Page 118 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
I’m resting my head on his naked chest.
I can’t believe I was bold enough to even ask him to take his shirt off. The request fell past my lips, and I immediately felt my cheeks go red, but then he took his shirt off without a problem, and now I’m lying here, plastered to his naked torso, my hand on his chest, and I have no idea what to do.
Do I tell him the dentist-approved toothbrush was one of the best I’ve ever used? Because it was.
Do I tell him that his clothes smell like a mixture of Tide laundry detergent and pine trees? Because dear God, it’s the best smell ever.
Do I tilt my head up, lightly kiss him on the jaw, and say good night? Because that seems like something that I could make happen, but I don’t know if we’re at a kissing point right now.
Sure, we’ve kissed before, under mistletoe and mistakenly on his porch, but there is no mistletoe in this room; I’ve looked around. And of course, he said things to me tonight that have led me to believe that if I did kiss him, he’d kiss me back, but if he wanted to kiss me good night, wouldn’t he have done it already?
God, why is this so hard?
“Are you warm?” he asks, startling me out of my thoughts.
“Yes,” I squeak. “I mean, yes, I’m warm. Thank you. And thank you for caring for me.”
“Thank you for letting me care for you.”
“Thank you for even thinking about caring for me.”
He chuckles. “Are you as nervous as I am?”
I sit up again, shocked. And this is why I like this man so much, because he’s not afraid to say how he feels. He’s not trying to be some macho alpha male, walking around town, staking his claim. No, he can admit to his feelings. He can be goofy. He can lie here on this mattress and feel just as many nerves as me—at least I hope he is.
“You’re nervous?”
He chuckles again. “Yeah, I’m fucking nervous.”
“Why are you nervous? I know why I’m nervous, but you...”
“Because, Betty, after this morning, I didn’t think that you’d even talk to me, and now you’re here, in my house, sharing a bed with me. I don’t... I don’t want to fuck this up.”
And the genuine look of insecurity that crosses his expression just about does me in.
I don’t care what Uncle Dwight says—he’s wrong. There is no way Atlas had any part in the torment that he experienced. Can’t be. This man who’s staring up at me, I don’t think he could hurt a soul. He’s funny and goofy and sexy and caring. He cares so much that he saved a tarantula he’s never met in a snowstorm.
And the thought of that puts me at ease as I trace my thumb over his scruff. “You’re not going to fuck it up.”
His hand on my hip tightens, tugging me in closer.
“Promise?” he asks, his eyes growing dark.
“Promise,” I say as I lean forward, hoping that this is what he wants too, and I lightly press my lips to his.
He groans and then brings his hand to the back of my head, holding me in close as his mouth parts and he kisses me harder.
Lust beats through me as I turn more toward him, lining up my chest with his while I grip his face and match the intensity of his kiss, parting my lips, letting my tongue peek out ever so slightly, causing him to groan even louder. And it’s the sexiest sound, hearing the way that I can turn him on.
And we stay like that, kissing, making out, exploring with our mouths for I don’t know how long, but it settles me. It feels like I was meant to do this all along. Warmth and comfort and everything you’d expect from a kiss with the right person, it all swirls around me, telling me this is it. This is who I should be kissing.
When I pull away for some air, I stare down at him and the heaviness in his eyes as he looks back up at me. There’s happiness there, satisfaction, and it’s so freaking thrilling.
“Imagine if we did that under some mistletoe,” he says in a lazy voice.
I chuckle. “It would have been the talk of the town.”
“It would have set the standard for all other couples.”
