don’t think this is going to work.”
He sucks in a sharp breath before leaning in to kiss my neck. He whispers into my ear, “By the time I sink into your sweet heat, you’ll be so wet for me, it won’t be a problem. If it is, I haven’t done my job right, and Ialwaysdo my job right. Let’s get you into the shower, Lucia. I have plans for you there.”
My knees feel weak as I walk into the oversized glass-walled shower stall. The warm water pounds down on my skin, awakening my nerve endings in a new way.
When Enzo follows me in, he fills up the space so utterly I nearly gasp. This man has such a presence. I’ve been feeling it all week, in the store beside mine. The knowledge that he’s there has filled me with aggravation and, to be totally honest, desire. Unwanted, frustrating, smoking hot desire. I’ve never wanted someone so physically, soviscerally. I want him so much it feels like need.
It’s not rational, but I almost hate him for making me feel so out of control.
He sinks to his knees in the shower, gazing up at me, and something in my chest catches.
“I feel like you’re trying to make a point.”
“It’s not the first time I’ve gotten on my knees for you,” he says, seeming not to notice the hot water pelting down on his thick hair, sticking it to his scalp. His face is dripping as he leans in to kiss my thigh. “Spread your legs for me.”
I do, of course I do. Then, groaning, I bury a hand in his wet hair as he continues to kiss my thighs, his hands reaching up to caress my breasts.
He pushes me back into the wet tiles as he finally presses his mouth where I need it, sucking and licking and keeping up the pressure as pleasure radiates through me. My limbs are electrified, my nerves crazed, and the effect is only accentuated by the water pattering down on us and the sensation of his hair between my fingers as he continues to pleasure me. He seems to enjoy it. To revel in having this power to make me feel—oh,of coursehe does—but I won’t deny him. Because the feeling of his mouth between my legs is revelatory.
My silicone toys get the job done, but it’s not like this. It’s not like having a beautiful man between my thighs, sucking on me as if I’m the only thing that can bring him life.
Maybe I should tell him to stop. This can’t be as pleasurable for him as it is for me. But I can’t bring myself to care. It feels too good. I’ve been dreaming about it too much…
