Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(107)
I stare up at her as she splays her hands across my waist for leverage, as she sinks down on me inch by inch, her eyes holding mine.
Then she leans in, chests brushing, her mouth finding mine. I groan with relief as she moves, her body silken hot, wrapped around me like a vise, her hips moving fast and sure.
“Touch me,” she whispers. “Make me come.”
I crush her to me, pinning her hips against mine, taking over our rhythm, so it rubs her right where she needs. Her gasp fills my mouth as I stroke into her, as I feel her start to come in soft, tight waves around me.
“Yes,” she cries against my mouth, sinking her nails like claws into my chest. I pant into her mouth as she comes and comes, and when her tongue grazes mine, a hot, sensual stroke, I arch up into her and spill so long and hard, my legs tingle with faint numbness, the fierce pleasure of being absolutely spent.
“Christ, Kate,” I wheeze, drawing her in for a slow, savoring kiss.
She clenches her body around mine and laughs against my mouth as I groan helplessly. “And to think,” she whispers, “I’m just getting started.”
? THIRTY-NINE ?
Kate
Six months later
“Katerina!”
I smile to myself because I can’t help it. Every time I hear Christopher call my name that way, goose bumps still dance across my skin, and those absurd butterflies flutter in my belly.
“What do you want, Petruchio?”
His deep laugh echoes in the kitchen. “Well, when you put it that way.”
The door from the kitchen to the dining room swings open. Christopher walks in and doesn’t stop until he’s bent over me as I hunch to catch the perfect photo of the luscious flowers and platters of delicious food that are set out for Jules and Bea’s joint birthday party.
His mouth nuzzles my hair before he gently lifts it, setting my braid to one side so he can kiss my neck.
“Christopher.” I snap a photo. “You’re messing up my focus.”
“I’m feeling needy, Katerina. Give a man a kiss when he’s gone without for a week, while you gallivanted around the world.”
Rolling my eyes, I set down my camera. “I was gone for five days.”
“Felt like five years.” He turns me in his arms, dragging me close.
“Yeah,” I whisper, pressing on tiptoe, kissing him. “It did.”
He peers down at me pensively, swaying me in his arms. “And you’re leaving me again.” He sighs. “You’re lucky you’re so fantastic in bed when you’re here. And that I have such a great therapist when you’re not.”
I snort. “When I’m not fantastic in bed?”
“You’re always fantastic in bed. When you’re not here, smartass.”
Laughing, I kiss him. “I love you.”
He tips his head, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I love you, too. So much, I am willing to host a Christmas in July birthday party with the most obnoxiously festive people I know, all because you asked.”
“Hey, give me credit, I agreed to matching sweaters.”
He grins. “Yeah you did.”
My snowflake-stitched red sweater says, i don’t do matching sweaters. His identical one says, but i do.
I smile, glancing over my shoulder, drinking in his home. “Everything looks perfect.”
While I was gone, Christopher threw himself into decorating for the Christmas in July party to celebrate my sisters’ birthday and torture each other with bizarre holiday sweaters while the updated AC blasts through the house.
The place is covered in vintage Christmas decorations from Christopher’s childhood and my own thrifting efforts. A record player spins, filling the air with holiday classics.
As our friends and family start to show up in goofy holiday sweaters, boozy eggnog (pasteurized, for Jamie’s sake) and Margo’s mulled wine are passed around, until folks are seated around the living room, plates filled with Christopher’s rich Italian cooking along with Toni’s homemade doughnuts, cakes, and cookies.
Jules sits beside me on the couch, almost as glowing and joyful as I remember my oldest sister used to be—dark, pretty hair combed out into soft silver-screen-starlet waves, deep dimples, that infectious smile that wins the heart of anyone she bestows it on.
As she laughs at something Sula says from the other side of the room, her cheeks turn nearly as pink as the sweatshirt she wears that says, in a world of grinches, be the cindy lou who.
I glance toward Bea, who sits on Jules’s other side in a sweater that features Santa sucking provocatively on a candy cane and says sometimes a peppermint stick is just a peppermint stick. I find her eyes, sharing a small moment of gratitude that Jules is slowly coming back, from the trying-hard-to-smile, quiet woman who showed up last Christmas, now laughing loudly, tipsy on Margo’s mulled wine, a bright smile on her face.
“Okay, but what is the science behind this?” Jamie asks, his cheeks a little rosy, eggnog in his hand. His sweater features a Christmas tree that’s a pyramid of green cats with eyes whose bright colors look like ornaments, and says below, have a meowy catmas. “How are zodiac signs so accurate?”
“Not to mention zodiac sign pairings,” Sula says, her holiday sweater a lime-green sequined number that reads in cherry-red letters, i’ve been naughty while Margo’s red one says in green letters, i’ve been nice, then written below it, naughtier. “The accuracy of compatibility in pairings, that’s what blows my mind.”