Page 47 of War on Christmas

For the first time in my sexual history, I’m definitely not in charge. He’s not going to let me walk all over him like my Tim/Toms. Jeremy may play nice with everybody else, but with me, he’s not going to cede control out of some misplaced urge to be polite or gentlemanly. This is the boy who wrestled me to the ground and tickle-tortured me until I peed myself when I stole all the Reese’s peanut butter cups from his Halloween candy. He's never been afraid to challenge me.

And I really,reallylike it.

“Up,” he says with one more quick slap to my ass, and I scramble to obey. I sway for a moment as the blood rushes from my head, and he reaches out to steady me. Once I’ve found my sea legs, he leans back on his hands. His eyes, shadowed in the low light, hold mine. “Now take off that dress and let me see you.”

My breath catches, and the heat between my thighs has me squirming with anticipation. When I was younger and less experienced, I felt fear in these moments. Vulnerable and exposed. Now this moment of exposure—this unveiling—is when I feelpowerful. Because when I’m dropping my costume to the stage, piece by piece,I’mnot the one being revealed at all. Not really. For every inch of skin I expose, the people watching expose so much more. Desire. Passion. Longing. Envy. Fear.

And I like it. Crave it even.

Just like that, I’m on stage, calculating each movement to entice. I keep my gaze on Jeremy and step between his spread legs, turning my back to him and pulling my hair to the side to expose my neck.

“Unzip me?”

He leans in, his warm lips grazing my neck and shoulders as his hands float along my back, finding my zipper. Every touch, every point of contact, is fire. The sound of the zipper is deafening as it slides downward, each tiny metal tooth releasing its grip to reveal a little more of me. Once the zipper is down, his hands skate up and down my arms, his head dropping to place a soft kiss on my tattooed shoulder before he leans back.

I spin to face him, lowering my eyes in a show of false modesty, my lashes tickling my cheeks. I love this part of sex. Theplaying. The teasing. The performance. I shimmy my shoulders and hips, and with a swish, the dress falls to a pile at my feet.

It’s only when I hear Jeremy’s deep, ragged inhale that I allow myself to peek up. To take in the color staining his cheekbones. The stranglehold his hands have on the sheets. The obvious bulge straining at his pants.

And I want to push. I want to push him until that considerable—andannoying—self-control he’s exerted over the past week snaps like a twig.

Because I’m living for every tiny falsehood I can flake away from his polished exterior. Because I know that underneath that happy, agreeable façade—the side he shows everyone else—there’s a Jeremy who is every bit as dark and needy as I am.

There’s a Jeremy who wanted to fuck me against my bedroom wall and didn’t care that my parents were just down the hallway. There’s a Jeremy who wanted to shake me until my teeth rattled when I crawled all over Hot Santa last night. There’s a Jeremy who wants to tell his boss to go fuck himself when he demands that Jeremy take clients out for a round of golf. And there’s a Jeremy who wants to roar with grief over his mother’s betrayal. There’s a Jeremy who is jealous and resentful and scared. A Jeremy who nobody knows about. Except me.

Thatis the Jeremy I want. Andthatis the Jeremy I’m determined to get.

Slowly, I bring my hands up to cup my breasts over the black lace of my bra, feeling the weight and shape of them before plucking at my hardened nipples. It sends a shot of heat deep into my core, and I sigh into the sensation, letting my head tip to the side. I do it again, massaging and pinching, but before I can make another noise, Jeremy lunges and hauls me onto his lap, my legs straddling his waist. I’m on my knees looking down at him, and he reaches behind me to unclip my bra with one deft twist, freeing my breasts mere inches from his face.

“Damn, Sunshine,” he breathes, reverent, and then he doesn’t say anything at all. Then his mouth is too busy with long, deep kisses as his hands explore my body, his strong fingers taking in every inch of me from my neck and shoulders to my legs.

For several breathless minutes, I’m the sole focus of his considerable concentration as he studies me with the same rapt focus he used to apply to a drawing he was particularly engrossed with. No sigh, no shiver, no breath goes unnoticed. When his fingers graze the back of my knee and I give a laughing yelp, he smiles against my lips and moves on. When his touch floats below the curve of my ass and my hips give a jerk, he repeats the motion until I’m moaning into his mouth, my hips rolling needily against his erection. My body is a puzzle he’s solving with ruthless precision until we’re both shaking and my hands are tugging at his clothes, desperate to have him as naked—or nearly naked—as me.

I give a frustrated moan when I can’t pull his jacket over his shoulders, and Jeremy spins us so I’m kneeling on the bed and he’s standing, facing me. He shrugs out of his coat, then we’re kissing again, my hands tangling with his as we both rush to unbutton his shirt. Because we’re really doing this. We’re finally,finally—

“What the actual fuck, Asshat?” I snap.

I pull back and scowl, grabbing his white shirt and pulling it open so hard the final few buttons fly off like bullets. Because underneath it, plastered to his grown-up, muscular torso, is a familiar dark-gray T-shirt with gold writing.

Dave Matthews Band, Summer 2005.

I smack a hand into his shoulder and receive a deep chuckle in return.

“I just—” he begins, but he’s interrupted by me viciously yanking the neckline of his shirt as I try to rip it in two. He laughs harder.

“Thisfuckingshirt,” I mutter, giving another jerk, but it’s like the damn thing is made of chainmail, not sixteen-year-old cotton.

“I just knew you would put so much—Jesus, Frey”—he tries to bat my hands away—“effortinto what you wore tonight,” he says, eyes dancing even as he’s getting bounced around by my efforts to destroy his shirt. “And I wanted to…wear something…that would be equally…” He chuckles again, not even attempting to hide his glee at my reaction. “Sentimental.”

I lean forward and clamp the neck of the shirt between my teeth. I just need to get a tearstartedand then I can—

“Are you trying tochewmy shirt off, you harpy?”

We’re sparring now, Jeremy laughing uncontrollably as I sputter and gasp, wrenching at his shirt with all my might. When it fails to give, I growl and land one more smack on Jeremy’s shoulder before sinking onto my heels, the soft, white cloud of a comforter embracing me.

“Why are you such anasshole?”

Now that I’m not in his face, he peels the shirt off and throws it to the ground. “I’m not an asshole.” He leans down to remove his footwear, then his pants follow, revealing thickly muscled thighs. “I just really,reallylove—” And there go his boxer briefs, leaving his erection on full display. He wraps a hand around it and gives himself a long, slow stroke. “—driving you out of your mind.”

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