A Beaumont Christmas Wedding by Sarah M. Anderson Page B

something else there, something more than just a casual attraction that might lead to some really nice casual sex.
    It scared her.
    “I don’t think they’re home,” he said, his voice husky.
    “That’s a shame,” she replied. He’d made her feel pretty today, but right now? That hunger in his eyes?
    She felt sexy. Desirable.
    He wanted her.
    She wanted to be wanted.
    Just a Christmas fling. The maid of honor and the best man. Something that’d be short and sweet and so,
so
satisfying.
    He hesitated. “Is it?”
    “No.” She turned until her back was against the wall.
    His other arm came up beside her, trapping her in between them. “I’ll stop. If you want me to.”
    She touched one of his cheeks. His eyelashes fluttered. But he hadn’t answered her question.
    He seemed to realize it. “I don’t know what you are to me,” he told her, the words coming out almost harsh. He leaned down and touched his forehead to hers. “But I know
who
you are.”
    This time, she knew the kiss wouldn’t be the soft, gentle thing he’d pressed against her lips before. This time, it would be a kiss that consumed her.
    She wanted to be consumed.
    But he hadn’t clarified anything, damn it. She put her hands on his chest and pushed just hard enough to stop him. Not hard enough to push him away. “Tell me, Matthew. Tell me who you’re going to kiss.”
    Now both of his hands were cradling her face—pulling her up to him. “Whitney,” he whispered. The length of his body pressed her back against the wall, strong and hard and everything she wanted it to be. “Whitney Maddox.”
    She didn’t wait for him to kiss her. She kissed him first. She dug her fingers into the front of his sweater and hauled him down so she could take possession of his mouth, so she could offer up her own for him.
    He groaned into her as she nipped at his lower lip. Then he took control of the kiss. His tongue swept into hers as his hands trailed down her cheeks, onto her neck and down her shoulders. Then he picked her up. The sudden change in altitude caused her to gasp.
    “You need to be taller,” he told her as he kissed along her cheek to her neck, her ear. His hands were flat against her bottom, boosting her to make up for the eight-inch height difference between them. Then he squeezed.
    She had no choice. Her legs went around his waist, pulling him into her. She could feel his erection straining against his pants, pressing against her. She trembled, suddenly filled with a longing she couldn’t ignore for a single second more.
    Then his hips moved, rocking into hers. The pressure was intense—
he
was intense. Even though she had on jeans, she could feel the pads of his fingertips through the denim, squeezing her, pulling her apart.
    His body rocked against hers, hitting the spot that sent the pressure spiraling up. She wanted to touch him, wanted to feel all the muscles that were holding her up as if she weighed nothing at all, but suddenly she had to hold on to him for dear life as he ground against her.
    Her head fell back and bounced off the wall, but she didn’t care—and she cared a whole lot less when Matthew started nipping at her neck, her collarbone. His hips flexed, driving him against her center again and again.
    “Oh,”
she gasped. “Oh, Matthew.”
    “Do you like it,” he growled against her chest.
    “Yes.”
    “Louder.” He thrust harder.
    “Yes—
Oh!
” She gasped again—he was— She was going to—
    He rocked against her again, in time with his teeth finding the spot between her shoulder and neck. He bit down and rubbed and—and—
    “Oh yes, oh yes,
oh yes
!” she cried out as he pinned her back against the wall and held her up as she climaxed.
    “Kiss me back,” he told her, his forehead resting against hers. He was still cupping her bottom in his hands, but instead of the possessive squeezing, he was now massaging her. The sensation was just right.
He
was just right. “Always kiss me back.”
    So she