Today . . . that was Brent.
Tomorrow? Maybe it would be Brent covered in cherry pie filling as I slowly licked it off his body. I grinned at myself in the mirror then reached for my jacket just as the doorbell rang.
“You got this,” I told the optimistic woman in the reflection.
The one that I almost didn’t recognize.
The one I wanted to keep around anyway.
I made it down the stairs in record time, clomping in my chunky-heeled booties across the hardwood floor to tug open the door.
“Hi,” I said, a little breathless from the jog to the front of the house, but mostly breathless because it was Brent . . . and fuck could the man wear a suit. It was deep navy with a bright white shirt underneath. No tie, which was a shame because the outfit definitely gave me the urge to take him by the tie and drag him into the next room. But the shirt wasn’t buttoned all the way up, so I contented myself with fantasizing about caressing that triangle of exposed skin with my tongue . . . then maybe showing him how good my unbuttoning skills were as I made my way down.
I was good at shirt buttons.
But I thought I was even better at pants buttons.
Hadn’t had a lot of experience with undoing belts, however . . .
Which was preciously the point—my gaze firmly locked on said belt (which was in a killer shade of dark brown that also matched a cool pair of shoes that weren’t old-man frumpy, but instead model-worthy)—that I realized I hadn’t said anything aside from Hi, and that had been a good two minutes earlier.
I tore my eyes from the belt and brought them up to Brent’s face.
Then realized he hadn’t been speaking either.
Because his gaze was on me . . . or rather on my body. I shivered when it drifted slowly back up, almost as though he were tangibly tracing my curves, my skin prickling and goose bumps rising on its surface, my nipples hardening against the fabric of my bra.
And he saw my body’s reaction.
Or, at least, I suspected it. Because my nipples got tingly and then his face changed, need sharpening his features as his eyes lingered there for a long moment before they eventually moved up to mine.
Heat.
Scalding brown eyes that threatened to set my body on fire.
He cleared his throat. “That’s some dress, darlin’.”
I nibbled my lip, started to murmur a “thanks,” but suddenly I found myself in his arms, pulled flush against that broad chest of his, getting a close-up view of the heat in his gaze. “And then you had to go and bite that gorgeous mouth of yours,” he said, a mix of velvet and gruff that slid over my skin, arrowing heat directly for my pussy. “I can’t have you abusing this mouth.” He brushed his thumb over my bottom lip, making my breath hitch. “Can I?”
If me abusing meant he’d hold me like this or hopefully kiss me like it was imminent based on his expression, then I was definitely going to keep the lip nibbling.
His palm slid up my side, fingertips drifting on the outside of my bottom ribs, skating along my arm, drifting up my throat before coming to a stop on my jaw. “Can I?” he asked again.
Cinnamon on his breath, glazing my lips like the most delicious frosting on Earth.
Calloused fingertips caressing my skin.
A hard chest against mine.
Our mouths perfectly aligned because of my heels.
Check. Check. Check—
I stopped cataloging, stopped thinking.
I closed the distance between our mouths.
Perfection. His lips on mine were utter perfection, and for one inane moment, I was glad I hadn’t worn lipstick because I knew this was the kind of kiss that would obliterate the most carefully applied liner and stain. Especially when he managed to part my lips from one heartbeat to the next, his tongue sliding home, and reminding me why I’d lost a piece of my sanity under the mistletoe at Bobby’s on Christmas Eve.
The man could kiss.
Gently coaxing one moment then his arms banding tight, pulling me even tighter against him as his lips and tongue demanded mine to meet him move for move.
Not a hardship.
Also, I wasn’t just going to follow. I could lead, could be demanding, too. I slipped my tongue into his mouth, chasing his, nipping at his bottom lip. And Brent let me take the lead, at least for a moment.
Then he shifted, spinning us so my back was pressed to the open door.
My legs went around his waist, and he stiffened, lips coming off mine as he sucked in a breath that almost sounded pained, but before I could ask if he was okay, his palm dropped to my hips, angling my body, holding me to him so I could feel his hardened cock, just between my thighs. Then his mouth descended again, and Brent took control back, his mouth and hands working in tandem, frothing my desire into a tumult of need, until it felt like I might die if I didn’t have this man inside me.
“Brent!” I gasped, throwing my head back when he slid his lips along my throat, nuzzled into the cowl neck of my dress, finding bare skin.
And . . . thank you, God, because his mouth closed over the hard bud of my nipple, suckling it through the fabric of my bra, the wet material and damp heat of his mouth nudging me closer to oblivion.
I moaned, tightened my legs on his hips, and gasped, “Inside!”
Without a word, he moved, lifting his hand and me from the door, slamming the wooden panel shut, and flicking the lock closed.
I’d meant inside me, right there, not giving a shit that we were making out in full view of anyone who might happen by. But I didn’t have time to clarify that or even to complain he wasn’t inside me because Brent slanted his mouth across mine, and it was very obvious who was in control.
That person being Brent.
He carried me across the room, dodging the box I’d intended to use to pack away another portion of Christmas Extravaganza, avoiding the coffee table, not disturbing the vases of ornaments on the sideboard, not doing anything except arrowing directly for the couch and setting me down on top of it.
But he didn’t follow me to the plush gray cushions, didn’t drop down onto me, pressing my back against them.
Instead, he dropped to his knees in front of me.
And this time, the coffee table was disturbed, shoved abruptly to the side, its contents rattling, a stack of blocks that spelled ‘Merry Christmas’ toppling to the floor, hitting the carpet with barely audible thunks.
My chest rose and fell in rapid succession as I struggled to suck air into my lungs, but any and all hope of that faded when Brent turned back from moving the table, and his scorching gaze met mine. “Darlin’?” he asked, no velvet left in his voice. Only gruff, and a gruff that sent all my nerves, but especially the ones between my thighs, tingling.
But . . . it was also Brent asking a question.
Brent checking to see if I was with him.
Well, I was about ten steps ahead of him. I wanted his hard cock—which I could see clearly outlined against the tight fabric of his slacks—and I wanted it inside me. I lifted a hand, reached for his belt.
He caught my wrist, lifted it to his mouth. “Behave,” he murmured against my skin.
Not likely.
I was living my best life now, and that meant I was grabbing every opportunity—and okay, maybe the occasional hard cock, so long as that cock belonged to this man—to reach for what I wanted and deserved.
I lifted my other hand, managed to grasp onto the top of his belt.