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He kisses me back and pulls the sketchbook from my hands while I’m distracted. “Wow. These are incredible.”
“They’re just—” They’re not doodles. They’re not pointless little sketches either. They’re something. “A start.”
He sets the sketchbook down and pulls me close, his lips skating my jaw, his kiss hot on my neck. “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been, alone up here with you for the last hour, not kissing you or touching you or making you come? And you were sitting over there drawingthis?”
I slip my hands under his shirt, his abs tightening at my touch as I go lower. “Do you know how hard it was to not drag you to the floor so I could ride you?”
He nips my earlobe. “Do it.”
I grab him by the waistband and tug him to the rug in the middle of the room. Nic sits, pulling me onto his lap, pulling my sweater over my head. His hands go right to my breasts, freeing them from my bra’s lacy cups, while we kiss. Something feels different this time. My heart is pounding a little harder, a little faster because of it.
“I don’t have a condom,” Nic murmurs against my lips.
“Me neither.” I’m wearing leggings—no pockets—and I can feel him hard through our clothes. No way are we walking out of this attic unsatisfied.
“Sit on my face?”
Hell yeah. Nic helps me shimmy my leggings and panties down. I leave them wrapped around one ankle partially because I can’t wait but also because there’s no lock on the attic door. “I feel like a damn teenager,” I mutter as Nic lies on his back.
He laughs. “Yeah. Hurry, before someone comes looking for us.”
I’m giggling as I kneel over him. His large hands slide up the outside of my thighs to my hips and he pulls me down to his mouth. My giggle turns to a moan and I brace my hands on his chest because shit. Nic is really, really good at this.
I push my hands down his body to the hem of his shirt, then reverse direction, pulling the soft fabric up to reveal his flat stomach. When I toy with the thin trail of hair leading into his jeans, Nic gives my ass a light slap and reaches down to undo the buttons on his jeans. I take his dick out while he pushes his pants and boxer briefs down his hips.
The moment my lips touch his shaft, he moans, pulling me tight against his mouth. I want to tease him and make this last, but I’m not getting caught in a sixty-nine with Nic. The way I’m half-dressed to his fully dressed, combined with the danger of getting caught, only makes this hotter. So I suck him down, using my free hand to stroke him from the base to my lips. The slow, sensual way he’s eating me out changes to something sloppy and desperate as his grip on my hips tightens.
Nic comes first, but I’m right behind him. After, he needs a washcloth for his face and I need a breath mint, but he helps me put my clothes back on and I do up his pants and we lie back down to cuddle on the rug. We’ve already said a lot, so we’re quiet now, simply enjoying each other. His fingers draw circles on my arm, I do the same on his chest.
“Nic! Jessie!” Timothy’s voice is muffled but he’s close. Nic groans, kissing me quickly on the temple before getting to his feet.
By the time Timothy gets the ladder down, Nic is back at his canvas. All I had to do was roll over and grab my sketchbook and hope Timothy doesn’t pick up on the thick scent of sex in the air.
He doesn’t seem to. He climbs the ladder with a big ass grin on his face, going straight to Nic and looking at the canvas. “So this is what you two have been up to,” he says.
Nic crosses his arms. “I painted this on my own.”
That makes Timothy laugh. “No shit. What is it?”
“The lake, asshole.”
I duck my head to hide my smile as Nic and my brother squabble over the merits of his painting and whether Gabriel Sinclair’s entry will be better. My pencil quickly fills in my blank page with flowers and vines.
“Are you two ready for tonight?” Timothy asks.
I look up in time to see Nic give Timothy a deeply dubious look. “How can anyone ever be ready?”
He has a point. The Foley Christmas Eve party is unhinged.
Timothy shrugs. “I start planning five months ahead. Longer if I need to source firecrackers.”
Nic gives Timothy a light shove. Once upon a time, their horseplay would’ve ranged across the attic, ultimately swallowing me by accident, until something broke or someone got hurt. Now Timothy gives Nic a dismissive swat to the back of the head and strolls over to see what I’m doing.
“Doodles?” he asks, nudging my sketchbook with his sock-clad toe.
“Sketches.” I pull it closer—the last thing I want is for this dumbass to turn the page and see my ‘pieces of eroticism.’
Timothy bends to pick up a palette of paints. “I see someone couldn’t wait until Christmas to give you your gift.”
