“And just what is it that you think I’m denying myself, huh? What is it that you think I’m miss—”
Eli places a palm on my chest, cutting my rant off before aggressively walking me backward. My feet move on their own accord due to the intent in his eyes as he bypasses the house before pushing me against it. Paralyzed by the blazing heat of his gaze, I gape at him as he flicks my jacket aside before gripping my hip, easily tugging my body forward to mold against his, our ragged breaths mingling.
“What are you missing? I think it’s me, and I think I’m missing you, and I think we’ve been missing each other for a long fucking time. Mistletoe,” he rasps out, a second before his lips crush mine.
My entire body jolts on contact as my eyes fly to his before fluttering closed. The strength behind his kiss shoots through me like lightning as he swipes his tongue along my lips, and immediately, I open. All outside noise disappears as he sweeps my mouth with an urgent tongue, and I moan onto it, body going lax against the house.
All I can do is feel as Eli fuses our mouths together, his tongue gliding along mine as I sink into him, my palms sliding up his muscled chest, his scent surrounding me, intoxicating me as he feasts.
A groan vibrates in his throat as he pins me further into the house, running his hard cock along my stomach as we explode into motion and touch, exploring, tasting.
Gripping the top of his jacket in my fists, I kiss him back furiously, our tongues dueling as he tilts his head, angling to go deeper. I feel every single bit of my restraint melt away with each sure swipe of his tongue. It’s when he breaks our kiss far too soon that I realize how instantaneously I gave into him and how much of the truth he spoke back at the store.
He could have totally effed me.
“Jesus Christ, Bee,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against mine.
Stupid, stupid, twenty-year-old Whitney!
But I can’t entirely blame her anymore. The truth is thirty-eight-year-old Whitney has done nothing but imagine touching him again and being with him intimately since his day one confession at the store. He inches away, studying my reaction to it, the act so intimate, so familiar, a ball forms in my throat.
Lips tingling, I stare up at him, praying some sort of self-preservation takes over as he palms the siding of the house, breaths coming fast.
“You can’t just kiss me, Eli,” I whisper, my argument pathetically weak.
“I just did, and you kissed me back, and it felt fucking amazing.” There’s not a trace of remorse in his expression. My gaze lowers to his mouth as he wets, then sucks his lower lip as if savoring my taste on his tongue. My entire body continues to thrum with need as he glances around to make sure we weren’t seen. Thankful that’s the case, and shaken to my core, I move to step around him, and he stops me with a firm grip on my hip, his thumb gently gliding along it.
“Don’t,” he shakes his head. “Give me one minute. Sixty fucking seconds, Whitney.”
“To what?”
“To enjoy how good that kiss was before you try to convince yourself you lost some inner strength for taking part in it. Trust me. It was a lot braver to let me kiss you than to cower away from it.”
My heart gallops as he lifts his hand and cups my face, running a thumb seductively along my lower lip before closing the space again and pressing another slow kiss to my parted lips. He drinks the remaining of his demanded seconds before pulling away, his eyes still closed. When he opens them, his expression hardens.
“What are you missing?” He says, resuming our argument. “Your own life.”
“Pfft, give me a break.”
“That’s what I’m asking you to give yourself. You fell apart in my arms the other night because you needed to. You can’t get back to you if you’re exhausting yourself worrying about everyone else.”
“Taking care of my family is not a chore for me.”
“It is if you’re already spread that thin.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re selfish. Have always been. Not that I expect you to understand this, but relationships take work and a hell of a lot of endurance. Thatch and Serena have been together nearly twenty years.”
“We’re not talking about them or me. We’re talking about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Right. Okay,” he grits out. “Just more bullshit.”
“What exactly are you trying to do here?”
He gazes down at me, resolute. “Remind you that you’ve got your own shit to deal with at the moment and to stop being so hypocritical in thinking that Thatch and Serena are the only ones taking for granted what’s right in front of them.”