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His blue eyes lock on mine as his hands grab my bum cheeks. “I think I’ll have both. Come here,” he growls, pulling me closer to him. His lips burn hot against my neck as he scalds kisses over my skin, down my collarbone, then over the soft skin of each of my breasts where they beg for freedom against the cotton constraint of my bra.
I’m melting. My insides are liquid fire, burning white hot with the blazing, tormenting heat of my desire. I need him. Now.
I reluctantly wriggle free of his caressing hands and scorching mouth, clambering to my feet with the intention of removing the denim barrier between us. The last button is about to pop under my fingers when it strikes me that I am about to take off my jeans and reveal the grayest of granny knickers to this absolute specimen of manhood. I reach to the bedside table for my glass and gulp down a little Dutch courage.
Big mistake. The dragon fire dram hits, my stomach roars, and once again I find myself face down at the sink with molten lava mixed with bile flowing out of my mouth.
There is a creak from the bed, then a hand moves my hair back from my face as the other hand gently massages my back.
“You ok?” Ali asks.
“Not really,” I croak. “I just need a minute.”
He strokes my back. “Take all the time you need. Would you like some water?”
“Yes, please.” I can hardly see for the tears springing in my eyes. I swallow down the saliva pooling at the back of my mouth and fight not to throw up again.
I struggle onto my elbows, whimpering slightly as Ali’s reassuring frame leaves my side. He reaches into the fridge and takes out a bottle of water as I rinse out my mouth and the sink with the faucet.
His mouth is twitching at the corners. “I can’t believe you did that again. What possessed you?”
I want to die. But instead, I laugh grimly. “No idea. Just a bit carried away, I guess.”
I am 100% not telling him about the knickers.
He smiles. The bed gives an ominous groan as he returns to it. He takes the quilt and wraps it round his shoulders. He holds one side out and pats the space on the bed next to him.
“I should go,” I mumble.
I curse my brain the second the words leave my mouth. I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with this kind, handsome, funny man and see where the night takes us. But I’m a dishevelled, sporadically spewing mess. And the man whose attention I am commandeering is the birthday boy guest of honour, who is missing his own birthday party for a granny-knicker wearing gate crasher who hurls his finest birthday whisky down the sink.
I expect him to politely nod and hand me my sweatshirt, but instead he asks, “Shall we watch the fireworks first?”
I smile weakly. “Ok then. But no more whisky.”
“Yeah, I think we’ll give that a miss.”
I snuggle into the space beside him. He wraps the quilt round us both and we fall into companionable silence as the firework display illuminates the night sky.
I sigh.
“Nice, aren’t they?” he observes.
“They are literally burning £20 notes.”
He chuckles. “I’m blaming the party planners for that one. The fireworks were their idea.”
“What about the Christmas theme?”
He looks sheepish. “No, that was me. I love Christmas. Christmas Eve is my favourite day of the year. I love all the excitement, the anticipation.” His brows knit together. “Is it a bit too much?”
“No,” I say, honestly. “It is epic. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Thanks. My parents will be pleased to hear that.”
“To hear it? Aren’t they here?”
“No. They’ve gone to their place in the south of France for the summer. Too cold here for them.”
