Chapter 16
Ilaunch off the couch like a bottle rocket.
I’m ninety-nine percent sure I’ve just flashed Eben my underwear.
My beer goes flying—by some miracle, he catches it without spilling.
I clutch my heart and whirl to face the creature that just detonated the most gravelly, demanding sound I’ve ever heard, right next to my ear.
And it’s—the ugliest cat I have ever seen.
“Buster!” Eben scolds.
Buster is a fat, disheveled orange cat with crooked whiskers, slightly crossed eyes, and a mashed-in face. He looks up at me and meows again.
“What is that?” I croak. We hold eye contact. I’m terrified. Buster is… unfazed.
“Mrow.”
“Sorry, he’s hungry,” Eben says. “Mind if I feed him?”
“Personally, I’m scared to see what happens if you don’t.”
He sets our beers down and heads to the kitchen. Buster shoots me a dirty look (I swear) and waddles after him. There’s a cacophony of angry mrows, the crack of can, a spoon hitting a dish, and then—silence.
“You okay?” he asks when he returns.
“I’m not sure. Is that a cat?”
He laughs. “Mom used to say he was her Grandpa Bernie reincarnated, but yeah—mostly a cat.”
“He’s cute!” I lie, trying to be diplomatic.
“He’s almost eighteen,” Eben says. “My dad found him in a dumpster at the store and gave him to me. He thought a pet was a good consolation prize for not having a dad around. My mom loved that cat.”
He’s talking about his mom in the past tense again. My head tilts. “She couldn’t take him with her where she is now?”
He hesitates, then shakes his head. “No. She’s not allowed to have pets.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t pry. When he wants to tell me, he will.
“I’ve never had a pet,” I say.
His chest loosens, relieved by the subject change. “Never?”
“Well, unless you count my goldfish. Bert and Ernie.”
One eyebrow lifts. “Bert and Ernie, huh?”
“Don’t get it twisted,” I say. “I adored those little fuckers.”
He chuckles—deep and warm—and I melt a little. “Let me guess: school-carnival goldfish?”
“Shockingly, no. My grandma was pissed my mom wouldn’t allow pets, considering her own puppy once ruined all of Grandma’s carpets. It’s practically family lore.”
Eben laughs and sips. “So Bert and Ernie were Grandma’s revenge?”
“Pretty much,” I say, matching him, sip-for-sip.
“Was it effective?”
“Until the day I watched my dad flush them. One after the other. First Bert. Then Ernie. Talk about a core memory.” I shudder just thinking about it.
“They were already dead, right?” Eben asks, eyebrow arched.
“What! Yes. My parents might be in a cult, but they’re not sociopaths.” I swat his arm. Good Lord, his arm is solid. Is he bench-pressing Mille and Edna simultaneously?
Somewhere along the way, one (or both) of us has been inching closer. Our knees touch. My skin burns where we meet. I want more.
We came here to hook up, but now I’m painfully shy. Eben’s not making a move, and I’m not finding an in. My leg bounces with anxiety, and the whole couch shakes.
His hand covers my knee to still the movement. His eyes twinkle. “You sure you’re okay?”
I gulp and nod. Eben’s palm is scorching against my bare skin. Fire trails up my leg and pools low in my belly. I want to straddle him and run my hands down his chest. He’s wearing a button-down, and I want to rip it open with my teeth.
My lady-boner is back.
“Your eyes are black,” he says, grinning. Oh no—he’s onto me and my horniness.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Um. This has been great, but I really should get home. Early morning tomorrow!” My laugh comes out ha ha ha—the fakest sound ever produced by a human.
I start to stand, and he wraps a gentle hand around my wrist. I blink down at him, wide-eyed. “I’ll take you home if you want. Are you sure that’s what you want?”
I exhale a shaky sigh and sink back down. The truth is, I don’t know what I want. Stay. Leave. Maybe throw up. All at once.
He catches me eyeing the cozy space between his chest and arm. “Here,” he says, lifting it to make room.
I slide in and snuggle close. I don’t look up, even though I can feel Eben’s eyes on my face. I rest my head on his chest. His arm tightens around me, and I savor the steady rise and fall of his chest.
I thought I wanted sex, but this is definitely better—at least for right now. Eben’s willingness to go slow, to sense what I need and not rush, is hotter than any one-night stand.
He traces lightly up and down my arm. I close my eyes.
Is this the safest I’ve felt in two decades?
I let myself dream: Is this the start of something real—or is it just deeply sad that a guy I’ve known for a handful of weeks makes me feel more secure than anyone has in twenty-eight years?
I choose to hope for the first, so I don’t ruin the moment with my usual neuroticism and self-doubt.
“So,” he murmurs in my ear. A shiver climbs my spine. “What should we do with this room?”
For a second, I’m too busy thinking about what I’d like to be doing in this room. With him. “I’m thinking… rustic, cozy, lots of red and green, a dozen or so evergreens.”
He chuckles softly, hand lowering to my hip with a light squeeze.
I expect an eye roll, a lecture, another grumbling reminder that he hates Christmas. Instead, he leans in and nips at my ear. Heat detonates in my core; the growl in my throat shocks me.
“Now, Mrs. Claus,” he murmurs, breath ghosting my skin, “are you trying to turn my house into the North Pole?”
My breath hitches. Christmas innuendo shouldn’t be hot, and yet. Coming from him—the man who hates Christmas? I turn to meet his eyes, glacier-blue and sparkling with mischief.
“Something like that,” I say. The look he gives me makes me bold.
I cup his cheek and turn into him. His hands cinch my waist and tug me closer.
I tilt my mouth up; he meets me halfway.
At first, the kiss is so soft and slow it almost hurts.
He smells like good beer and that cinnamon-sandalwood I’m obsessed with.
I can’t tell if it’s cologne or body wash—but I want to bathe in it.
I’m already plotting to snoop in his bathroom until I find the bottle.
His hand finds my jaw and tilts my head so our mouths fit better.
His fingers slide to my chin, easing my lips apart so he can deepen the kiss.
My tongue moves first, slipping into his mouth to find his.
He groans deep in his chest and leans forward, indulging me.
My hand skims his neck, over his broad shoulder, and settles on his bicep.
I squeeze, and the muscle flexes beneath my grip.
God, I want to bite it.
It’s an intrusive thought, but the impulse is too strong to ignore. I break the kiss and dip my head, dragging my teeth lightly over his sleeve until I catch a pinch of skin.
His breath catches. He uses the opening to kiss and lick down my neck, his hands sliding from my waist down to my hips, fingertips flexing over my ass. He squeezes, thumbs flirting with the hem of my dress, teasing the skin of my thigh.
It’s too much. It’s not enough.
I swing a leg over his hip, dress sliding up as I straddle him. He leans back to find my mouth, his hands sweeping my hair from my face. Through his jeans, the hard length of him presses into my inner thigh. I roll my hips once, and his hands grip my hips, guiding me into friction.
His thumb slips under the hem of my dress.
He looks up, a question in those beautiful, lust-hazed eyes.
I nod once. He rewards me with a kiss as his hands skim my dress up over my hips.
My thong is black lace; he groans and squeezes a handful of bare ass.
His hands roam my bare hips and thighs while our mouths find a slow, relentless rhythm.
He breaks away, panting. I whimper at the loss. “I’m going to make you come, okay, Mrs. Claus?”
“Okay,” I breathe, my voice an octave higher.
“And then we’re going to save some for later,” he whispers against my lips—his hand slips under the thin strip of lace at my hip.
I don’t want to save anything for later. I want him to strip me bare and ruin me. But some wiser part of me knows that I’d panic later—and maybe he knows that, too.
His fingers find me, slick and hot. I buck and whimper. He groans as I soak his hand through the fabric.
“That’s so hot,” he murmurs.
“Touch me,” I whisper.
“Say please.” He nips my bottom lip.
I don’t care. “Please,” I beg.
He hooks a finger under the lace and slides beneath. He glides up and down until he finds exactly where I need him.
One finger enters. Then two. He breaks the kiss to watch me unravel.
We’re all alone except for the cat, no shared walls, so I don’t hold back; sound spills out of me as my pleasure crescendoes.
I grip his shoulders and ride his fingers.
His other hand anchors my hip, thumb dipping into the tender hollow where thigh meets hip.
He’s rock-hard against my leg, and I angle myself to grind him through his jeans.
“Fuck, Melody,” he grunts, tipping his head back. His thumb finds my clit while his fingers work. He leans in and sucks lightly at my neck, then breathes at my ear: “Next time, I’m going to unwrap you like a present.”
The memory of my dream slams through me in bright, crackling flashes. I’m already so close.
“I’m going to lick you right here until you scream my name,” he says—and it’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.
I cry out and fold into his chest, shaking through the most intense orgasm of my life.
His hand slips free, and his arms cradle me while the aftershocks roll through.
When I can finally lift my head, his blue eyes are heavy-lidded.
He trails a hand over my hip and—oh my God—sucks his fingers clean, one by one, like a decadent dessert.
I gasp, heat flooding my cheeks.
He licks his lips, a gorgeous and wicked grin.
“Way better than milk and cookies.”