One More for Christmas

“Brodie! Are you—”

“It’s good. I’m good. I crack my head several times a day. It comes from being tall. As long as I’m conscious, don’t stop—” His hands drew her head back to his and she nibbled at his lips.

“But the sofa—we could—”

“A flat surface is safer.” There was a rasp of desire in his voice. “Nowhere to fall.”

He sank his fingers into her hair, kissed her, his breath warm against her mouth as she slid over him. She traced his body with her hands—strong shoulders, the swell of muscle—and then she felt him grasp her hips and draw her down.

She felt the hardness of him brush intimately against her, and then he paused, breathing rapid, jaw tense.

“We should probably—”

“Yes—” She could barely think. “Where—”

“Wallet—”

They talked in unfinished sentences, too desperate for each other to concentrate on words, but she found what they needed, and then there was no more holding back.

They joined together in a single smooth movement that brought a gasp to her lips and a groan to his. It was fast and furious, the pressure and the pleasure building to a peak that intensified as pleasure ripped through them both at the same time.

She felt him scoop her up and deposit her on the sofa. Then he came down on top of her, and this time he took it slowly, exploring her with his mouth, kissing his way down her body leaving no part unexplored, and it was the most intimate, intoxicating experience of her life.

When he took her for the second time, she arched and wrapped her legs around him, feeling the pleasure build again until every nerve ending in her body was screaming for release. It was wild and hot and wickedly good, and she lost track of time as they made love over and over again.

Finally, when they were both exhausted, he pulled a blanket over them and she lay in the curl of his arm, eyes closed, wishing she never had to move.

“I’ve never had sex on the floor before.”

He tugged her closer, making sure she didn’t tumble off the sofa. “Can I ask you something?”

“Mmm.” She nuzzled his neck. “What?”

“Were you thinking about work just then?”

“I—what?”

“Work. I need to know if you were thinking about work.”

She was barely aware of where she was or who she was, and he was wondering if she was thinking about work? “No. I haven’t even—Just no.”

“Good.”

She lifted her head and saw a smug smile spread across his face. “Why would you ask that question?”

“Because the first time we spoke, you said you wanted to have a love affair so consuming you would forget about work.”

She thought back to the conversation and then laughed. “Are you kidding?”

“No. In any other woman, trying to take her mind off work might be a low bar, but not you. You eat, dream and sleep work. And then there’s all the other stuff—”

“What other stuff?”

He cleared his throat. “Your reading habits.”

She slid her hand over his chest, her smile teasing. “The title was One Night with the Laird.”

“Right. And I’m hoping this might be more than one night, but either way you have to understand that a book like that would give any guy performance anxiety.”