The second our lips collide, the air between us turns to static, and a gasp slips from my throat as he groans into my mouth. I roll my hips without meaning to, chasing that pressure, and he shudders.
"You feel so fucking good."
I smile against his mouth, drunk on how quickly he's coming undone. "Yeah?" I nip at his jaw, dragging my teeth along the sharp edge.
I kiss down his throat, slow and open-mouthed, loving how his pulse jumps beneath my tongue. His head tilts back to give me more, and I take it greedily.
His hips jerk forward with a rough grind, like he can't help it. The friction has him hard and heavy against me, and before I even think, my hand is between us. I press my palm to the thick bulge straining in his pants.
A strangled sound tears from his throat and his head thumps lightly against the chair, exposing more of his neck to my mouth.
"Jesus—"
His whole body goes rigid as I trace the shape of him, slow and curious and far too pleased with myself. The size of him. The heat. How he pulses every time I stroke along the length of him. It's addicting.
I drag my hand up and over him again, firmer this time, and his hips flex toward me.
"Ivy," His voice cracks. "You need to stop."
"Why?" I squeeze gently, savoring the way his eyelids flutter. My other hand slides into his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him moan again. "Feels like you don't want me to."
"I don't," he growls. "Babe, I don't want you to stop. I want to strip you out of this costume, bend you over that counter, and fuck you so hard you forget what day it is."
"So do it," I whisper.
He groans again, louder this time, his grip tightening on my wrist as my thumb slides along the waistband of his pants.
"Not like this," he says in a hoarse voice. "Not rushed in the back of your store like some mindless hookup."
"Maybe I want quick and dirty." I stroke him again. He grits his teeth, heat rolling through the rigid lines of his body.
His hand moves under my top, sliding over my ribs, his fingers tracing the underside of my bra like he's right there to takemore. But he doesn't. His restraint is maddening, honorable, and stupidly hot.
"You deserve more than this."
"What if I don't want more?" I lean in, biting his earlobe. "What if I just want you?"
"Damnit." The word comes out strangled. "You don't play fair."
"Never claimed to." But I let him guide my hand away, even as every cell in my body screams for more.
"I want to do this right," he says roughly. "Take you on actual dates. Show you it's different this time." His hands slide up my body, making it hard to think. "Sex has always been easy. This—us—that's what matters."
Which is sweet and infuriating all at once, because who knew Caleb Miller, Hallow's End's former king of hookups, would turn out to be such a gentleman? Even if I'm seriously reconsidering my stance on public indecency.
"You're going to kill me," I mutter, but let him guide me off his lap.
"Death by sexual frustration." He adjusts himself with zero shame. "Very on-brand for us."
Three days before Christmas,and Caleb's getting way too intense about gingerbread architecture.
"If that roof caves in, I'm blaming your questionable candy placement." His fingers brush mine away from the precarious gumdrop situation I'm creating. The town hall buzzes with pre-holiday chaos—sugar-amped kids, competitive parents, and the distinct possibility that someone's about to throw a tantrum over fondant techniques.
"You're such a control freak about this," I mutter, as he pipes another precise line of frosting. But there's something stupidly attractive about how his forehead creases when he concentrates.
"Says the woman who color-coded her candy canes." He doesn't glance up from his work, but I catch the edge of a smirk. "Don't think I didn't notice."
From the next table over, James makes a sound of pure outrage. "That wall was pre-assembled. I'm calling bullshit."
