Sasha Summers - Christmas In His Bed

Or did she hate that she still wanted him?

From the look on her face, it’d be all too easy to assume it was the latter. Because that was what he wanted. Badly. The way she was looking at him now, flushed and dazed, focused on his mouth... He hadn’t been this hard since he was sixteen.

He stepped forward, erasing the small space between them. His thumbs ran along her jawline, tracing the soft skin of her neck and the shell of her ear. She closed her eyes, her lips parted, her breath escaping on unsteady gasps. He watched her response, her arousal driving him crazy. “How long?” he asked, his tone soft.

Her green eyes fluttered open. “How long?” she repeated, breathless.

“Since you’ve been...kissed.” He bit out the last word. “How long has it been since a man’s loved your body?”

“My body is none of your business.” But the tremor in her voice told him he wasn’t imagining this. Her hands gripped the counter edge as if she was holding herself back. She wanted him, even if she didn’t want to accept it.

“And it’s a damn shame,” he murmured, longing to pry her hands from the counter, to feel her fingers slide through his hair. Before he was through, she’d be holding on to him.

He smiled as his lips brushed her startled mouth—featherlight, a whisper of a touch. She shuddered as his nose traced the length of her neck. “You smell just as sweet,” he murmured. He sucked her earlobe into his mouth, her little sigh making the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight. “You taste the same.” It was true. And it was torture. When he pressed her back, pinning her hips against the cabinets, the feel of her curves against him almost brought him to his knees.

His mouth brushed hers once, still teasing. He tilted her head back, nipping her lower lip. Her lips were so damn soft. He pulled, sucking her plump lower lip until her lips parted. The tip of her tongue...stroking the curve of his lip. Damn.

He groaned, leaning into her, sealing her mouth with his and sliding his tongue into the hot recesses of her mouth. Her hand tangled in his hair, anchoring him firmly so she could deepen their kiss. And she did, the touch of her satin tongue making him groan. Her sudden hunger spurred him on. He gripped her hips, lifting her onto the kitchen counter. She wrapped a leg around his waist and pulled him close—arching into him.

His kiss wasn’t gentle; his tongue demonstrated exactly what he wanted from her. And the soft moan, her grip on his hair, told him she wanted it too. His hold on her hips tightened as he ground against her. He tore his mouth from hers, groaning against the hollow of her throat at the building friction between them. She cried out when his mouth latched on to her neck. He devoured her, holding her tightly, wanting more.

It had always been this way with her. All that mattered was the feel of her, her response, the way she touched him.

But as quickly as she reached for him, she withdrew. Her hold went from clinging to pushing against his chest. “Spencer,” she gasped. Fighting this—fighting him. He heard her deep, unsteady inhalation as she attempted to put some space between them.

Space he didn’t want. He stepped back, breathing hard.

“Spencer,” she repeated. Her voice was low and husky.

He looked at her. God, he wanted her. He hurt from wanting her. He was breathing heavy and losing control. He knew it, but he couldn’t apologize for it. She drove him crazy, made him lose his head. She always had.

“If we’re doing this... It’s one time.” Her eyes bored into his. “Only once.”

He frowned, cupping her face in his hands. “Once?” He’d been half expecting her to tell him to leave. Now she was telling him they were going to have sex. But only once?

“I don’t want to think...” She paused, her voice unsteady. “I want to feel alive...to feel something.”

Her words cut through him. He didn’t know what had happened with her marriage. Had she been mistreated? Heartbroken? She wanted one night, nothing more. And could he handle that, with the history they had, the feelings he still harbored? He knew one thing: refusing her was impossible.

Her green eyes bored into his, waiting, searching—and hungry.

Still, he had to be sure. “Tatum, I’m not sure—”

She pressed her fingers to his lips. “If the answer’s no, just say it. Otherwise, I’d rather we didn’t do much talking.”

He raised an eyebrow. Because talking meant thinking. And she’d already made it clear she didn’t want to overthink this. He should tell her no and walk away. Instead, he was going to give her what she wanted, what he wanted. “I’m not saying no.” He tilted her head back, making sure she was listening. “You want me to kiss you, Tatum? To touch you?” he asked.

Her eyes widened. “Yes.” The quiver in her voice shook him, stirring a possessiveness he hadn’t felt since they were young and in love. He swallowed back the wash of memories—and regret—and focused on the job at hand.

She wanted to feel alive. He’d give it his all. And enjoy every damn minute of it.

His hands cupped her face, his thumbs tracing her lower lip before he pressed his mouth to hers. His lips parted hers, sealing their mouths and mixing their breaths. When she trembled, he smiled, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tight against him. She was soft and warm, moving against him and gripping his shirt. He kissed her until she was clinging to him, her body molding to his, her tongue making him dizzy. Whatever she wanted, he’d give her.

He paused long enough to turn off the stove and swing her up into his arms. She twined her arms around his neck, her fingers slipping into his hair as he carried her into the living room. He set her on her feet long enough to toss the couch cushions onto the floor in front of the fire, then knelt in front of her.

His hands settled at her waist, working the fabric of her top free from the waist of her leggings. Her skin contracted beneath his fingertips, quivering. He looked up at her as his mouth brushed across her bare abdomen. She gasped, her fingers running through his hair. His lips skimmed her stomach, her waist. Her fingers tightened, tugging. He was mesmerized by the wonder on her face and the feel of her skin. Soft as silk. His hands slid up her sides and around her back, his fingers exploring every bump of her spine.

Her hands moved, settling on his shoulders to fist in the fabric of his shirt.

He lifted her hands, kissing each finger before pulling his shirt off. Her reaction was unexpected. He wanted her to touch him, hoped she would. Instead, she stared at him, slowly dropping to her knees. Her breathing was erratic, so rapid he worried she’d hyperventilate. Her hands stayed put, pressed flat against her thighs.

“Breathe, Tatum,” he whispered.

She nodded, staring at his chest.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded, still staring at his chest.

Tatum had never shied away from telling him what she wanted. There’d been times he’d had to put on the brakes. But now she seemed hesitant. “Want me to put my shirt back on?”

She shook her head. “No,” she croaked.

“Talk to me,” he encouraged, taking her hand. How many times had they ended up twined together, too caught up to know where one ended and the other began? It had been natural between them, easy. But now she seemed uncertain and it tore him up inside. “Tell me what you want. What you like.”

She looked at him, blinking rapidly, but said nothing.

He pressed her hand against his chest. Her gaze fixed on her hand, her lips parting as her fingers traced the valley between his pectorals. “Whatever you want, Tatum...” He couldn’t finish his sentence. The way she was looking at him made it impossible for him to say a word.