The Christmas Tree Wars by Robin Weaver

Author:Robin Weaver [Weaver, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Published: 2014-08-25T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

There They Go A-Wassailing Some More

Spence wondered if he’d ever be able to breathe right. Suzette’s chest was the kind of thing men started wars over. He’d never seen anything more beautiful. Any hope he’d foolishly held onto about keeping things in the friend zone went right out the window.

He didn’t care if his father snored just two doors down. He wanted Suzette so much Jacob Marley and a team of ghosts couldn’t keep him away. He took a nipple in his mouth, savoring the rosy morsel.

Suzette moaned. Her hand slid down his leg.

She’d find him fully hard. Couldn’t be helped. He’d been aroused even before he made the wassail.

“Hmm.” She ran another hand though his hair. “You’re a rather naughty boy.”

He lifted his head to kiss her lips again. “Remind me to tell you what happened to the nice pot who called the kettle naughty.”

She giggled and moved to sit on him. “Ouch.”

“Ah, shit, Suze. Your foot.” He sat up, feeling like a cad.

She grimaced but pulled his head back to within an inch of hers. “You listen to me, Spence James. You’re an elfin’ architect for goodness sakes. Surely you can figure out a way to sit me on top of you without hurting my ankle again.”

He grinned. “I believe I can devise the proper supports.”

She nodded.

“But first...” He stood and picked her up in his arms.

“Where are we going?”

“Be quiet. You’ll wake Dad.”

She held on tight, her giggling muffled by his chest. He kicked the door closed and positioned her on the edge of the bed. He pulled up a chair and put two pillows on it. Being as gentle as possible, he placed her leg on the down covered hardback.

She laid back on the mattress, raising her arms above her head.

“Dang, woman. Give me a fighting chance.” Don’t you dare move.

She giggled. “Just wondering how you’re going to get my clothes off.”

Smart butt. Still, a thought formed in his head that would surely get him a lump of coal from Santa. Apropos since he had his own lump to worry about. “You have more clothes, right?”

She nodded.

He reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. With absolutely no intention of using them.

She sat up straighter. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He walked toward her, clicking the scissors together. “Oh, but I would.”

“I don’t believe you.” She squeezed her eyes closed, lay back and grabbed the edge of the bed, holding tightly.

Bloody hell. He set the scissors on the table and licked her midriff. His hand found its way inside her pajama pants. He let his fingers follow the line of the elastic from hipbone to hipbone with a slow, fluid motion. He wanted her more than he’d wanted an easel from Santa on his tenth birthday.

Every time he traced the path, his hand inched lower, until his fingers were just above her triangle of hair. Something primal took control. He wanted to rip off those crazy pajamas, slam her against him.

He forced his mind to focus on her, not on the steadily increasing ache in his groin.

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