Every December [Soon to be Self Published]

Chapter 13

Austin

I am an asshole. The voice in my head on that subject is loud and clear.  My needs are scorching as my tongue skims over her mouth tasting the wine off her seductive mouth, diving further in, silently groaning with a deep vibration. Lydia's hands press into my hips. Heat bursts where she touches, my body drawn tight against her softness. "You smell like a Christmas tree."

"Breathe it in," she whispers back. "I smell good." She laughs against my jaw, placing a kiss near my ear and drags her mouth down my neck, my fingers instinctively clenching her hips, already memorizing her curves, knowing she's been in the rugged corners of my dirty fantasies. My mouth hungry against hers. My fingers swiping between her legs. Lydia saying my name. Calling it out when I am inside her, clenching my hands around her thighs as she begs for more. 

Doing the right thing and wanting to take this sets off a wave of agonizing indecision. Lower, I tilt my face to accommodate her mouth. God. She's everything. Her lips are soft; mine are firm. I take. She gives. Our breaths are fast and I work my mouth against hers in fast, grasping strides burying my grief...burying betrayal...burying my mouth against hers. Harder, I take her mouth, I take her body, slipping my hand beneath her waistband, dying to feel what's below, aware of the heat meeting my skin, needing to know if I make her wet and releasing a subtle grin against her mouth as I confirm it.

The stretchy, cloying material of her leggings secures my hand against her firmly. I kiss her again, slower this time, adjusting, swiping, moving back-and-forth, my fingers invading her. She gasps my shoulder. "I want this," I say, circling my fingers, dipping into her heat, feeling her muscles tighten as her thighs clench the demands of my fingers.

Heat swarms us, turning her skin sticky. Everything is on fire. My blood. My needs. I stroke her between the legs, watching her fight for control and throwing my head back as she grabs onto my shoulders, digging her fingers into me. She's ready, she's fighting it, but her skin is like liquid sin in my hand. My body is as tense as hers, hard to the core, our breaths a wild mess as she buckles, gripping me as she rides the wave.

I pull my hand out and hold her hips, briefly worried that she's in pain from the cast or from standing. One look at her compelling, desire-filled eyes and I know we're not finished. Screw the press conference. I'm staying here, with her, in my bed or on the couch, wherever she wants to take this.

She removes my shirt, her hungry gaze sweeps over me, running her hand down a straight line over my hardness. "Your turn."

"Lydia." I put my hand beneath her chin, guiding her to stand back up. "Before we do this--"

She arches forward, steeling her arms around my neck, drawing me back to her mouth, giving me full access to her lips over and over again, my lips hooked on her kiss like I can't get enough of the taste of her or the slide of her tongue around me tightening the line between my chest and my cock, heat spilling through me, until I lift her in my arms and carry her to the bedroom. The need to get her out of her clothes, to see her body, to feel her mouth on my skin. Nothing is off limits.

A sharp knock on the door stops us cold. Our gazes lock. The sound of our breaths fills the air.

She looks over my shoulder. Her mouth puffy and raw from my rough kiss. "Are you expecting someone?"

"No." The worst comes to mind, the bout of panic rises in my chest and my gaze tears away afraid for the lies to break apart any of this. What now? Is it Hartley? He's come back. "There's something I have to tell you."

"Could you put me down first?" she says with a frustrated tease. "Unless you're planning to answer the door with me in your arms and wearing no shirt?"