Mistletoe Kisses

“Does that mean you want me to come back?” she asked, nonplussed.

“Of course,” I answered, meeting her gaze. “We have to finish the book, don’t we?”

Now she sits on the edge of my desk, her gaze wandering as she looks around my room. Her hands are wrapped around the edges of my desk as she sits there lightly swinging her legs, and I’m impressed at how comfortable she is already given it hasn’t been that long.

That bodes well. She might balk when her limits are initially pushed, but she adapts quite nicely.

Since she is more comfortable, she’s not keeping her legs squeezed together and I catch a glimpse of white cotton panties. A terribly unsexy choice, and yet blood rushes straight to my cock at the sight.

I wonder if she’s wet. Reading such explicit words, especially after I pushed her the way I did—I bet she is.

Next lesson, I’m going to tell her to take off her panties before she sits on my desk.

My lips curve up in sinister pleasure as I think about her bare ass and pussy on my work space. I want to know if she’s been fucked yet, but before I can think of a way to lead the conversation there, Noelle speaks up.

“So, what’s next?”

I tear my gaze from the hem of her dress and look up at her face. “You told me you’d be hungry, so next we make dinner.”

Her eyebrows rise in surprise. “You cook, too?”

I incline my head once. “I do.”

She hops down off my desk, smoothing down the skirt of her flirty little dress. It takes all my self control to keep from turning her around and pushing her up against it. Pressing my cock against that pretty little ass and seeing how she’d react.

Can’t do that, so I pry myself away and start toward the door, planning to lead her out of my room.

Now that I’ve let her in here, though, Noelle dawdles. Rather than follow me out, she sits down in my chair and surveys the room.

“So, is this where you grade all of my terribly inadequate papers?” she asks, shooting me a playful look.

“Among other things.”

For some reason, her cheeks flush. Avoiding my gaze, she crosses her legs and spins in my chair. It’s such a childish thing to do, I have to crack a small smile.

“Come on, it’s time to make dinner.”

Rather than obey me, she follows her curiosity about me, peeking under a stack of papers on my desk. She lifts them and yanks out the small, thin novella tucked underneath.

Holding up the thin red volume in victory, she says, “I found it!”

She’s holding up Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, so I’m not sure what she thinks she’s found.

“Your Christmas spirit,” she answers, even though I didn’t voice the question. “You’re reading A Christmas Carol because it’s almost Christmas. I knew you weren’t all grinch.”

“If you don’t stop snooping and haul your little ass to my kitchen, I’m going to throw you over my shoulder and haul you there myself,” I inform her.

Her eyebrows rise in surprise. I doubt she believes me, but rather than test her theory that I won’t follow through, she puts my book down and stands. “Fine, Scrooge,” she mutters.

Noelle follows me to my kitchen and watches as I begin to collect ingredients. I grab fresh carrots, broccoli, and cauliflower, a bag of peas from the freezer, even some fresh garlic.

“Wow, you were serious—you actually cook, with fresh ingredients,” she says, seeming surprised.

I nod my head. “When I can. Fresher is better. We’ll use store-bought pasta tonight, though. Grab a box from the pantry,” I tell her, nodding my head in that direction.

“You make your own pasta?” She sounds delighted at the prospect. I’ll have to have her back one night to make fresh pasta.

“My father was a chef,” I inform her off-handedly. “This dish was a specialty of his. He’s probably rolling over in his grave over the boxed pasta, though.”