Heating Up the Holidays 3-Story Bundle(98)

“Hey, I get it,” she’d said. “I’m not your type.”

But he shook his head, and there’d been something in his eyes. Whatever he was afraid of, it wasn’t her. She thought, What the hell? Because, really, the good thing about getting humiliatingly dumped was that all other rejection paled in comparison. Suppose he turned her down? If she’d lived through these last six weeks, she was hardly going to shrivel up and die because a stranger didn’t want to have anonymous December 31 sex. So she asked him, “Is that a ‘No, you’re not my type’ or a ‘No, you’ve got it all wrong’?”

His dark gaze held hers, the way it had when she’d been dancing and he’d been watching. “You’ve got that part dead wrong.” The way he said it had made her heart pound, and that was when the heat he’d started by staring at her across the room had taken on bigger, buzzier dimensions. Something she wasn’t in control of, and she didn’t want to be.

They’d danced. And speaking of things she wasn’t in control of, Nora felt as if it wasn’t her body out there on the floor. As if she were channeling something, standing back so it could move through her and rub itself shamelessly all over him. Which it did, and, whoa. Too many years with Henry had made her forget that he was, you know, kind of average-sized. And sometimes a little slow on the warm-up. This guy wanted her.

She shouldn’t let it go to her head, right? That was the whole problem with rebounds. Your pride was hurt and then some guy, some random guy you hardly knew, or didn’t know, made you feel for a few minutes like there was something worth wanting about you, and of course you were setting yourself up for another fall, because one-night rebound sex never made you feel any better about yourself in the long run.

But it was in her head, buzzing around with the alcohol and the sugar, and now the clock was running down, –2:44.

“That guy—” He pointed toward the door, where a heavyset man in a sport coat was making a getaway. “He couldn’t take the heat. Had to get out of the kitchen.”

“It must be a totally terrifying moment to be a male human.”

He nodded solemnly. “Worse than Valentine’s Day.”

“And yet you’re here.”

Nora made herself turn to look at him, and he was looking down at her. As if he were trying to perform some complex calculation. She could have saved him the trouble, because she didn’t know the answer, either.

“I almost left fifteen minutes ago,” he said.

“And then?”

She got to watch his pupils get bigger, his eyes darker. She’d thought that was a myth. “And then I saw you dancing.”

“I’m not really very good.” She wasn’t. Not in the talent sense. She’d seen the odd video of herself here and there at various events, and she was kind of dorky.

“You looked great to me.”

He said “great” as if it held a world of significance: beautiful, sexy, smart, fun. “Okay, folks! Two minutes!”

They watched the countdown for a moment. Her heart was pounding way harder than it should have been. Less than two minutes and this guy was going to kiss her, and the thought was making her nipples harden and her breasts tighten and her girl parts throb. He was looking at her as if he could see what she was feeling, which made all those body parts up their game.

Only –1:45 left to go.

“You can still leave,” she told him.

“Are you kidding me?”

She laughed at the expression on his face, but it also made her inner muscles clench: The way he wouldn’t take his eyes off her. The way his gaze held hers briefly, then dropped to her mouth. She licked her lips, not to be provocative but because, when he stared at her like that, her mouth got dry and she felt self-conscious and had to do something.

“This is weird, right? Have you ever had a countdown for a first kiss before?”

He shook his head.

“One minute! Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven …”

Everyone was chanting now, staring at the television screens, except them.

“Forty-five, forty-four, forty-three …”

“It’s possible midnight will never come,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s possible we’ll be stuck here like this forever.”

“Fuck that,” she said.

She tilted her face up and his mouth came down on hers. Hard enough for her to feel her teeth against her lip, but she didn’t care because it was so good. It was wild and dirty and slick, and she was whimpering into his mouth and trying to get as close to him as possible. Her hands were not under her control; they were grabbing at his clothes and his ass, and his hands were in her hair. And it went on and on, with one or the other of them panting for breath and then diving back in for more. It was like standing-up sex in public, and—