What a hypocrite. I’m the one who’s been stealing peeks at her gorgeous backside.
Does she know her tight black leggings are so old and worn, the fabric clearly reveals the outline of her thong?
I doubt it. Though I would be the last person to point it out. Who am I to tell a grown woman what to wear?
“You wish,” Sabrina says with a snort. “It’s perfect right there.”
She walks closer, holding out a hook that sticks to the wall. My body tilts sideways to grab the object, but she drops it. Sabrina bends down quickly, pulling herself up so her face lines up with my . . . front.
We go stock-still with her half-parted lips inches from my crotch. She’s no longer handing me the hook for the wreath.
In fact, she doesn’t seem to be thinking about the wreath at all.
Neither am I.
My deranged thoughts stray to grabbing her hair and watching her eyes water at the effort of opening her mouth for me. I wonder if the taste of peppermint would linger on my skin.
Down, boy. I interrupt the wayward thoughts and scold my cock for drawing all the blood from my brain.
Gray sweatpants are not conducive to subtlety. I might as well display my fantasies on a billboard for how obvious my lust is about to be. Scrambling down the ladder, I tilt my body away from her gaze like a horny teenager who’s never seen a beautiful woman before.
“Why don’t you do it?” I suggest.
Clearing her throat, Sabrina gathers herself and steps onto the platform. Since she’s shorter, she goes a step higher than I did. There’s a slight wobble to the ladder, prompting me to hold it stable.
Suddenly, the part of her leggings I had been glancing at all night is at eye level. I’m not sure if this moment is a top holiday memory or the beginning of my irreversible depravity. Because right now, I’m obsessed with the satisfying plumpness of her round ass when I bite into it.
Did I say when?
Wrong. There will be no ass biting, today or any day.
Objectively, anyone can see she’s an amazing woman: gorgeous, smart, funny, strong, caring, loyal. I could go on and on. She’s grateful for our marriage of convenience, although it’s obvious I got the better end of the deal.
But Sabrina is, first and foremost, my best friend who found herself in a vulnerable, complicated situation. Things aren’t simple when you have a history like ours and circumstances as traumatic as her accident.
We’re in an unconventional arrangement as it is. No need for things to get weirder by wondering what she’ll do when I reach over and clamp her hips with my greedy hands.
Did I say when? Nope. Wrong again.
Unfortunately, with every day that she’s my wife, the comfort of the past gives way to something like hope bordering on desperation. This is our house, our fireplace, our pine garland. If I had my way, the blanket on the couch would be spread in front of the fireplace so I could lay her down and . . .
Stop. Must tighten the leash on my physical attraction before I do something stupid. Like dip a candy cane in her pussy before I lick it.
Fuck, yeah.
I mean, down, boy.
Chapter 3
Dexter
“I don’t know about this,” she calls from her bedroom across the hallway.
We’re heading to the Mavericks’ annual holiday party tonight. Sabrina is stressed about our first public appearance as a married couple. Before I can offer reassurance, her frustrated groan fills the hallway.
“Oh, Dex,” she says in worry, “are you sure you want me to come?”
Unfortunately, my body interprets the innocent question in an entirely different context. And by different I mean sexy as fuck because making her come is what I think about most nights. I steal a glance at my bed. There hasn’t been a minute since she’s moved in that I didn’t imagine Sabrina on those sheets.
