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Holy Holiday Heaven. Standing before me is a lush-as-fuck angel with evergreen eyes, berry-red lips, and a body I’d write to Santa for.
He’s about to do it. Michael Kesso is about to taste me. My eyes widen. Cake! He’s about to taste my cake!
If there was another man, he’s done now. He let her out, let her cross my path, and that’s his own fault.
“Please don’t cry, Baby Cakes.” The pressure of his hand on my back increases. “I can’t take you crying.”
I’m sorry for making you cry. I know you don’t know a thing about me, but I’m pretty sure I’m half in love with you and I’d rather die than make you cry again.
I was just coming up to apologize, but if I make it out of here without sucking one of those nipples into my mouth, it’ll be a damn miracle.
“Fuck it,” he growls, a brief moment before his mouth closes on mine. Time. Stops. Warm lips press against my own. Michael Kesso is kissing me.
“Take more,” she sobs. “Take whatever you want.” Images of our life together flash through my mind. Diamond rings. A white dress. Sunny beaches. Tiny babies.
“You’re the star on top of my tree.” I kiss her again. “I’m incomplete without you.”
“Good girls get sweet things. Naughty girls get it rough. And you’ve been very naughty.”
“Did you say I had mistletoe eyes?” “Uh-huh.” I stroke my hand down her back. “They’re green, like mistletoe.” I palm her ass. “And I want to kiss everything below them.”
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