Page 42 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"This is like unwrapping a very complicated present," I observe, working on what might be the fourth layer.
"A pass-the-parcel situation," she agrees breathlessly.
"Infinite layers. I'm going to find you eventually," I promise, kissing her neck.
"Bold of you to assume I'm not just sweaters all the way down," she teases.
"Like a textile nesting doll," I suggest, finally making progress.
"Exactly. You open the last sweater and find a smaller, angrier sweater," she laughs, then gasps as my hands find skin. "Oh."
"Found you," I murmur.
She pulls me down onto the rug in front of the fire, and I have immediate regrets about the location.
"This rug is terrible," she complains as we try to get comfortable.
"Your rug is an assault on comfort," I agree, shifting to avoid what feels like embedded gravel.
"It came with the apartment. I think it's made of recycled steel wool," she says, then pulls me back down. "Don't care. Kiss me again."
I comply enthusiastically, though my foot gets tangled in what turns out to be a scarf she was wearing as a belt. She laughs when I curse creatively at a stuck zipper.
"This is the least sexy seduction in history," she gasps, trying to help.
"Seduction implies planning. This is more like romantic fumbling," I correct, finally conquering the zipper.
"Fumbling implies we don't know what we're doing," she points out.
"Do we?" I ask, pausing to look at her.
"I know you're still wearing pants, and that seems wrong," she says, tugging at my belt.
"Valid point," I agree, fixing that problem while she laughs at my graceless hopping.
The firelight paints her skin in warm amber tones, and when she reaches for me, her hands are steadier than mine. We move together with the awkward grace of people who are trying too hard not to overthink things and failing spectacularly at it.
"Is this okay?" I ask, my hand sliding along her hip.
"Very okay," she breathes, arching into my touch. "Don't stop."
There's nothing smooth about it—my elbow catches on the blanket, she laughs when I accidentally knee her thigh, andwe have to readjust twice because the rug really is made of pure spite. But it doesn't matter because her mouth is on mine and her hands are mapping my chest and shoulders like she's memorizing coordinates.
I kiss down her neck, tasting salt, and the faint scent of cinnamon from whatever candle she lit earlier. She makes a sound that's half laugh, half moan when I find the sensitive spot just below her ear.
"Ticklish?" I murmur against her skin.
"Sensitive," she corrects breathlessly. "There's a difference."
"I'll keep that in mind," I promise, filing away every gasp and shiver for future reference I shouldn't be planning.
My hands explore the curve of her waist, the softness of her stomach, the places where she's self-conscious even though she has no reason to be. When I tell her she's beautiful, she tries to deflect with humor, but I kiss the protest away until she believes me.
"You're wearing too many clothes still," she complains, tugging at my thermal shirt.
"You're the one who dressed me in layers," I point out, but I'm already pulling it off.
"Past me was an idiot," she declares, running her hands over my chest. "Present me has better priorities."
