Page 10 of The Detective's Secret Santa

I pull a soda from the fridge—no more alcohol for me this Christmas—finally closing the door and turning to face Bash.

He’s closer still, those intense eyes locking with mine. Two steps forward and I’d be able to wrap my arms around him. Press my body against his. My knees wobble, forcing me to drop my back against the fridge for support. I nearly lose the soda in my shaky grip. I force myself to tear my gaze away, to look at anything but Bash. “Hey, where’s the tree?”

“Downstairs in the storeroom,” he answers.

I notice a stray garland snowflake stuck to Bash’s black t-shirt, plastered against his muscular chest. Without forethought, I reach for it. My traitorous fingers apparently have a mind of their own. Because they fail to grab the snowflake and instead press against Bash’s firm chest. Lightly exploring the hard contours beneath the Batman symbol. Setting me up for another opportunity to be rejected. But I can’t seem to control myself.

“Brook,” Bash says in a strangled whisper. As though he’s trying very hard to keep himself in check. At least one of us is. I seem to be in some sort of trance I can’t escape. The thought of Bash fighting to resist me causes some delightful sensations between my legs.

“Yes?”

His hand cups my shoulder, his fingers gently digging in. It feels lightly possessive and I’m shocked how much one simple gesture turns me on. As if I needed any help in that department. “We shouldn’t…”

“Shouldn’t, but not couldn’t.” For the first time in weeks, I’m no longer thinking about everything that’s gone wrong. I’m not worried about snow tires or finding a job more suited to my skills. I decide in this moment that I deserve this distraction. Maybe Santa has a naughty side, too.

I flatten my palm against his chest and slowly slide it up his collarbone, the base of his neck. I have to stand on tiptoes to reach the back of his head. My fingers snake through his hair, begging him to put me out of my misery and kiss me already. A real kiss that isn’t the result of a night of drinking with the girls.

Bash’s gaze drops to my lips. I dare to look into those steely hazel eyes now that they’re not locked with my own. I see a war waging there as our lips linger only inches apart. It would be so easy to close the gap and finally taste him.

“I haven’t had a margarita in days,” I tease, earning a sly smile from him. “Please?” I beg in a soft whisper.

The one-word plea breaks him.

In one swift motion, Bash cups my cheek and captures my lips. The kiss is gentle. As though testing the waters. A tenderness that lasts all of three seconds before the wave of desire consumes us. Our mouths move together greedily, our tongues swirling together. Our bodies are pressed against one another, as though we can’t get close enough.

Bash’s hands slide to my hips. Lips still eagerly attached to mine, he lifts me off the ground with ease, setting me on the island.

This is what I want.

Hot, wild, fling sex.

If I’m being fucked on the kitchen island, this can’t mean anything. Right?

I slip my hand beneath Bash’s Batman shirt and slide it up his hard muscles. His skin is smooth and hot to the touch. He leans into me, urging me down onto the counter until my back is flat with the granite. His greedy hands are all over my body. One squeezes a breast through my sweater, making my already puckered nipple ache. It’s not enough to be touched through all this fabric.

“Fuck, Brook,” Bash whispers against my ear, the tone so fucking primal I nearly come on the spot. He pushes up my sweater, revealing the red lace bra I picked out for Christmas. Yeah, it was definitely for the holidays. Not with any intention of seducing my dad’s best friend.

“Like what you see?”

He leans his groin against my thigh, revealing a massive erection in answer.

“Holy Batman.”

“Any more questions?” he asks in that heated, possessive whisper.

“Why are my clothes still on—”

Of course Mom chooses that moment to blind us with headlights through the living room window. I scramble off the island, hoping like hell she wasn’t able to see us. I pull down my sweater and finger comb my hair, grabbing my abandoned soda can to keep my hands behaving. Before I can rush out into the living room to pretend I’m unpacking ornaments, Bash grabs my wrist.

I spin around and meet his heated gaze.

“I’m not finished with you, Brook,” he says in that low, sexy voice that causes all my naughty parts to tingle with delight. “Not by a long shot.”

8

BASH

The last shred of willpower I had to resist Brook left me after that earthshattering kiss in the kitchen. A kiss that damn near led me to claiming her right there on the same island Molly’s currently using to bake cut-out sugar cookies. Greg might well haunt me for the rest of my days for what we did in his house, but I’ll never say it wasn’t worth it.

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