After the Christmas Party(98)
With that, a renewed dread of meeting his family, of having to endure a Christmas dinner and be smacked in the face with what all she didn’t have in her life hit her. A renewed fear of what this Christmas Day would bring because, seriously, Christmas was never good for her. “You’re really going to make me go?”
“You know I am. You gave me your word.”
She nodded. She’d expected no less. “What should I wear?”
“Clothes. If you don’t, my mother will be highly upset with me,” he said with a deadpan expression that was unlike him.
“Okay, smartypants, what kind of clothes? A dress or just something casual?”
He grinned and she realized he’d once again purposely tried to distract her. “Casual. There’s a lot of us, and I do mean a lot, and we’re very informal. Just dress in whatever you’re going to be most comfortable in.”
“Okay.” She leaned her head against him, drawing on his strength yet again and hoping she didn’t disappoint him. “Thank you, Riley.”
“For teaching you to wrap presents?”
“That, too, but I meant for just being here with me, period.”
“With you is where I want to be. I was a bit lost without you tonight. I’ve gotten quite accustomed to eating dinner with you and hanging out afterwards. Being without you left me at a loose end and I didn’t like it.”
“I feel the same.”
He tilted her chin to where she had to face him. “You do?”
With everything else she’d already told him, what was one more admission? “I think about you from the time I wake up until the time I go to sleep and all the time in between.”
Okay, so maybe that had been a big admission.
“And your dreams? Am I there, too?” He spoke so close to her mouth that she could feel the warm moisture in his breath.
Her own breath caught, held, and blew out in an excited little burst of anticipation of his lips touching hers. He was going to kiss her. She knew he was. She wanted him to. Needed him to.
“Oh, yes, Riley, you are in my dreams.” She lowered her lids then met his gaze head on, not trying to hide what she knew was in her eyes. “You and mountains of mistletoe.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THINKING HIMSELF THE luckiest man alive, Riley accepted the invitation she’d just tossed out. He wanted to kiss her more than he wanted his next breath.
Her lips were hot and met his with a hunger that surprised him.
A hunger that matched his own.
His hands were in her hair.
Her hands were in his hair.
Threading through the locks, pulling him to her, grasping tightly as if she never wanted to let go.
His mouth left the lushness of her lips to travel down her throat, to sup at the graceful arch of her neck. She smelled of heaven, she tasted even sweeter.
Her hands had gone to his waist, were running over his lower back, pulling him towards her with an urgency that had his head spinning.
He groaned. He wanted her more than he’d thought it possible to want someone. He wanted her to the point his body ached with need, but more than that his mind craved her. Craved knowing what she looked like with pleasure on her face, craved knowing how she sounded when she experienced full and total release, craved the knowledge that he’d put that look on her face, made that sound escape her perfect plump lips.
He kissed and supped and touched.
She rubbed and massaged and arched against him, exposing the beauty of her neck more fully. He took full advantage, moving lower and lower.
He didn’t consciously consider cupping her breasts, but his hands did so as if they had a mind of their own and had taken charge. No wonder. Her breasts were amazing and made him want her all the more, which he’d have thought impossible as he already wanted so much.
“That feels good.”
Had she said the words or him?
His mouth must have developed an agenda of its own, too, because when his hands pushed away her top and bra, his lips covered the perfection of her creamy breast. His gut clenched.
He’d changed into jeans when he’d arrived home. Now he longed for the comfort of his loose slacks because his jeans had grown way too snug.
As if she’d read his mind, Trinity’s fingers undid his jeans and slid beneath the material of his shirt. She ran her fingers along his abs, tracing lightly but with the effect of lightning bolts, before moaning and pulling him close enough that their bodies molded together.
“More,” she demanded, her fingers going into his hair and pulling his mouth to hers. The moment his mouth covered hers, they both began to make haste with his shirt buttons, with her pushed-aside shirt, until they both stood bare chested against each other.