Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
“The camera,” I mumble against her lips as she kisses me again—hungrily, deeply, clearly as starved for me as I am for her. “How do we turn it off?”
“There is no camera,” she says, her fingers tangling in my hair. “I made it up to lure you down to the kitchen and fill your heart with holiday cheer.”
I should be angry, but I find myself the opposite. If horny is the opposite of annoyed. Not to mention I have more than a bit of respect for her deviousness.
Holly has hidden layers.
Holly also has too many clothes on.
“You’re a fabulous liar,” I tell her as I walk us in the general direction of the cushions.
“I told you, it’s the round cheeks,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around my neck. “I’m like a chipmunk. You automatically trust cuteness.”
I’m not sure I trust Andy, given the briefness of our acquaintance and his proclivity for reaching for Holly’s cleavage. I also don’t trust myself not to behave like a besotted idiot in the face of her adorable sexiness and clear desire for me.
“Cute doesn’t begin to cover what I’m thinking about you right now,” I say as I reach the mats and pillows and ease her down onto them. I’m not going to think too closely about the fact that children roll around on these.
Not when I’m one reindeer costume away from turning my trip to Jingle Hell into Jingle Hell Yeah.
Chapter Six
HOLLY
“You’re probably thinking that I’m more like a raccoon,” I say, as I settle back onto the pile of pillows. “That I’m chubby and I’ll fight you under the right circumstances. Like if you try to steal a bite of my pancakes without asking.”
Why am I still talking? Or giving Luke reasons to not kiss me again?
I press my lips together and vow not to ruin what could be the most satisfying night of my life, if that erection against my thigh is any indication. Not even Santa carries a package that big.
Fortunately, Luke just chuckles as he shifts beside me. “You’re not like a raccoon. Unless another of your hobbies is digging through trash.”
“I don’t do that,” I say with complete honesty. Then rethink my answer. “Though sometimes I eat half of a brownie, throw it away so I won’t be tempted to finish it, then pull it back out and eat the whole thing anyway.”
So much for not babbling.
I can admit it. I’m nervous. It’s been a very long time since I’ve had sex. I’m eager, excited, but also a tad concerned that my seduction skills are as rusty as the old cars in Farmer Bart’s back field.
“Are they pot brownies?” Luke’s hand has landed on my waist and is inching upward. He finds the zipper on my costume and starts to play with it.
It goes down a millimeter, then up again. Down, then up.
“Just regular br-brownies,” I stammer, flustered. “It’s warmer up here, isn’t it? But still so dark. I can barely see you.”
I’m groping around, trying to find his waist, but my aim is way off, and my hand lands on his erection. “Oh, my,” I say. I give it a little stroke, feeling my way around.
Luke stops fiddling with my zipper, dragging it all the way down with a purr that electrifies my already buzzing skin. “You don’t have to be afraid of the dark. I’m right here with you.”
He is definitely with me. His hand is now making inroads with my costume, cupping my breast with a firm, sure touch. He leans down and says, “Good thing I don’t have a nut allergy.”
“Peanuts are actually legumes.” I start to giggle, but the sound becomes a moan as he kisses the exposed flesh above my bra. He replaces his lips with his hand, brushing over me, teasing at my nipple through the lace of my bra, as his mouth takes mine in a hot, sweeping kiss.
I’ve never been kissed like this.
It’s commanding and powerful and sends a typhoon of desire crashing over me. His tongue teases against my mouth, and I open for him, marveling that Luke Ratcliffe and I are in a lip lock. I fantasized about this moment as a recent divorcee when I stumbled across—okay, aggressively Googled—photos of him at his cousin’s wedding a few summers ago in Nantucket.
He was wearing a suit, like now, and looked every inch the billionaire businessman. But back then I had no idea the body he was hiding under all that finely tailored linen.
My hands find his biceps and I squeeze, impressed with their strength.
Luke pulls back and shrugs out of his jacket with harsh, determined movements. The room is hushed except for the rustle of his clothing and a buzzing in my ears that is either a medical condition or the hum of a bank of computers in the corner that local residents use to access the internet.