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Even I can’t deny that the man is unfairly attractive. Even if I want to hit him with my car.
She’s more than beautiful. She’s the kind of beautiful that sucks out all the air in a room the moment she enters.
I’ve always liked this… game between the two of us. This delicious tension that makes my dick hard. She just thinks it has to do with our families hating each other. But the truth is, I don’t actually hate Emma Worthington. I just want to shove my cock between her lips to shut her up.
But… I also don’t know how it’s physically possible for me to be around this man for longer than thirty seconds without wanting to rip his clothes off while simultaneously wanting to punch him right in his smug face. It’s not happening.
Every single time she opens her mouth to be a little brat, I want to put her on her knees and fill it.
There are only a few things in life that I believe would truly bring me to my knees, and I know without a doubt that this is one of them. Emma Worthington is one of them.
This was dirty, and rough, and hot as fuck. And suddenly, I find myself wishing it was for more than the one night we promised.
Apparently, my vagina is a ho ho ho for this man, which is very, very problematic.
They took bad eggs and made eggnog.
There’s not a chance in Santa’s freakin’ winter wonderland that I am telling this man no. Not when he lights me on fire like this.
This… pull between us is just too strong. I’ve never wanted anything in my life as badly as I want Jackson Pearce.
The man looks like he stepped right out of a magazine, not from a construction site.
“Not going to lie, my dick’s getting hard just seeing you look so… festive. Really does it for me,”
“Beautiful,” he says, and I nod in agreement. “Breathtaking.” Except when I glance over, he’s not looking at the stars at all. He’s looking at me.
With Christmas decorations. My tree is massive, taking up the whole far corner of my living room. It’s decorated in traditional red and green with pops of gold and white throughout, with a vintage red Christmas train wrapped around its base and a custom-made star at the top. The fireplace mantel is covered with a fir garland, mismatched hand-knitted stockings, and tons of nutcrackers I’ve collected over the years. My windows are all covered with twinkle lights, my couch is covered in festive reindeer pillows, and my entry table displays my beloved Christmas village, complete with little
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An ass that was made for Wranglers.
“You are fucking perfect, Emma Worthington, and I was a fool for ever thinking you were anything other than that,” he says, dropping his forehead against mine.
Out of all of the scenarios that I expected to happen when it came to this joint party, falling for Jackson Pearce was not one of them.
