Heating Up the Holidays 3-Story Bundle(69)

Inside the van, our breath is loud, the sounds of our kissing, too.

He keeps his hands on my shoulders, except when he lets go to gather my hair where it has fallen over our faces and to drape it over my shoulder, like he needs a little room to do this, to kiss me.

Every time his mouth moves over mine, every time our tongues touch, I feel like I’m getting squeezed tight all over and need to escape by rubbing all over him.

I make myself keep my hands on his face, his neck, soft and light, meet his kisses, his mouth as softly as I can stand it.

I want this to last.

The heat of him, those shivery moments where he moves my hair aside so gently, the sound of his breath almost voiced in his throat.

We open our eyes, sometimes, between kisses, and every time we look at each other, he gives me that almost smile that I realize, now, was always, always, for me, and disguised his thoughts of touching me, just like this.

Underneath that smile are his hands, restless over the places he’s letting himself touch me.

Underneath we are stirring, tangling, waiting.

Evan gets his hands around my hips again, the same kind of grab that puts a big black line between then and now. He should get a job getting his hands around a woman because he does it all serious and professional, like he’s competing for the best way to hold a woman and showing everyone that he knows we like it when hands press and shape and fingers dig and thumbs circle.

I open my eyes, and catch his again, and that’s so hot, I think because by looking at each other, we have to admit what we’re doing. We’ve caught each other doing something kind of dirty, but neither one of us is stopping.

In fact, I raise a little and move my hips closer, until he closes his eyes because it feels so good. I have to close my eyes because it feels so good.

I have to let him hold on to me because kissing him and straddling him finally breaks something inside me and all I want to do is move on him, against him, even though I’m keeping my kisses sweet, just pressing them on all the places I’ve been looking at for so long—his worried eyebrows, his dark whiskers, his smiling mouth.

Then his neck, where I end up just resting my face because he smells good and I’m breathing hard, and my heart is pounding between my legs.

He slides his hands under my T-shirt, to rest against my bare lower back, and God, I can feel his hands shaking, and I involuntarily push back a little, a reaction to the skin on skin, and he presses back, guiding my movement, and then we go still because, f*ck, this is dry humping, tipping my hips up and back like that.

“Wait,” he whispers, and then he tips his own hips up while driving me into a new position with his hands at my waist; he arranges something about how he’s sitting.

Then, he presses against my back again, and now I feel him, so hard and so thick inside his jeans; I feel him against where it seems like the entire pulse of my body has gone.

I put my arms all the way around his shoulders, rest my cheek against his, and let my hips go loose, let myself move how I want to.

It makes my eyes roll, it makes my body restless, it makes my breasts feel tight and heavy, and my arms and legs feel light, almost disconnected.

It makes me feel so swollen between my legs that I start to take slow breaths; I still want to draw this out, and if I don’t think about how I am breathing, I’ll stop thinking, entirely, and come all over him.

“Jenny?”

I try to answer, but answering would change how I am breathing.

And even though he’s so hard and his hands are digging into my spine so tight, his showing me, silently, how turned on he is makes him seem so vulnerable, like he wants me to tell him what to do, for once.

Like he doesn’t know what to do about it but tell me, like he told me I was beautiful, like he told his boss he wanted me, like he doesn’t even know what to do except keep himself in check because he’s been keeping himself in check for so long.

I don’t think, either, given his confidence in his work, his unstoppable competence, that he’s very used to not knowing what to do.

I shift against him and his hands clench into fists at my back.

He does know what he wants, though.

So now I’m grinning, because I just—feel like myself, like Jenny who is a little crazy about someone and loves holding people and could stand to lose a little time to kissing and coming and smiling with a man who thinks I’m beautiful.

Who is beautiful.

Outside the van, all the sounds of the street are muffled. The windows are tinted and it’s started to snow again, so it feels like we’re the whole world, just us, and it’s even warm enough, because we’ve gotten so hot.

When I kiss up his neck, over his jaw, he starts to buck, a little, but then stills, so I grind back, and do it again because I’ll die if I don’t.

And I want him to know it’s okay.

What we’re doing here, I want it, too.

Then his hands are on my ass, and I’m thinking that’s where he wanted them this whole time, because he is very serious about groping my butt, tracing the seam of my jeans as far as he can reach, kneading me and pushing me against him while he pushes up, just a little.

“Pull your hair back,” he whispers.

I toss it over my shoulder, and then shiver when he starts kissing my throat while moving us together with his hands.

Then I feel his big hands slide under the gap of the waistband in my jeans, and he scratches his nails, a little, over just the tops of each cheek. I shiver.