Chapter 5 Hope
HOPE
I didn’t think this through.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
How the hell am I supposed to get any sleep with Marshall McCray sleeping in my house—in my bedroom?
I push the door closed and sink to the floor against it. Gram sits by my side, licking my cheek.
Damn Hillary and her ability to push me to my limits.
“Hey,” Marshall says, crouching until he’s eye level with me. All I want to do is jump right into his big, strong arms. It’s all those damn toe-curling kisses he’s been stealing throughout the day. Every time Hillary insults me—which let’s be honest, is a lot—he eases the blow with his expert lips.
Lips, I’m certain, that have kissed many, many other women.
It’s the only thing keeping me from making a big mistake and giving in.
And I really want to give in.
I want him to make me scream in the best way.
God it would be so nice to come without having to do all the work myself for once.
“Sorry about that,” I whisper, well aware Hillary’s settling in just across the hall. I wouldn’t put it past her to hover outside my door and eavesdrop, just waiting for the opportunity to call bullshit on this relationship. I’m certain nothing would bring her more delight.
“What do you have to be sorry about?” he asks.
“Really? You have to ask that?”
“It’s not your fault your sister’s an asshole.”
I let out a gentle laugh. Dammit, I could so easily fall for this man.
“I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward position.”
“What’s awkward about it?” He offers me a hand and pulls me to my feet.
I’m unsteady and fall against his chest—not that I was trying all that hard to stay balanced.
Marshall wraps his arms around me, holding me there against him as though he has no intention of letting me go.
That woodsy spice scent surrounds me, like a warm, fuzzy blanket.
A blanket that’s making me so wet it’s practically dripping down my inner thighs.
The last thing I expect to feel around womanizer Marshall McCray is safety.
But I’ve never felt safer anywhere else…ever.
And it’s turning me on in ways I never realized were possible.
“I’m going to have to fake an orgasm now, you know that right?” I’d rather light my Christmas decorations on fire than face Hillary in the morning if I didn’t make good on my promise—however unhinged that promise might have been.
“It’ll be fun,” Marshall says, his tone so easygoing.
I watch Gram retreat to a pile of blankets in the corner and settle himself in for bed. The pup is no doubt tired after a long day of running errands.
“Fun’s not exactly the word I had in mind.” It’d be one thing to fake moans if I was by myself. Like, if Marshall crawled out the window and went home until morning. But the thought of making those intimate sounds with him in the room is too much.
“What word would you use?” he asks, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. My entire body shivers. I should probably shrug out of his intoxicating embrace before I make a really bad decision. But dammit, I like it here.
“Embarrassing makes the top of the word choice list.”
“Would you feel less embarrassed if you didn’t have to fake it?” he asks.
“Yeah, but we already concluded that’s not an option. If it’s too quiet in here—”
“I meant I could make you come, for real.”
I’m suddenly all too aware of the wetness pooling between my thighs, the swell of my breasts desperate for his touch, and his impressive erection pressing into my belly.
I’ve wanted Marshall since the first moment I laid eyes on him in his gym months ago.
But I knew better than to get tangled up with a man who could charm the pants off any woman he desired.
It’s only a matter of time before some new chick moves to town and captures his interest with alarming ease.
Tonight, though, I don’t seem to care. I want him to charm me right out of my pants.
“Marshall—”
“If I crossed a line, you can tell me. I’ll back off.
” He pauses, as though waiting for me to pull away.
But when I don’t, he adds, “I’m crazy about you Hope, in case that wasn’t clear.
It would be my honor—my pleasure—to make you come so hard you leave your body.
And if we can make your asshole sister uncomfortable, that’s just a bonus for both of us. ”
A whimper escapes my throat.
I’m certain I’ve had a naughty dream or two recently about this man that started much like this.
“If you want me to sleep on the floor, I’ll pretend not to listen as you fake an orgasm,” he continues. “It’s up to you.”
“Okay,” I say, my decision a rushed breath of air.
“Okay?”
“Let’s see what you got, Marshall. Give me a real orgasm,” I say before I lose my nerve.
“Gladly.” His hand slides up my shoulder and settles onto the side of my neck in a possessive way that makes me all tingly inside.
Only a thin layer of fabric—aka my Christmas PJs—separates my nipples from Marshall’s touch.
I yearn to rip the shirt from my chest, just so I can feel his skin on my skin.
He walks me back to the bed, pulling back the covers and guiding me to lie down. I’m still fully clothed, but I let him take the lead. For once, I don’t want to think any of this through. I just want to be. And for some reason I can’t quite pin, I trust the very man I shouldn’t.
Marshall tugs off his shirt and drops his jeans to the floor. His black boxers have a couple of crossed candy canes on one thigh, next to red letters that spell out it’s not going to lick itself.
Fuck me.
He crawls into bed beside me, those boxers still on but not doing much to hide the weapon of mass destruction inside them, and scoots up to my side. His hand slides up my throat again, and my bones instantly turn to liquid as his lips find mine.
It’s all part of the charade, I remind myself.
But when his hand slides up my shirt and settles on my breast, I nearly lose it.
The moan that escapes my throat is not premediated—it’s inevitable.
I couldn’t swallow it down if I tried. How long have I craved Marshall’s touch?
How long have I wanted his hands on me? I thought Santa had forsaken me for yet again another Christmas.
Turns out, the big jolly guy was just a few days late on the delivery.
Marshall massages my boob gently, yet thoroughly. I grow wetter as he moves to the other. I surrender to his greedy lips, inviting that eager tongue into play. I want him closer—I want him on top of me. I want to tangle myself in this man.
But Marshall stays firmly at my side as his hand roams from my breasts, down my belly, and finally, beneath the waistband of my pajama pants. His fingers dig into the silk fabric of my panties, applying a delightful amount of pressure to my clit.
“Your panties are wet, Hope,” he says, his words a whispered growl. “Is that my fault?”
“Entirely,” I pant.
“Good.” He presses his lips to mine as his finger swirls around my button. I rock my hips to his rhythm, desperately fighting the urge to move faster. I want a release almost as badly as I want to just feel this pleasure building forever.
“I’ve wanted you since the first day you walked into my gym,” he says against my ear, hooking his finger into the side of my panties and exposing me to him.
“You have?” I shouldn’t fall for this charm. It’s only going to lead to heartbreak. But dammit, this feels too good. Maybe, for one night, I can just pretend that Marhsall means what he says.
“You’ve been playing hard to get though.”
“Maybe a little.”
His fingers stroke through my wet folds.
I attempt to silence my moan, but then I remember Hillary across the hall. Fuck it.
I let go.
I don’t fight the sounds as Marshall strokes my pussy. I surrender as one finger, then two, dive into my channel.
He shows me no mercy with that expert hand, fingers pumping and curling inside me to hit that spot.
I cry out so loud Gram grumbles from the corner.
I’m so damn close.
“I’ve thought of hundreds of ways to make you come,” he admits, those lips against the shell of my ear. His teeth grip my earlobe and tug. “This is just the first one of many.”
With that declaration, Marshall takes me all the way over the edge of a very steep cliff.