He blows out a breath, trying not to laugh, and rubs his thighs. “Holiday harlot, huh?”
“A mistletoe mistress.” I tilt my shoulders in a sexy way.
“You know, your talent for alliteration is quite amusing.”
“Then, I shall stop.” I make a zip my lip motion and toss away the figurative key.
With a hard laugh, he grabs my hand and pulls me fully into him. My waist lines up with his groin, and I gasp at the closeness—and the hardness.
Hunter places a hand around my neck and starts to pull the bobby pins from my chignon. It’s a simple motion, but with each tug, I feel his sturdy hand, warm on my skin, grasping the pins gently yet with purpose. It causes me to lift my chest with a deep gasp.
“While you have the graceful neck of a dancer, you should let your hair down,” he breathes.
“Thank you for the compliment, but wouldn’t that mean I should show it off, like I am now?”
With each delicate pull of a pin, the tendrils fall onto my shoulders, leaving a whisper of a tickle against my skin. When they’re all out, he laces his fingers through my hair, letting it tumble in loose waves down my back.
My scalp tingles, and the sensation runs through my body, into my toes. He sweeps it to the side, making it cascade across one shoulder. He runs a finger along my skin, pushing my hair to the front.
“Hide that beautiful flesh behind the veil. Make him want to find out what’s buried beneath,” he says with purpose.
“What’s next?” I ask with a swallow.
“To touch is to flirt.” He moves his thumb in a slow circle on my neck, causing a shiver to run down my chest. “A hand on the shoulder is friendly. A hand on the chest shows attraction.”
I raise my hand and lay it on his chest. The heat of his body pours through his shirt and into my palm. His heart is pounding, mimicking my own.
“What do I do with my other hand?” I ask.
“Where does it feel like it wants to be?” he asks provocatively.
I place it on his bicep. “Is this too forward?”
“If he doesn’t want it there, he’ll tell you. Compliments are always welcome. Men are constantly telling girls things about them, so switch the role and surprise him.”
My hands shake mildly. “Okay, let me think. I’ve never role-played with anyone before.”
“It’s not role-playing. It’s honesty. If it’s a line, he’ll know. If it’s the God’s honest truth, then he’ll feel that.”
I lick my lips and nod my head, trying to narrow down his most attractive quality. He has many. His full lips, broad shoulders, tousled hair …
“Your eyes,” I say, and he starts to roll them, so I add, “they remind me of caramel candies. But it’s not just the honey-colored streaks or your long lashes, which are ridiculous for a man. It’s the way you look at people. They’re really inviting. When we talk, I feel like I’m the most important person in the room.”
I laugh at how crazy this scenario is and shake my head, tilting it down to the ground to avoid the exact contact I was just explaining so I can gain my composure.
I inhale and look back up to him, my shoulders sagging. “That sounded stupid, right?”
His gaze clings to me, analyzing my reaction, staring at me with so much interest that I’m starting to feel uncomfortable.
“Never mind.” I cross my hands in front of me, like I’m waving a white flag. “Your turn. I need help with the flattery, obviously. What would you say?”
“Your lips,” he answers easily. “You have the most beautiful bowed mouth. When you smile, it’s so bright, you light up, even when you’re confused or focusing really hard on something. Your lips are like a present I want to unwrap and make smile again because when you do, everything’s better.”
I bite the exact body part he just made me all mushy about and turn my head away. His words, so smooth and yet so honest, have that tingle in my chest radiating through my body.
“Eye contact is key,” he says, pulling my attention back to him. “If you can hold a man’s attention with the simple look of your eyes, then you know you have him.”
I raise my chin and stare into his eyes and find myself being drawn into him. Like a moth to a flame, I’m being pulled in, and I can’t find the strength to turn away.
They grow darker and glaze over in a lustful haze as his pupils dilate, searching mine. He seems to have the same magnetism toward me as I do him. The noise I heard all around us is completely silenced. The people surrounding us disappear.
His fingers grip my waist, giving a more physical sensation as he applies pressure to there. I’m tugging his arm, willing him to come closer to me, and I don’t want to stop.
My senses are heightened as his body brushes against mine. A bolt of electricity courses through my bones, and I clutch him tighter. His intoxicating, musky scent washes over me, and as we draw nearer, I can practically taste the whiskey on his soft lips.
I don’t know what comes over me, but without thinking, I fall forward and crash my mouth against Hunter’s. My lips form against his, and for a brief moment, I consider what a foolish mistake this is until he parts his mouth and pulls me into him, his tongue gliding out to caress mine.
If this is a mistake, then I don’t want to be right.
His other hand is now on my face, caressing my skin as our tongues dance around each other. He applies the firmest pressure to our kiss, which makes my chest heave into his, as I search for any amount of friction and embrace this man is willing to offer.
I raise my palm from his heart and move it up to his neck, feeling his pulse throbbing beneath my thumb.
His mouth draws out our kiss until I’m breathless. When he pulls away, his eyes are hooded as his thumb rubs a circle against my cheek.
I lower my arm and take a step back. I have to blink to remind myself we’re in a crowded bar with garland stretched across the ceiling and Bruce Springsteen playing on the speakers.
What the hell just happened? I’ve never kissed someone like that—with me making that final push to make it happen—but holy hell, I couldn’t stop myself.
“I’m so embarrassed,” I whisper in disbelief, placing a hand over my mouth, still feeling the tingle of our make-out session. “One minute, I’m talking about being infatuated with a certain man, and the next, I’m sucking face with you.”
He grins at that comment. As he grabs his glass and takes a drink, I have a feeling he’s just as shocked as I am at what we just did.
“I’m sorry. God”—I shake my head, not sure what I’m trying to say—“I don’t want you to think I’m some foolish girl who throws herself at any guy over his silly words and then gets lost by his all-consuming kisses. I mean, I only wanted to learn how to be more forward. That was a complete accident. I’m so sorry. Please say something. Why aren’t you speaking?”
With raised brows and a smirk, he leans forward and takes a long, slow sip of his drink, turning only his chin to me and looking at me through his long lashes. “You think my kisses are all-consuming?”
I want to laugh because, from that whole speech, that’s what he took away. Instead, I shrug, feeling shy, and admit, “I’ve never been kissed like that before.” I want to bury myself and never see him again.