Page 120 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
His hand moves across my stomach as he shifts behind me, getting even closer. My skin prickles, my heart hammers, and for a moment, the movement leads me to believe that maybe... maybe he’s feeling the same way.
So on a deep breath, I decide to take a chance and slide his hand under my shirt so he’s pressing his palm against my skin.
He clears his throat, and immediately, insecurity consumes me.
“Oh, um, is that... is that okay?” I ask. “I thought that maybe, um, that possibly?—”
“Betty, trust me, I’m more than okay with this.”
“Are you sure? Because if you weren’t, I wouldn’t be offended. You could just pull your hand right back out.”
“Not happening.”
“Okay, because the option is there. I just thought that it might be nice to have some skin-on-skin contact, but you know that’s presumptuous of me?—”
His hand slowly slides north until his thumb connects with the underside of my breast, stealing all the air from my lungs.
Oh God . . . oh God!
“I’m perfectly content,” he whispers, his breath caressing my ear as he keeps his hand firmly in place.
My skin prickles.
A dull throb erupts between my legs.
And my staggered breath shifts my chest just enough that every time I breathe out, my breast skims across his thumb.
I try to steady my breathing. I try to calm my raging pulse, which seems to be hammering in my ears, but I can’t because, God, he’s so close.
No longer am I cold.
No longer do I need all these blankets.
No, I just needed him, because one little pass of his thumb has my body heating like an inferno.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his mouth still right next to my ear.
No, because I want more.
Need more.
“Umm, slightly turned on,” I say, unable to stop the truth from coming out.
“Yeah?” he asks, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Only slightly?”
And then he drags his thumb over my breast, and I nearly wilt from the feel of it. I can’t tell you the last time I was with a man or even had a man cop a feel; it’s been a long time. So to have someone like Atlas—so handsome, so consuming, so overwhelmingly sweet—even be interested has me nearly panting.
“Maybe a little more than slightly.”
“Was it from the kiss... or was it from this?” he asks, swiping my breast again.
A moan falls past my lips. “A combination.”
“Good answer.” Then to my chagrin, he moves his hand back to my stomach, to a more suitable place.
I steady my breath before I ask, “You’re, uh, you’re not going to?—”
He removes his hand completely from my shirt, and hope falls as he places his hand on top of the fabric.
