Page 13 of 3 Stolen Kisses

Saxon

Alison is plotting something, but I don’t know what. And maybe I’m an idiot to let her do it, maybe I’m walking to the gallows, but I let her pull me through the second floor of the mansion, past priceless abstract paintings and dropped pieces of guests’ clothing, all the way to the library.

It’s always been one of Ali’s favorite rooms, ever since I’ve known her. For starters, it’s one of the few rooms where Charles Wainwright lingers for hours, paging through the latest tech news and swiping on his tablet, and I know she craves the feeling of another person in the room. Not interacting, necessarily, but… that sense of company.

And for another thing, two of the huge metal bookcases are assigned to her, and Ali takes her collection of reading material very seriously.

She collects signed hardbacks and special illustrated editions. Manga and graphic novels and sci fi and poetry—zero pretension, zero theme to her collections. Only enthusiasm, zany and eclectic and bright. Her reading nook is one of my favorite places in the house, too.

She leads me there now, flicking on the overhead library lights and dimming them as she goes. Weaving past industrial-style work tables and bookshelves crammed with popular science and business books and back issues of fancy journals. All this stuff is Charles’s taste, but Ali’s corner is the place to be.

Instead of a table and chairs, she’s got a giant gray bean bag to read on, with fluffy throws and a floor lamp to cast good light. She waves at the bean bag now, gesturing for me to sit on that thing like there’s a chance in hell I’d ever get up again if I did.

“It’s around here somewhere,” Ali says, pushing up on her toes to check the shelves. Some of them don’t have books on yet, so they’re filled with her treasures instead. Her most beloved memories. Stuffed bears from when she was a kid; trinkets and snow globes from her limited travels. That kinda stuff. “Make yourself comfortable.”

I will—by standing, and never getting sucked into that bean bag monstrosity. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I watch Ali and wait.

Her dress tonight is another clingy, slippery fabric—dove gray this time, and strapless, with a slit up the thigh. My throat goes dry just looking at her, with that trim waist and those black waves cascading down the back of her head. Even her mask is cute, with those pointed cat ears.

Did she pick that one because of my nickname for her? I hope so.

She tosses her silver heels to the floor without looking, still rummaging through the shelf. When she finds whatever she’s looking for, Ali makes a pleased sound and spins to face me, eyes bright behind her mask.

Clutched in her fingers is a rumpled sprig of mistletoe. My heart lurches, and I have to clear my mouth before I speak.

“Is that the same one? The one from last week?” My voice is so gravelly, it’s like rocks shifting on a mountainside.

Ali nods, so nervous and excited. “Uh-huh.” Is she worried I’ll say no? Worried I’ll push her away? She thinks more highly of my self control than I do, that’s for sure.

“You kept it,” I say stupidly, pointing out the obvious, and when Ali beckons me closer, I step forward on leaden legs.

And Christ, I’ve tried so hard to keep away over the last week. Tried not to even look in her direction if I can help it. Been kicking myself endlessly, cursing myself out for taking advantage of this sweet girl, kissing her like that—even if it was just an innocent peck. Even ifsheinitiated it.

But here I am again, clearly learning no lessons, because I’m hungrier than ever for another taste of those lips. Don’t know if a peck will be enough this time; don’t know if once I start, I’ll be able to stop. I’m jonesing for more. Have been since the second I dropped her home last week.

“One kiss,” I say as I crowd her against the bookcase, just in case Alison has more control than I do. Maybeshecan pull the brakes on this for us. “Just one, okay?”

Because… fuck. Ali is so young. So sweet and perfect and off limits, and I’ve got no business putting my scarred hands on her. No business obsessing over her the way I do.

So Alison needs to pull the brakes. Needs to pullmybrakes, or else I’ll crush her against this goddamn bookcase and lose my mind over her, just as bad as those party guests downstairs.

“One kiss,” she promises me sweetly, turning around briefly to place the mistletoe at my eye level, next to us on the shelf. “I’ll behave, I swear.”

And it’s not her I’m worried about, not really, but when Ali turns back and starts unknotting my tie, I make a strangled sound. Maybe I should be wary of her after all.

Because Ali’s smarter than a whip, and for some unknown reason, she’s clearly decided that what she wants for Christmas this year… is me.

It’s a phase, I tell myself as she drops my tie to the floor, then starts flicking my shirt buttons open, one by one. Air washes over my chest, cooled by the ever-present AC, and my nipples harden beneath my white shirt. Is that a hint of gray in my chest hair? Does she see it? Does she care?

It’s a phase.

It’s a phase.

She’s chasing a thrill. Notyou.

“You said one kiss,” I grit out as Ali hums, pushing my shirt open wide. She leans forward, rubbing her cheek over my tattooed chest, her lips dragging over my overheated skin… but not kissing. Not yet.

Ali leans back and winks, her blue eyes sparkling behind her black kitten mask. Her dark hair is mussed, tumbling over her shoulders, and her neck is tinged pink with excitement.

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