How My Brother's Best Friend Stole Christmas - Molly O'Keefe Page 0,22
longer she stared at me the harder it was to resist putting my hands on her. Sliding my fingers right into those shorts.
She swallowed like she was thinking the same damn thing.
“Just…say it,” I said.
“We’re not friends anymore,” she said. I took the body blow and nodded. “I don’t like you.”
That wasn’t totally true and I smiled, just a little, because I couldn’t help it. Because she was mad and I was crazy for her when she was mad at me.
“Fuck you!” she snapped and stepped away from the kitchen island to walk past me toward the door, which she undoubtedly meant to throw open so she could kick me out. And…it happened again. My body, coiled and still and waiting, moved into action without my conscious thought. Without my brain processing the moment and commanding my body into motion, I was suddenly moving.
I put my hands on her, her elbows, and I spun her, rough, yeah, but not mean. Not hard. I heard the pull of her breath as I pressed her stomach into the island. I stepped up behind her, her body tiny against mine.
I was doing this. This was happening. Just like the other night. I was in the moment before my brain could even process the moment.
“You don’t like me,” I said into her ear, her hair brushing against my face, tiny little burns against my skin. I was hot in my coveralls, but they were protection against the heat of her. The feel of her.
“I don’t,” she said. So stiff against me. I felt myself smiling. The action before the thought. This wasn’t safe. Everything could go sideways at any minute.
But I couldn’t stop.
“But you like this,” I said and slid my hand over the tender, sweet skin of her stomach, just above the waistband of those tiny, tiny shorts. “Don’t you.”
“No.” Her voice was barely a breath and I could feel her tremble between my hand and my body.
“What will happen…?” I asked, my mouth at her ear, my teeth grazing her earlobe. She tasted like coconut shampoo and sweat. I wanted to eat her with a spoon. I wanted to strip her naked and feast on her skin, on her sweat, and every damp and delicious place on her body. And I wanted to do it for days. Years.
To make up for every second I’d been hungry for her over the years. To stock up for the lean years ahead when the taste of her was just a memory. “What will happen if I slip my hand…”
I put my palm over her pussy. Cupping the heat of her in my hand. I lifted and she was up on her toes, her ass pushed hard against my crotch. I groaned. And she made a sound in her throat. A moan she was swallowing.
“I want that sound,” I said and put my mouth against her neck.
“Sam,” she breathed.
“Give it to me.” I squeezed her in my hand and the sound she made, that whimper/cry, that she swallowed. That she didn’t want me to hear. “Or I can leave.”
She was silent. So still. Waiting. And man, there was nothing I had respect for like waiting. Like stillness.
“Do you want me to leave?” I asked.
“Fuck you.”
Yeah. I’d ruined everything. Even another chance at having her like this. I closed my eyes and stepped away, my hand trailing from her body, and at the last possible second she grabbed me. My wrist in her strong grip.
“Don’t—” She didn’t finish the sentence.
“Don’t what?”
Stop? Leave? Go? Stay? I had no idea what she was going to say. I held my breath. Waiting. Always, always waiting.
9
“Don’t stop,” she breathed and it was the gun at the start of a race. I was on her. I put one hand on her back, pressing her down on that island. Her ass, her perfect, perfect ass, peeking out from beneath that tiny tease of a pair of shorts. I unzipped my coveralls, letting them hang at my waist. The T-shirt I wore under it sweated through. I was so hot, so on fire for her, I was going to burn through my clothes.
I slipped my hand down the back of those shorts, pushing them down over her ass. She shifted like she was going to stand, and I kept my hand on the small of her back. Keeping her there, where I wanted her. The pink of that sweet skin between her legs, the cloud of pale hair. All of it. Exactly what I