His palm slid up my side, fingertips drifting on the outside of my bottom ribs, skating along my arm, drifting up my throat before coming to a stop on my jaw. “Can I?” he asked again.
Cinnamon on his breath, glazing my lips like the most delicious frosting on Earth.
Calloused fingertips caressing my skin.
A hard chest against mine.
Our mouths perfectly aligned because of my heels.
Check. Check. Check—
I stopped cataloging, stopped thinking.
I closed the distance between our mouths.
Perfection. His lips on mine were utter perfection, and for one inane moment, I was glad I hadn’t worn lipstick because I knew this was the kind of kiss that would obliterate the most carefully applied liner and stain. Especially when he managed to part my lips from one heartbeat to the next, his tongue sliding home, and reminding me why I’d lost a piece of my sanity under the mistletoe at Bobby’s on Christmas Eve.
The man could kiss.
Gently coaxing one moment then his arms banding tight, pulling me even tighter against him as his lips and tongue demanded mine to meet him move for move.
Not a hardship.
Also, I wasn’t just going to follow. I could lead, could be demanding, too. I slipped my tongue into his mouth, chasing his, nipping at his bottom lip. And Brent let me take the lead, at least for a moment.
Then he shifted, spinning us so my back was pressed to the open door.
My legs went around his waist, and he stiffened, lips coming off mine as he sucked in a breath that almost sounded pained, but before I could ask if he was okay, his palm dropped to my hips, angling my body, holding me to him so I could feel his hardened cock, just between my thighs. Then his mouth descended again, and Brent took control back, his mouth and hands working in tandem, frothing my desire into a tumult of need, until it felt like I might die if I didn’t have this man inside me.
“Brent!” I gasped, throwing my head back when he slid his lips along my throat, nuzzled into the cowl neck of my dress, finding bare skin.
And . . . thank you, God, because his mouth closed over the hard bud of my nipple, suckling it through the fabric of my bra, the wet material and damp heat of his mouth nudging me closer to oblivion.
I moaned, tightened my legs on his hips, and gasped, “Inside!”
Without a word, he moved, lifting his hand and me from the door, slamming the wooden panel shut, and flicking the lock closed.
I’d meant inside me, right there, not giving a shit that we were making out in full view of anyone who might happen by. But I didn’t have time to clarify that or even to complain he wasn’t inside me because Brent slanted his mouth across mine, and it was very obvious who was in control.
That person being Brent.
He carried me across the room, dodging the box I’d intended to use to pack away another portion of Christmas Extravaganza, avoiding the coffee table, not disturbing the vases of ornaments on the sideboard, not doing anything except arrowing directly for the couch and setting me down on top of it.
But he didn’t follow me to the plush gray cushions, didn’t drop down onto me, pressing my back against them.
Instead, he dropped to his knees in front of me.
And this time, the coffee table was disturbed, shoved abruptly to the side, its contents rattling, a stack of blocks that spelled ‘Merry Christmas’ toppling to the floor, hitting the carpet with barely audible thunks.
My chest rose and fell in rapid succession as I struggled to suck air into my lungs, but any and all hope of that faded when Brent turned back from moving the table, and his scorching gaze met mine. “Darlin’?” he asked, no velvet left in his voice. Only gruff, and a gruff that sent all my nerves, but especially the ones between my thighs, tingling.
But . . . it was also Brent asking a question.
Brent checking to see if I was with him.
Well, I was about ten steps ahead of him. I wanted his hard cock—which I could see clearly outlined against the tight fabric of his slacks—and I wanted it inside me. I lifted a hand, reached for his belt.
He caught my wrist, lifted it to his mouth. “Behave,” he murmured against my skin.
Not likely.
I was living my best life now, and that meant I was grabbing every opportunity—and okay, maybe the occasional hard cock, so long as that cock belonged to this man—to reach for what I wanted and deserved.
I lifted my other hand, managed to grasp onto the top of his belt.
But then Brent proved that he knew his way around a duck and weave. He snagged my other wrist, clasped them both in one hand, and shouldered his way in between my thighs.
Oh my.
I had Brent Collins between my thighs.
And it was glorious.
I stopped fighting his hold right about the time he let his free hand slide up the inside of my leg, stopping a hairsbreadth away from the damp silk of my underwear. I definitely stopped fighting when he slipped his fingers under the elastic and dipped them through my wet folds, unerringly finding my clit.
My head dropped to the back of the couch, my thighs instinctively spread farther, and a moan spilled from my lips.
Fucking yes.
“Up, darlin’,” he murmured, helping me lift my hips so he could slide my panties down my thighs, over my heels, and off somewhere in the direction of my nutcrackers.
One hand returned, sliding up my calf, behind my knee, up my thigh, dipping back through my wet pussy. I expected to see his other hand reach for his belt, to finally release his cock, to finally, finally get inside me. But instead, he slipped both hands to my ass, lifted me slightly, and then bent, pressing his mouth to my
