Page 118 of Mistletoe All the Way

She got me a stocking.

My heart hammers so hard it hurts. I swallow roughly, past this knot of emotions over a damn stocking. I kiss her—rough, hard, a declaration. Like I can express my feelings in a kiss. Like the kiss says I want to find a way, even though I don’t think we can. When I break the kiss, the idea I had earlier fills out a little more. But I can’t quite articulate it yet. Instead, I announce, “I need to get you a stocking.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to. Besides, where else would I put gifts like this?” I say, then untangle myself from her, pop up from the couch, and grab a small box from the bag I brought over last night. The box is shiny red and wrapped with a satiny white bow. “Since this is more of a stocking stuffer. But I can’t wait till Christmas.”

She makes grabby hands. I give the gift to her.

When she opens it, she laughs. A beautiful, festive sound that reminds me of the holidays. Of joy. Of letting people in. Of someone who isn’t jaded by how shitty the world can be. Of someone who’s smart and clever and wise, and still utterly enchanted by little gifts.

“You got me mistletoe panties,” she says, holding up the black lace with the Christmas decor embroidered on it. “Are they edible?”

I arch a brow. “Only in that I can remove them with my teeth.”

She’s quiet for a beat, then says in a husky, greedy voice, “Want your gift?”

Eloise stands in the doorway, wearing nothing but the festive panties.

She’s tall and soft and fucking resplendent like this, the tiny hairs on her arms on end, the black panties on, the mistletoe front and center. Right there. Like a lighthouse, calling me home.

Calling me to her.

“Merry Christmas to you,” she says, resting an arm against the doorway.

My throat is dry. My brain is reduced to dust. I operate only on instinct, rising from the couch, walking past the flickering lights of the tree, then coming to her and curling my hands around her waist.

She shudders and it’s gorgeous to watch—the way her pleasure seems to shimmer through her body.

The way I get to have her.

As soon as that thought hits me, a terrible one follows. Will someone else get to have her?

Well, yeah, asshole. Of course someone will. Eventually.

But for now, she’s mine, and I’d do well to remind her of that.

I drop to my knees and look up at her. “Know this—I’m the man who’ll get on my knees for you. Any time. All the time. Whenever you want me.”

“Now,” she demands.

“I’m the only one who gets to have you. And I want you all the time,” I rasp out.

Even though that’s not a promise I can make.

But right now, the thought of anyone else having her is abhorrent. Maybe to both of us since she says, “Have me. Take me.”

She’s just shy of saying I’m yours, but I can feel it in the way she arches toward me.

“No one else,” I say, a warning, then flick my tongue along the edge of the lace, licking a teasing line there.

She curls her hands tighter around my head, gasping.

I lick along her hip bone. She shudders.

I grip her harder, my palms clasping her hip bones as I move my nose along the front of her panties, inhaling her. My head swims with the intoxicating scent. “Fuuuuck, you smell so good.”

“Bet I taste better,” she taunts.