A Festive Feud: A Holiday Romantic Comedy(11)

“Woah, woah, woah.” He stops me, shaking his head. “Emmie, hate to disappoint you, but we are not having a fucking fancy black-tie party for this. Half the people in this town don’t even own the attire for that.”

I scoff. “And when you say half the people, you’re really referring to the Pearces, correct?”

“No, I’m referring to Strawberry Hollow. You know, since the entire town is supposed to be invited. Shit, you know what? I’m gonna need another beer for this.” Without another word, he stands from the floor and disappears into the kitchen, returning with two more bottles. In my distraction of accidentally eye-fucking my enemy, I guess I finished the beer he gave me.

The taste kind of does grow on you…

He extends the beer to me, sans the top, and sits down next to me, this time angling his body to face me.

“Listen, I know that your family has traditions, and you want this to be a fancy affair, but you also have to consider that my family has traditions. And if we’re going to do this together, we’re going to have to work together, Snowflake. Even if this is the last thing either of us wants to be doing.”

Damn him.

He’s right…

“Fine. We can learn to… compromise. But you can’t shoot an idea down as soon as I suggest it, Pearce. That’s only fair.”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Fine, but the same goes for you. Works both ways.”

I nod, avoiding his gaze. I’m seriously on the fence about asking him if there’s an aphrodisiac or something in this beer because I am increasingly horny.

For… Jackson Pearce.





jackson





HO…. me for the holidays.





I can almost stand Emma like this. Relaxed, less uptight, less mouthy. Every single time she opens her mouth to be a little brat, I want to put her on her knees and fill it.

I can’t fucking help it, and sitting this close to her, the flames crackling in the fireplace, the room dimly lit, I’m focusing on all of the wrong things. Things I know I shouldn’t be concentrating on, yet the task feels impossible.

“Okay, so that’s a start. A plan. We meet at Town Hall, measure the area, see what we’re working with for the party space. That’s a veto on the five-course meal. Got it.” As she speaks, she’s checking things off her to-do list. Perfect little check marks, not that I expected anything less. “Now, we have to decide on a theme so we can figure out the decorations, food, and entertainment in more detail,” she says, setting her sparkly pen down to grab her beer and take a long sip.

That’s how we spend the next thirty minutes, going over this “plan” of hers, occasionally taking jabs at each other when the opportunity presents itself, and somehow ending up so close that we’re brushing against each other with every small movement.

“God, there are so many fucking sticky notes I can’t even keep up at this point.” I groan, swiping one of the gingerbread notes off the table. “And this? An ice sculpture? No, Emmie. Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

She scoffs, snatching the sticky note back out of my hand with an unladylike snort. “You’re impossible, you do realize that, right? An ice sculpture is classy, and do not touch my sticky notes, please—they are organized just the way I need them to be.”

I smirk, leaning over her with my gaze locked on hers.

I pluck another from the table and hold it between my forefingers. We’re so close now that I can feel her breath fanning my lips. “Whoops.”

Her gaze narrows as her brow arches, and my smirk widens when she tries to snatch it from my hand. I hold it high above her head… just out of reach.

We’re in a silent standoff, one that I’m taking far too much pleasure in.

I couldn’t tell you which one of us moved first, but all of a sudden, we’re on each other, my hands lacing into her silky hair as I yank her the rest of the distance toward me, sealing my lips over hers and tasting the beer on her tongue. Her hands slide along the nape of my neck, and then she’s scrambling into my lap, seated directly on my already aching cock while whimpering against my lips.

Fuck, as much as I pretend to hate this girl, I want her. Badly.

I want to be the one that strips away all of the hard, prim exterior, leaving her soft and pliable beneath my calloused hands.

My fingers ghost along the sliver of skin that peeks out from her sweater, which has risen, a shiver sliding down her spine when I do. For someone who spends so much time pretending to hate me, she’s so fucking responsive to my touch.

Her hips circle on my lap as her nails bite into my scalp, trying to drag me even closer against her, her lips battling with mine in a kiss that I feel in every single nerve ending of my body. I’m trying to be the gentleman she seems to expect me to be, but that’s not who I am.

There is nothing gentlemanly about the way I want to fuck her. Nothing gentlemanly about the things I want to do to her.

To take off her clothes, worship her body with my tongue, and show her just how much of a brat she is with my handprints blooming bright red on her ass.

Sliding my hands higher along her back, I press her against me, rocking her hips over my cock until we’re both panting and breathless. A tangle of tongue and teeth. It’s frantic, and there’s nothing elegant about it, unlike everything I’ve ever known Emma Worthington to be.