Christmas Kisses

14. Christian

14

CHRISTIAN

“ N o luck finding an iron-cast crotch?” Angel’s eyes shoot up from the sports cup I wear while batting in a cricket match before she says, “I’m not sure plastic will cut it. I practiced karate in junior high.”

Her stance proves she isn’t lying. I won’t mention my body’s response when she kicks her leg high into the air. Her shorts are already indecent, but they’re an entirely new level of corruption when her ankle swings above her head. I am already on the direct route to being sued. I don’t need more charges against me.

The shit I’ve found out about Mrs. Richler over the past twenty-four hours has been astonishing—and not in a good way. She brings new meaning to corruption, and my construction company almost got snared by her prongs.

If that isn’t bad enough, Angel’s ankle wasn’t solely bitten by her trap.

It was gnawed—more than once.

I’m drawn from dangerous thoughts when Angel murmurs, “Whoa.” She sways like a leaf on a hot summer’s day. “I shouldn’t do that on an empty stomach.”

When she wobbles, I shoot off the couch, catch her in my arms, and pull her into my chest like her shirt isn’t the only one between us.

After a rigorous sniff, she moans like my skin is slathered in bacon lard. “I’m so hungry that my stomach is eyeing my intestines like they’re knotted with gnocchi.” Her eyes are on me, lustful and starving. “Take that as your warning. If you want to make it through the night uneaten, put on a shirt.”

While laughing like the possibility of being eaten by her is disgusting, I walk us to the kitchen. She’s so weightless I’m tempted to hold her against me with one arm like my mother did my little brother while moving around the kitchen, preparing me something to eat. The only reason I don’t is because she needs to watch me open each article of food to trust me enough to eat it.

I need her lucid enough to pry information out of her that I need to make Mrs. Richler regret the day she tried to play me for a fool.

I’d also hate for anything to compromise the curves that haven’t left my head for a second over the past two days.

Angel’s nostrils flare as the scent of salty meat filters into the air. “Mm. They do packaged pastrami at the deli now?”

I nod before inconspicuously adjusting the crotch of my trousers. I’ve never heard a more provocative noise. “You’d be amazed at what people will do for the right amount of coin.”

Ignoring how her excited expression switches to miffed as fast as mine, I drag a knife through the Cyrovac seal, dangle four slices of pastrami meat in front of my mouth, and then tear through it with my teeth.

Angel watches one-half of our shared ingredient slide down my throat before her eyes lower to the bread rolls sealed in a plain white bag.

“The bakery owner’s note said you’d know her signature, so if I want to assure you that the goods haven’t been tainted, I should show it to you.” I show her the note scribbled across the seal keeping two bedrolls fresh, before piercing them with the tip of my knife.

“Take them for every O they’re willing to give .”

—Mrs. Anderson

“I feel like there’s a story behind her slogan, and it is only brought out for certain members of Ravenshoe.”

Angel’s smile slows down my sandwich-making skills, proving I’m not as good at multitasking as I once believed. “There is…” She flashes me a smirk that has me fumbling like an idiot. “But I’m not a girl who kisses and tells.”

I stiffen like a virgin.

Angel’s response is on the opposite end of the spectrum.

“Not like that.” She roars in laughter. “Harlow is married.” Compared to her shout, her next sentence is closer to a whisper. “And I’m not interested in girls.”

I hit her with a stupid wink, feigning this isn’t the first time we’ve been genuinely cordial. “I guess opposites do attract.”

I drink in her silent Haha! before slicing open the bread rolls and nudging my head to the refrigerator now stacked with food. I couldn’t get a single delivery confirmation with a before-Christmas date until I gave them Angel’s address. Then offers for immediate dispatch were handed over left, right, and center.

Again, it announced that I had picked the wrong team to side with when I landed in Ravenshoe.

“Butter?”

“No. I’m too hungry to wait.” Angel leans over the counter, snatches up a bread roll, and slaps it with a hefty chunk of pastrami before ripping her teeth through the barely closed chunk of carbs.

I’ll never eat anything bread-related again without getting hard when a moan rumbles up her chest. It is the exact noise I imagine she’d make while accepting my dick between her pouty lips, and it has me suddenly no longer hungry for food or answers.

“This is so good.”

Another bite.

Another prolonged chew.

Another aching throb pulsating through my cock.

Who knew something as simple as eating could be so damn sexy?

“Huh?” I ask, forcing my eyes from Angel’s lips when the voice pushing me to the brink of cardiac arrest trickles through my ears. “Did you say something?”

With a touch of a smile, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before asking, “Are you not eating?”

“Yeah… ah… I’m planning to. I just prefer condiments with my meat.”

Angel watches my stalk to the fridge as she crosses her heart. “The butter is still in date. You have my word. I’ll never recover from a summer at my grandmother’s country estate.” She takes another bite before talking around the massive chunk, too famished from not eating for twenty-four hours to remember basic eating etiquette. “I kept telling my mom that the butter tasted weird. She didn’t believe me… until half her toast was buttered with mold.” When I screw up my face, she laughs a crummy chuckle. “Yep! That’s how out-of-date the butter was. The bottom half of the tub was pure penicillin.” With one truth, another always follows. “I put powdered milk into the jug to make you think it was out of date.” I don’t get a chance to reply. “And I didn’t know they would make the dishes that hot. I wanted them to add a slight tingle to your backside, not have hemorrhoid-removing capabilities.”

For the first time in a long time, I genuinely laugh. It turns Angel’s cheeks red in an instant, and my plans deviate for the umpteenth time today. “I’ll be sure to let my proctologist know who’s to blame for the loss of income.” When Angel looks lost, I say, “A proctologist is an ass doctor, right?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never had a hemorrhoid.”

“Neither have I.”

She gives me a look as if she doesn’t believe me before she slips off the stool and moseys into the living room with her half-eaten sandwich in hand.

I slap my sandwich together, minus any condiments, before joining her, not wanting to miss the opportunity for some one-on-one time. This conversation is the longest we’ve had.

We sit in silence on a two-seater couch for almost twenty minutes. It should be awkward. It isn’t. Angel seems like a woman comfortable in her own space, and I’m more than happy to use the time to take in all the beautiful details of her face.

Once I’ve counted the tiny freckles that adorn her nose twice, I say, “I?—”

“Did you…” Angel starts at the same time.

I smile before soundlessly suggesting she go first. My admission that I’m an asshole can wait. It isn’t like she isn’t already aware of the fact.

“It’s nothing urgent.” She waves off her inquiry two seconds before her shoulders roll and her spine straightens. “I was going to ask if you’ve brushed your teeth anytime in the last week.” Her adorable nose screws up. “Your breath is a little rank.”

“Hey, pot. I’m kettle. Nice to meet you.”

I fake a gag when her mouth gapes open.

Her fresh breath fans my lips when she snaps her mouth shut before her fist gets friendly with my stomach. “My breath smells fine.” She folds her legs under her body, twisting her torso my way. “Yours, on the other hand, smells like you’ve consumed nothing but ass for a week.”

“Maybe I have?”

Angel chokes, coughs, and splatters. “You eat ass?”

I shrug, loving the heat creeping up her neck. It isn’t in lust. She is jealous as fuck. “I haven’t… but I’m not opposed to the idea. Though I probably wouldn’t have been interested last night.” There I go again with another corny wink. “No offense.”

She whacks me again, sending my laughter spilling around the living room. “The only time you’ll be close enough to my ass to sample it will be when you’re kissing it.”

“Kissing. Eating. Almost the same thing.” I gather up the remote and switch on the television, needing something to distract my hands when lust burns through her eyes. They want to be buried in her curls as badly as my tongue wants to be buried in her mouth. “I’m not opposed to that, either.”

“That?” Angel’s voice sounds gravelly, almost husky, like she, too, fought to stop her words and failed.

“Kissing your ass.” That sounds wrong even to me. “Not physically. I mean figuratively.” Come on, asshat . This isn’t your first rodeo. “I’m not explaining myself properly.” I twist to face her. “When I contacted Mrs. Richler, I didn’t?—”

I’m interrupted by a likely source for this time of year. A Christmas jingle steals Angel’s focus from me so fast that I’m almost jealous of a black-and-white Christmas classic.

After snatching the remote out of my hand, Angel clicks past all the channels Jimmy assured me would have the most cold-hearted woman opening up to me within an hour.

She continues channel surfing until horror, gore, and blood fill the dated television screen.

A slasher movie isn’t an ideal conversation starter, but I’ve dealt with worse.

“Jesus Christ,” I murmur two seconds later, my stomach queasy.

The plot of this movie is extremely violent. I am fighting not to hide under a blanket that somehow made its way over my knees.

I learn the cause of the blanket’s creep when I force my eyes away from a graphic murder scene before it gives me nightmares. Angel is putting on a brave front, but she is as horrified by the pitch-black movie as I am. Her trembling knees are butted against my thigh, her breaths are hot on my cheek, and my cock is confident she is seconds from counting the pulse in my neck with her sexy lips.

Hallmark Movie Channel, my ass.

We’re almost at third base, and our movie hasn’t yet reached its first commercial break.

Another murder scene sees Angel creeping another inch closer. I can taste her breath now and feel the surge of her pulse with every frantic scream of the murder victim. She has all but crawled into my lap, and her closeness has me forgetting every pledge I made when I freed myself from Mrs. Richler’s trap.

I’m meant to be helping Angel sidestep the madness as well, not seeking ways to get my cock’s head wet.

Cut me some slack. Angel is a gorgeous woman. A man would have to be dead for at least six months not to want to nibble on all she has to offer.

In all honesty, that’s how I felt when boarding my flight to Ravenshoe. I worked, slept, then worked some more. I’ve barely lived the past few years.

Although I wouldn’t recommend consuming products capable of killing you, it wouldn’t hurt to mix things up if it’ll make things interesting.

I’ve felt more alive the past two days than I have the past two years, and it is all compliments to the woman seated next to me.

As a victim’s screams boom from the TV’s outdated speakers, Angel’s nipple grazes my arm. My cock throbs when she buries her head into my neck. As her hot breaths bead condensation on my neck, a spark zaps through my balls. Her mouth is so close that my body responds as if she is kissing my neck instead of hiding from a movie too gory for prime time.

I am hard as stone, and I am not the only one noticing.

Angel’s eyes are no longer on the horror flick. The bulge in my sweats can’t be hidden, so it’s only fair her glare scalds the narc incapable of acting disinterested when a woman as alluring as Angel is within sniffing distance.

Except this time, Angel’s glare isn’t pronged with disgust.

It is needy. Wanton.

It is downright fucking hungry.

“Angel.” My rumble of her name isn’t bossy, domineering, or in warning. It is desperate.

It tells her everything my mouth refuses to speak. I want to undress her. Lick her. Fuck her until her legs buckle. Then I’ll do it again, in her bed, with her gorgeous body suspended above me.

Jesus. I could blow my load right now just thinking about her riding my face from above.

Angel runs her tongue over her top lip, doubling the thickness of my cock, before she shifts her eyes back to the television. “You really need to watch this part, or you’ll be confused for the rest of the movie.”

She hits me with a wink that announces she is aware a man can die of blue balls before she sinks back onto her side of the couch and tugs over the blanket, conscious not even the cool air whipping off the coast will aid in the deflation of my cock.