Heating Up the Holidays 3-Story Bundle(114)

He took her face in his hands and kissed her. Just once at first, to shut her up, and she gulped air and blinked at him in surprise, but then she grabbed him, too, threading her fingers into his hair and kissing back. It was reunion   kissing, which maybe was the best kind: kissing someone you’d been familiar with a long time ago but had forgotten about, reaquainting yourself with exactly how they fit and how well they knew you and how perfectly your lips slid and nipped and clung.

She did this thing with her tongue that made him want to bite her. She kind of teased it in and stole it back, and it made him insane, hungry, and somehow his hands were all these places on her body that he hadn’t meant to put them yet—on her ass, yanking her up so he could mold her body against his, on her breasts, cupping and shaping and teasing over the hard nub of her nipple until she whimpered.

“We’re on my front stoop,” Miles said inanely, on a par with, “I’m standing in my kitchen,” as if geography were the only thing on his mind at moments like these. In some sense, it was: the terrain of her mouth, the landscape of her under his hands, and all that goddamned unexplored territory, which he would claim just as soon as he got her off his front stoop.

He maneuvered her around the door and shut it behind her, lifted her messenger bag over her head, and deposited it on the floor next to her. He had grand plans of carrying her to some softer surface, but his brain didn’t seem to be in charge. Nor was it capable of any higher-order thinking at all, nothing civilized. The animal ruled, the beast that lifted and pressed her against the front door so she could wrap her legs around his waist and he could press his erection between her thighs. She whimpered into his mouth and wriggled against him with so much conviction that he had to break off the kiss and instruct her, “Hold still.”

“Don’t wanna.”

She was so hot where he was wedged that he could feel it clear through two pairs of jeans, but he wanted to be closer to the heat, so he deposited her back down on her feet and went clumsily after the button of her jeans. She helped and shed the jeans on the floor, along with red patent-leather clogs and a pair of wool socks.

She wore bright-red boy shorts, as she’d described last night, nearly all lace except for a V-shaped panel in the front that made him want to get down on his knees and bury his face at the point of that instructive arrow.

“Those are hot.”

Then he obeyed naked instinct and knelt and pressed his face against her, breathing in the at-the-source scent of the arousal he’d been so entranced by on New Year’s Eve—like some direct line to his dick, which was jealous of his face for getting to be buried in her crotch. He found the damp fabric between her legs and rubbed his fingers from there up to the spot that made her whimper and clutch his head, and then he licked her, too, and bit her.

“Miles!”

“You like the friction through the cloth, right? Like this?”

“Miles …”

She was rubbing against his face and fingers, and things were all so muddled up that he was licking his own fingers and the cloth of her panties. Finally he just pulled them down and parted her labia with his tongue, teasing her clit. She had red curls, a neat, well-groomed triangle of them. He drew back for a moment and cupped his hand over her, and she groaned and draped herself over his head. “You’re killing me,” she said.

“Told you,” he said. “All that was just foreplay. Even the phone sex. Is there a matching bra?”

“There is.”

He stood and peeled off her shirt. “Oh, man.” He sucked a nipple into his mouth through the lace of the bra, got his hand around the sweet, sweet curve of her, and, fuck, he was hard—he wanted in her so bad, and the more of those whimpery little desperate noises she made, the worse it got.

“Miles,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Fuck me.”

He groaned against her skin, then pulled away, fisted his T-shirt, and dragged it off. “That was hot,” she said. “You can do that anytime.”

Her hands were on the button of his jeans, which she made short work of, and then she eased his zipper down, so slowly that it qualified as a form of torture, slid her hand into the V of his jeans, and grabbed him through his briefs. Her fist was way better than his fist, and he thrust experimentally into her grip a few times before he decided that that was a bad idea and stopped. She ran a thumb over the ridge of his head and massaged the spot where his briefs were damp from pre-cum, then she took pity on him and shoved his jeans down and eased his briefs over his hips, freeing him.

“Show me what you did last night.”