Merry Me: A Holiday Romance, page 25
Easton reached for his wine, and the edge of his sleeve brushed mine—silk gliding against wool, slow and unbothered, like he wasn’t setting off tiny explosions along the length of my arm.
I stared at my plate like it might ground me. But all it offered was a Jackson Pollock of roasted vegetables and high-end salad regret.
My brain had fully left the building.
His flirty touches had sent it back to the mall bathroom while Easton dropped to his knees like a man with a mission and absolutely no shame. My fingers tangled in his hair, my breath stuttering while he looked up at me like I was something to worship. And then he’d smirked—smirked—before dragging his tongue over me like he had all the time in the world.
Yeah. That’s where my brain was.
Not here. Not at this wholesome rehearsal dinner with cider and candles and emotional vulnerability.
How was I expected to concentrate on dinner rolls at a time like this?
Levi raised his glass, his voice mellow and nostalgic as he continued his toast, now talking about their first kiss. Everyone smiled. Heads turned. Someone might have actually teared up.
I wouldn’t know.
Because Easton’s hand had started sliding beneath the tablecloth.
His palm found my knee. And the second it had settled on my skin, something low and molten lit up in my bloodstream. Like he’d flipped a switch inside me that was wired to him. My spine went rigid. My breath caught. The world around me blurred into a watercolor smear of flickering candles and soft piano music I wasn’t hearing.
He didn’t look at me.
That was the worst part.
He just sat there, like he wasn’t actively setting fire to every nerve ending I possessed, his expression politely attentive to the toast.
But there was the smallest curve to his lips. Barely there. A private joke only I could feel.
And then…because he was evil…his thumb started to move.
Slow. Deliberate. Lazy little circles that burned hotter with every pass, like he was testing how far he could push before I combusted.
My fingers curled around my fork in a death grip. I stared hard at my plate, trying to remember what food even was.
My pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out the clink of silverware, the sighs of appreciation over the butternut squash ravioli, the way Paige looked like a fairy-tale princess across the table.
His fingers inched higher.
I snapped my eyes to him. “Easton…” I hissed.
His head tilted slightly. He didn’t even blink. Just let the full weight of that smirk settle into place like it belonged there. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, too softly for anyone else to hear.
I didn’t.
Fuck, I definitely didn’t.
“Someone will see,” I whispered, glancing nervously to my right, where my cousin was very focused on buttering a roll like it was a performance art piece.
“Then don’t make any noise that makes them look,” he said smoothly, his voice all warm velvet and bad ideas.
And just like that, Easton’s hand was sliding higher.
He leaned in, just enough for his breath to skim my ear, low and warm. He smelled like expensive trouble—cologne and pine trees in the snow and that infuriating brand of confidence that always made my pulse misbehave.
“Enjoying the view?” he murmured, his voice dipped in syrup and sin as he watched me stare at the tablecloth like it was my job.
I lifted my wine glass with a hand that miraculously didn’t shake, took a slow sip, and replied in the most neutral tone I could muster.
“It’s a very nice tablecloth. Great lace-to-fabric ratio. Really tasteful.”
He chuckled low…too low. That kind of laugh that rippled under your skin and made a home in all your more dangerous places. “Sure, let’s talk tablecloths,” he murmured. “But we both know that’s not what’s got you creaming your panties.”
His fingers curled, warm and steady against the inside of my thigh. I felt my whole body go traitorous, tipping forward just slightly, like my bones wanted to chase the touch even if my brain was waving a polite little white flag of panic.
“I’m multitasking,” I whispered. “Having a full-blown meltdown and also considering which fork would cause the most damage if I stabbed you with it.”
He didn’t flinch. Just grinned—lazy and infuriating. “Go with the salad fork. Less surface area, more precision.”
His thumb stroked upward again, drawing a line that made my thoughts scatter like skittish deer.
“You’re doing great, by the way,” he murmured. “If I weren’t the one turning you inside out under this table, I’d never guess.”
My jaw clenched. “You think highly of yourself.”
“I’ve had almost two years to think about you. To think about all the things I would do once I got you back,” he said, all wicked calm. “This isn’t arrogance, sweetheart. It’s long-term planning.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Are you seducing me with…military metaphors?”
He grinned, that stupid, infuriatingly sexy grin. “Is it working?”
His hand continued to move higher.
I pressed my lips together, hard. The tablecloth did absolutely nothing to muffle the way his fingers dragged slowly beneath the hem of my dress again, this time pausing just shy of scandal.
“You’re the devil,” I breathed, barely moving my lips.
“I’m patient,” he whispered back, his mouth a hair from my cheek. “But not for much longer.”
My heart beat like it was trying to punch its way out of my chest. My thighs tightened instinctively, but his hand stayed right there—steady, possessive, daring me to open. Daring me to give in.
I shifted in my seat. He felt it. His breath caught.
“You keep doing that,” I breathed, trying to sound annoyed and not utterly wrecked, “and I’m going to drop my wine glass or say something incredibly unhinged.”
His voice came back low and wrecked with heat. “Then maybe sit on your hands, Trouble. Because you’re making it really fucking hard to behave.”
“I’m literally doing nothing.”
“You’re blushing, biting your lip, and making those little breathy sounds like you want me to lose control.” His fingers flexed against my skin. “You call that nothing?”
I exhaled sharply. “I hate you.”
But fuck, he wasn’t wrong. I was definitely doing all of that.
Every nerve in my body was tuned to him, strung tight and thrumming. I wasn’t pretending anymore. I wanted him—completely, unapologetically—and he knew it.
I could’ve stopped him. Could’ve given him a look or brushed his hand away.
But I didn’t.
Because I didn’t need to test if I was ready.
I was.
Not just for this slow, torturous game we were playing beneath the table. Not just for the way his fingers curled against my thigh like they belonged there. But for all of it. For him. For us.
That certainty didn’t scare me now. It thrilled me.
And judging by the way his hand moved—higher now, slower, full of dark confidence—he could feel it, too.
His fingers skimmed the inside of my thigh again, retreating just enough to make me bite down on a gasp, then rising once more…teasing, testing, tempting. Every pass edged closer to where I wanted him most.
My thighs shifted…subtle, sure. I opened just enough to tell him everything he needed to know. Not an accident. Not an oversight.
An invitation.
He shifted beside me, his breath brushing the shell of my ear, and his voice followed—low, pleased, laced with heat.
“Still breathing, sweetheart?”
“Barely,” I managed, my teeth clenched in a smile that was definitely not for the toast.
“Good,” he whispered. “The moment we’re alone, I’m gonna peel you apart, spread you wide, and fuck you so slow, so fucking deep, my cock will ruin that tight, dripping pussy. You’ll be a shuddering wreck, choking on filthy moans, begging me to pound you harder ’til you’re nothing but a slick, screaming mess, owned by every inch of me.”
Holy fuck. I’d never heard hotter words in my life.
I choked on a moan, my core throbbing, slick heat pooling. At least my clothes were still soaked from the snow…maybe the damp fabric would hide the fact that my panties were soaked through.
“I’m going to kill you,” I breathed in a shaky voice.
His chuckle slid over my skin. “Worth it.”
I darted a glance around the table, heart racing, half expecting someone to notice the way Easton’s hand was teasing me senseless, his slow, deliberate strokes along the inside of my thigh setting my skin on fire.
But no one looked. No one noticed. The oblivious chatter around us only cranked the heat higher, like we were getting away with something obscene in plain sight.
And fuck, that made it so much hotter.
He leaned back, sipping his wine with that smug, panty-melting grin, like he wasn’t unraveling me under the table. But his hand stayed, fingers curling with possessive intent, pressing just enough to make my breath hitch. Each subtle flex screamed mine, and I was already so wet, so ready, I could barely keep from grinding against him right there.
His thumb slid higher, boldly slipping just under the edge of my soaked panties—teasing the slick, sensitive skin so close to where I ached for him. My thighs quaked, a soft, needy whimper escaping before I could stop it.
He heard it.
I saw it in the way his eyes darkened, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his jaw tightening like he was fighting not to drag me out of that room and fuck me senseless against the nearest wall.
I wasn’t the only one unraveling.
His voice dropped, a low, husky purr laced with sinful amusement. “Did I tell you how much I fucking love that dress?”
I tilted my head, lips curling into a sultry smile, my voice a soft, teasing drawl. “Oh, I can tell. Your hand’s getting real cozy with it.”
He gave me a slow, predatory grin, eyes glinting with heat. “Just wait until I get it off you.”
“You’re out of control.”
“And you love every second of it, don’t you, baby?”
My heart gave a hard, traitorous thud at that. Then his fingers slid higher, deliberate and wicked, dipping into my drenched, aching core. His touch was slow, one finger grazing my slick folds, teasing my entrance with a torturous promise that made my hips twitch involuntarily. I bit my lip to stifle a moan, my entire body igniting as he lingered there for a heartbeat…before moving away again, leaving me throbbing, empty, and desperate.
The toast ended, applause rippling around us, but the air felt molten, suffocating. My wine glass sat full in front of me, barely touched, and I was suddenly desperate for it—anything to cool the fire crawling under my skin.
He leaned over, his lips brushing my temple, his voice a low, sinful murmur. “Finish your dessert, Trouble.”
“Why?” I whispered, my voice shaky, still reeling from the loss of his touch.
“Because after this,” he said, his hand grazing the top of my thigh one last time before retreating back down to my knee, “I’m dragging you somewhere quiet.”
“And then?” My voice was barely a breath, laced with needy anticipation.
His eyes locked on to mine, burning with raw hunger as he leaned closer, his whisper a dark, filthy promise. “Then I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’ll feel me for days.”
“Natalie, budge up.”
Paige plopped down beside me like a human ice-bucket challenge. Her cream sweater dress brushed my arm. Easton’s hand froze. And then…slowly, torturously, he pulled back. Like he knew exactly what he was taking with him.
I blinked at my sister, struggling to remember how to breathe, speak, function. Nothing to see here. Just a maid of honor fighting for her life.
Paige leaned in, her voice low, the sharp scent of her perfume slicing through the lust still thick in my blood. “I never heard from him.”
The words hit like a sledgehammer, and I turned to her, the shift in topic jarring enough to snap me straight out of the haze Easton had been weaving around me all night. “What?”
She gave a small shrug, but it was too practiced, too casual. Her eyes flicked to Levi across the room, her expression softening, so much love there, I felt it like a punch. “I thought maybe…I don’t know. That he’d call. Or text. Something.”
She shook her head once, the motion tight. “But nope. Nothing. Zilch.”
There was a beat of silence, heavy with the words she didn’t say.
“I guess he’s not coming.”
She tried to sound breezy, like it didn’t matter. But the dip in her voice at the end—that pause, like she was still waiting for the story to change—told me everything. She was disappointed. And she didn’t know why it still stung. Not after all these years. Not after we’d already trained ourselves not to expect anything from him.
A breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding eased from my chest. Cool. Quiet. Relief.
That unknown number—the one that kept calling all week, never leaving a message, then texting today with just Call me back…I’d told myself it was spam.
But part of me had worried—worried it wasn’t just a random number. Worried it was him.
I reached under the table and found Paige’s hand, giving it a soft squeeze. “It’s better this way,” I whispered.
And it was…because I’d been picturing it all week.
Looking up in the middle of the speeches or the first dance…and seeing him there. Standing in the doorway, smiling like he belonged. Like he hadn’t left a crater in our lives. Like he hadn’t broken our mother. Like I wasn’t still haunted by the girl he’d left behind.
I’d imagined sitting through it all with a polite smile, pretending I didn’t see him. Pretending I wasn’t still waiting for an apology that would never come.
But now? Hearing Paige say she hadn’t heard from him…
That tight, awful dread I’d been carrying finally let go.
I didn’t have to keep looking over my shoulder. Didn’t have to brace for a voice I hadn’t heard in years, or a face I didn’t want to see. That door—the one he’d left swinging open behind him—was finally shut. And for once, I didn’t feel like I had to hold it closed.
She nodded, her smile small and tired. It didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it was enough. Then she turned, laughing a beat later at something Levi said across the table, like the ache inside her hadn’t just opened a little wider.
Easton nudged my knee again.
The touch jolted me. I turned—a dangerous mistake—and found him already watching me.
His gaze was molten, locked on mine, the candlelight catching in those wild green eyes like he was made of trouble and temptation and everything I’d spent all this time convincing myself I couldn’t have.
But now?
With that door finally closed…I didn’t just feel brave enough to want him.
I felt excited for what came next.
He leaned in, low and quiet, just for me. “Let’s get out of here,” he murmured.
His fingers slid up my thigh, one last slow, deliberate stroke, and then they were gone, leaving nothing but heat and a wicked ache behind.
I turned toward him, catching the glint in his eyes, the tension in his jaw like he was hanging on by a thread.
That wild, reckless thing inside me didn’t just stir—it surged.
I didn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” I whispered, already breathless. “Please.”
I stood up too fast. My chair scraped against the wooden floor with a sharp screech that turned a few heads. Easton rose beside me, steady and tall, his hand brushing the small of my back as I reached for balance, like he was already ready to catch me.
I barely looked at him. I couldn’t. Not with my pulse already pounding in anticipation, not with the way my body still hummed from his touch beneath the table. I was so ready. He grabbed my hand, and I stepped toward the door, and we were—
The crash stopped everything.
Sharp. Sudden. Shattering.
Glass splintered across the wood floor, cutting clean through the soft string music and low chatter like a warning shot. Paige stood frozen, the broken stem of her wine glass still pinched between two fingers, red spilling in slow motion down her wrist like blood in a fairy tale.
And then I followed her gaze.
Straight across the room, past the flickering candles and festive garlands. To the figure standing near the open door, snow clinging to his boots, his shoulders stiff beneath a weathered coat.
My stomach dropped.
My lungs forgot how to work.
He looked older. Of course he did. Gray threaded through his dark hair, his skin pulled tighter at the jaw, but the eyes—they were the same. Pale. Detached. Like he was already halfway out the door even as he stood in the middle of the room.
Terry.
My father.
CHAPTER 22
NATALIE
He hadn’t stayed away. He was here.
And just like that, everything inside me recoiled. My body, once a current of heat and want and the chance of maybe, now felt hollow and tight, like someone had pulled the string too hard and snapped it.
“Natalie,” Easton said beside me, quiet and careful, but it didn’t reach me.
Not yet.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t stop staring.
Because even after all these years, even after all the mental gymnastics and well-rehearsed excuses I’d built to keep the past buried, seeing him here felt like being a child again. Like waiting on the front porch in my best dress, trying not to cry when he didn’t show. Again.
He didn’t belong here.
He didn’t get to show up now, after staying quiet this whole time—after years of radio silence and nothing else. He didn’t get to see Paige glowing with champagne and soft love or Mom and Steve holding hands like time had made them gentler, not bitter.
He didn’t get to ruin this.
Not again.
I moved so fast my chair knocked over.
