Page 65 of A Manny for Christmas

‘Oh, give me a break,’ I splutter. ‘You’re very aware you’re in good shape.’

‘I am. So why are you pissed off with me?’

‘I’m not pissed off with you.’ I avert my eyes downwards. It’s better for me to gaze at his pecs than at the goddamn sexiness in his warm hazel eyes. ‘I’m pissed off with myself. With the situation, really.’

‘How so?’ His voice is deadly calm. ‘Spell it out for me, Mol.’

I sigh and risk a glance back up at his eyes. Big mistake. They’re twin pools of amber heat that I want to drown in.

‘Because, no matter how fun it is for a minute or two to pretend to some smug cow that I’m… you know,involved withthe half-naked god that’s walked into my kitchen, I’m all too aware that none of it’s real. You can kiss me and grope me in front of random, unwelcome visitors, but it’s all just for show, and now I feel even shittier, knowing that I have to lie and pretend just so people don’t think I’m some pathetic train wreck. It makes me feel like a total loser.’

There’s a pause, and then Max’s hand comes to rest between my waist and my hip. His thumb hooks up the hem of my sweater and brushes against my skin.

‘You think none of it’s real, what’s going on here?’

I stare at him, my insides unravelling as I take in those eyes and that mouth, so close to me. At the soft, but unmistakeable, touch of his thumb on my bare skin. My lips part, but I’m incapable of speech right now.

He leans in. ‘Because I think it’s fucking real, Mol. I don’t think it’s ever stopped being real.Ever.’

23

MOLLY

Idon’t know who makes the move first, but suddenly his mouth is on mine, and this time it stays right where I need it. His lips are warm and plush, pressing against me like they mean business, and I luxuriate in the sheer indulgence of their pillowy softness for a moment before I open my mouth the tiniest bit to see if he’s as desperate as I am to take our kiss further.

He is.

His tongue sweeps into my mouth, hot and hard and demanding, filling me up and moving in exactly the familiar, entitled way I need it to, as if it’s been hours, not years, since he last kissed me.

Last memorised me.

I allow my tongue to seek his out, to entangle itself in the most decadent, delicious way before I abandon myself to the power of his strokes. The sheer hunger. The hand on my hip is now clamped to the small of my back as his other hand splays over my jaw, my neck, in a grip so tight it’s like he’s trying to climb inside my mouth.

I need this so badly. Need him so badly—need his tongue in my mouth, his hands on my body, the heavenly grind of his pecs against my breasts as he holds our bodies flush together. Need as much of him as I can get. My nails claw through his hair as my other hand wraps around his blessed shoulders to grope shamelessly at the muscles of his back.

My senses are reeling. My head is spinning like I’ve done a line of shots. Our kisses grow more frenzied. Famished. All this intimacy, and memory-dredging, and innocent yet charged bed-warming has built tothis.

And I can already tell it’s going to be explosive. His feverish kisses and ragged breaths tell me he needs this as much as I do. Max Rutherford is wound to the point of no return.

Thank God.

Because previous experience tells me exactly what this man is capable of when he’s wound that far.

I slide my hand frantically up and down his back before managing to grab the hem of his t-shirt and clumsily tug it higher. He breaks our kiss for a second to reach behind him and tug it over his head.

Why is that so sexy?

Why?

I sigh-groan my appreciation as I pull him back towards me, the blessed warmth of his naked skin utter heaven. My palms skate over him, re-learning him after a period of abstinence so long that it’s utter sacrilege, if you ask me.

He’s so hot. In every way. His skin is radiating heat, the muscles it dresses flexing, rippling, under my touch, like having my hands on him brings him to life.

‘Top off,’ he gasps and tugs my sweater up. It goes flying off onto some far surface, knocking out some hair pins so my plaited chignon hangs heavily. Awkwardly. I couldn’t care less because Max is scrabbling at the hook of my bra. He undoes it with a triumphant hiss and slides the straps down my shoulders, his eyes fixed firmly on my breasts.

He flashes me a look that’s pure need before returning to what used to be his favourite sight. Before I know it, his hands are on my bum, and I’m being lifted up and positioned on the island. I laugh and put my hands on the gorgeous, sculpted domes of his shoulders to steady myself.

Max steps right in between my legs. His fingertips brush reverently up my sides before he cups my breasts, his thumbs strumming over my nipples. The kitchen is warm, but they harden greedily under his touch as I arch my back in pleasure, desperate for more friction.

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