A Villain for Christmas (The Holyoake Christmas Series, Book 2)

UST

She asked herself whether she was going to clear this misunderstanding when he scooped her and pressed her against him flush - and somehow... she didn't.

Neither did she when he proceeded to devour her mouth, groping her waist and her hips. Wasn't she insecure about her squishy rolls and her flabby stomach?

And she still didn't - when one of his palms, the size of one of Aunt Sophia's dinner plates, travelled on her backside. More so, she moaned and arched into him - what, in the name of the Top-Tuf band dater, is happening, Sybil?! - her fingers tangling into his curls, her senses full of his taste and scent.

Bondarenko had been right: one had to be at least partially allosexual if that was their reaction to Eric Dair pawing their flabbies. Also, Billie had just bent her leg and rubbed it to his thigh - and she bloody loved it!

The question of him misinterpreting her invitation popped up again - when he rolled her under him, and his greedy mouth landed on the underside of her jaw. And again, instead of the most logical answer, which would be 'maybe it's best if someone warns him that Billie didn't actually proposition him just now;' Billie gave out some sort of a meowing noise and slid her hands under his shirt, onto his warm sides, and the long muscles on his lower back.

She felt scars under her palms; and the only thought in her mind was that she was currently touching his skin where, as his web photos showed, there was a large tattoo reminiscent of Lucas Jennis' Ouroboros. Previously Billie had always looked down at the idea of tattoos mindful of all the baggage of cultural appropriation, employment stigma, and the overall pretentious nature of the pseudo-biker style associated with them - but at the moment, she'd properly like to literally look at his.

Literally 'literally,' not figuratively 'literally.' 

And then he mirrored her actions; and she felt his hand over her ribs, and he stroked her skin with his thumb - and she still said nothing. Instead, she panted and bit her bottom lip, and writhed, and tugged at his tee.

Wherever this was going, Billie was in. On board. Concordant. Yes, please, and thank you very much.

And then he growled - again, literally! - and tore his mouth off hers. His head dropped on the pillow next to her temple, and his breath brushed at her neck.

"Cazzo!" he snarled. "Che palle! Cazzo!" He huffed a raspy exhale. "Sod it! I can't, cara, sorry..."

What the orwell?!

He rose slightly, glanced at her - and then dove in again and kissed her jaw a few times.

"Minchia! You're so–" His lips caressed her neck, and Billie shuddered. "So good..." he purred. "Sono pazzo di te..." He groaned, almost as if in distress - and suddenly his full weight crashed onto Billie. She oophed. "I can't, cuore. Sorry, but no. Not in my family's home. It's just–" His arms once again encircled her, and he rolled onto his side, taking her with him. He exhaled sharply and muttered, "It's just not done."

What the camus?! Is he for real?!

Billie stared at him, trying to understand what game he was playing - because there was no way she was buying into his whole Madame de Tourvel routine!

She was just going to challenge it, when he cupped her jaw and slowly kissed her. Since she was still gawking at him flabbergasted, she ended up observing his eyelashes flutter closed and his face soften into a tender expression.

"But tomorrow, sì? We can just go somewhere in the morning." He pecked her lips again. "Just not here, alright?"

What. The. Sodding. Cortázar?!