Page 12 of You Can't Ruin Christmas

I find myself taking a step back due to the heat radiating from his face. “I—”

He takes a step forward, closing the distance between us. His hands reach out to slide around my waist, grasping the sides of my ribcage. But his touch is not as fierce as the expression in his eyes. It’s gentle, like I’m a porcelain doll, and if he squeezes too hard, I might shatter. I suddenly remember that I am strong, and I can handle this.

I can actually handle a lot more than he probably thinks I can. I lift both of my hands to cup the sides of his face. I can’t read the expression he is wearing, and I swallow. “Sven,” I say softly, and it’s somewhere between a question and a plea.

His hands lift me up against the kitchen countertop in one fluid motion, and his body follows, pinning me there. His lips crash against mine in a hungry, passionate, toe-curling kiss, as my legs wrap around him and draw him even closer against me.

I feel like I have become an animal, as all my thinking and overthinking abruptly shuts off, and I focus only devouring his lips, wrapping my arms around his neck, and grinding my body against his. He presses me against the countertop harder, until I can feel every inch of how much he wants me, through the stretchy fabric of my workout pants, and his shorts.

I am pretty sure that my arousal has entirely soaked through the fabric now, and I moan against his mouth as I arch my hips the way he guided me to do in all those workouts, engaging my core as I rub myself desperately against his cock—which is much more fun than any of those workouts were.

Sven groans as his hand slips under my shirt, kneading and massaging my breast. I gasp out as the pleasure shoots through me, and I almost think I could come from this—being dry humped against the dishwasher. I mean, it’s not that dry.

The wetness between my thighs could definitely rival the waterworks of the dishwasher—and I’d like to wash Sven’s dishes, if you know what I mean.

My panties are sliding against the folds of sensitive skin and creating delicious friction. When his fingers pinch my nipple and I cry out, he pulls up my workout bra and takes my other breast into his mouth, suckling greedily. Arching my back for more, I find my hands knotted up in his chocolatey brown hair, and I just can’t take it any longer.

“Sven,” I whisper. “Can we go to the bedroom?”

My head is spinning with the dizziness of the lust, and I can’t really think too clearly. I just want to rip the rest of our clothing off and have him fully inside me, stat. I realize I didn’t specify which bedroom, and I don’t really care. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, expecting him to carry me wherever he would like.

He seems puzzled by the suggestion. I mean… right here is okay too. Heather did say that she was going to wear earplugs.

Sven turns around to glance at the bowl of egg nog he was making. Seriously? He’s thinking about the damnegg nogright now? The only eggs he should be thinking about are the ones in my damn ovaries! Okay, maybe not exactly the eggs, but everything else in that whole system of lady-things, and lady-juices. I happen to have a very tasty mixture with an egg-white consistency that he could be stirring instead, you-know-where, with his giant stir stick that seems very ready for the job of maximum stirring.

When he pulls away, I refuse to let him. Like I actually keep my hands locked around his shoulders and my legs locked around his waist so he can’t pull away without taking me with him.

“Sven?” I say with concern. “What’s wrong?”

He pulls my sports bra back down to cover me up. “I’m sorry, Mary. I just—I got carried away.”

“No,” I tell him, clinging. “It’s okay. I want this. I want you. Please.”

He releases a loud, shuddering breath. Putting both of his hands under my bottom to lift me against him, he carries me over to my bedroom. He opens the door, and carefully detaches my legs from around him before dumping me on my bed. The expression on his face is unreadable, as he takes a step backward.Awayfrom me.

“I’m so sorry,” he says softly, turning to face the kitchen. “I was—I was out of line. Let me go finish making that protein shake for you.”

Then he leaves. And shuts the door behind him.

I am left gaping after him in shock.

I want to scream.

Actually, I do turn over onto my stomach, and grab a pillow, and shove my face into it, letting out an exasperated, muffled yell. I don’t think I have ever been more sexually frustrated in my life.

What just happened? Why did he stop? What did I do or say to upset him? Was it thinking about the stuff with his brother? Was he afraid to violate some unwritten bro-code?

“I wanted adifferentkind of protein shake!” I whisper as I move the pillow to rest between my legs, and squeeze it with my thighs, trying to ease some of the tension that has been built up there. But it’s pointless. My whole body is throbbing with need, and I find myself writhing and groaning like a cat in heat.

Who does that? Dry fucks you against a dishwasher, and leaves you with blue lady-balls when you’re begging him to finish the job? Why does Sven have to be so tortured and brooding, complicated and sensitive, with a conscienceand morals?

My hand slides down to touch myself, without really even thinking about it. But I know I’m not going to be able to finish the job, because I wasn’t just looking for release. I wanted to be with Sven. He’s gotten under my skin, and I have a massive crush on my ex-boyfriend’s brother.

But it doesn’t seem like he wants me.

---