Page 52 of Not Home Alone

“Don’t you want to find out?” Her voice is raspy. Her tone is a taunt, a dare.

I don’t need to be asked twice. I suck relentlessly on her breasts. I just want to consume every inch of her. The sound of wet smacking and panting and groaning fills the room. And her whimpering. Yes, god, she’s whimpering. I keep going, for I don’t know how long, until she’s tugging on my hair, throwing her head back. She should be crying out, screaming my name. I look up at her. She’s rolling her lips, holding it in.

Refusing to show me how much she wants me.

It takes her a second to realize I’ve stopped.

“What?” she asks, lazily.

“You’re really gonna hold back just to prove a point?”

Her eyelids are so heavy. She licks her lips, swallows, and says, “I’ll make the really good sounds when you make me feel really good.”

I can’t believe this is the same person who was on my roof setting up a cardboard Santa.

“Okay. If you want to play dirty, then I’ll tell you one of the really dirty fantasies.”

I cup my hand at the back of her neck and pull her in close, massaging her hip while I say into her ear, “When I really wanted to torture myself, I pictured you in a Santa’s Helper costume. Tight little red velvet dress that barely covered your ass and a neckline that was so low your tits were pouring out of it. You were wearing white fur boots.”

“Why? What’s the context?”

“The context, Miss Tucker, is that you existed for the sake of my erotic pleasure.” I’m positive she’s rolling her eyes right now, but I continue with the story. “You’re singing my number one least favorite Christmas song until you see me, and you immediately stop singing, turn around, and bend over, resting your forearms on the table.”

“What table?”

Sighing, I drag my fingers through my hair and say, “Never mind.”

“I am a trained theater director—if you can’t justify why an actress needs to wear a costume or why you need a table on stage⁠—”

I kiss her hard to shut her up.

And then I can’t seem to stop kissing her.

SEVENTEEN

MERRILY

Grant Moody is kissing me like his life depends on it and like it’s killing him at the same time.

This is exactly how I always wanted to be kissed. By anyone, really, but there’s no one else who’d ever kiss me like this. And no one else on earth could enrage me to the brink of orgasm.

This feels like Christmas Eve when I was a kid. Anticipation and dread in equal measure. Every cell in my body is screaming for Grant Moody’s penis, but my brain is already sad that tomorrow it will be over. The gifts will be unwrapped and that will be it.

Except, now Grant has finally ended this punishing kiss and he’s staring down at my body like I’m the Holy Grail present he’s been wishing for ever since he was a kid.

My tank top is scrunched up around my waist like a belt. Grant’s chiseled jawline is so sharp as he clenches his teeth, I’m a little concerned for his molars. He grabs the sides of my panties, arching an eyebrow when he notes just how wet they are now, and pulls them all the way down, tossing them to join my boots beside the bed.

“Jesus. Christ.”

I can’t deal with the way he’s staring at my most private part, so I cover my eyes with my forearms. “What?”

“Your pussy is glistening, Tucker. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Blowing out a laugh, I tell him to shut up. My entire body is trembling, and I can’t stop it.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” I insist, almost convincingly. “For anything.”

“I know. You’re going to be even more furious with me when I make you feel better than any man has ever made you feel.”