Kinky Claus by Jodi Redford Page A

between her teeth, she inspected her options and settled on the champagne silk and lace number. Now all she had left to do was jump in the shower before Trig arrived. Or she could always wait and see if he wanted to take one with her.
    Intrigued by that possibility, she stared at the glass-enclosed stall and imagined getting to run her soapy hands all over Trig’s velvety skin. The visual was so real, it sent a hot flush through her, the sensation coalescing into a heavy ache between her legs. Jeez, if she kept this up she’d have to relieve some of the pressure with one of her vibrators or risk tackling Trig the second he walked through the door.
    She stripped and donned her favorite short pink satin robe for the time being. After twisting her hair up with a clip, she padded to the kitchen and poured a much-needed glass of wine. She carried it with her to the living room and stopped to plug in the Christmas tree lights before curling up on the couch and turning on the tube. A holiday special managed to hold her attention for roughly an hour before nerves and anticipation got the better of her again. Flicking off the set, she stared at the small square section of the bay window not blocked by the tree. Who knows how long she sat there, fixating on that spot and butterflies making a mosh pit of her stomach, before the blinding beam of headlights flashed across the pane.
    Her pulse revved into supersonic speed. She skipped her focus to the door. Should she meet him there, or would that look totally desperate? Maybe she should have showered before he got here. Concerned, she inched back the sleeve of her robe and sniffed. Whew. Coast was clear.
    The doorbell rang, and she jumped. Oh for Pete’s sake. It wasn’t like she hadn’t known he was there. Mutely scolding her trigger-happy nerves—perfect pun if ever there was one—she shoved up from the couch cushion and dragged in a steadying breath. Cinching her belt, she walked to the door and peeked through the peephole to verify it was Trig. Unless he had an identical twin or a gorgeous Doppelganger, it was definitely him. He stood on the porch, a pensive expression etched into his features. He removed his hand from his pocket and smoothed it through his hair.
    She blinked. Wow. Was he nervous too? Farfetched as the notion likely was, it still eased a fraction of her stress. She released the deadbolt and cracked open the door. The overpowering heat in Trig’s gaze as it swept her from head to toe instantly banished her lingering nervousness. She hooked her fingers in his belt loops and tugged him toward her. He required no further invitation than that, apparently.
    Nudging the door closed behind him with his foot, he pulled her into his arms. Their mouths crashed together in a hungry collision of mutual need and unrestrained craving. He walked her backwards into the living room, never once removing his lips from hers as he slipped the robe from her shoulders. His knuckles grazed the outer swells of her breasts before he palmed their full weight. Swallowing her gasp, he swirled the pads of his fingers across her nipples. His tongue danced with the tip of hers, a light enticing graze, and then he thrust deeper, cranking up the hot carnality of the kiss until she swore her bones would liquefy.
    She whimpered and he pulled back to look down at her. The intense fire in his eyes threatened to burn her alive. “Goddamn. You are a walking wet dream, sweetheart.” He flexed his fingers, squeezing her breasts together as he lowered his head and flicked his tongue over the stiffened crest of her nipple. With a wet, luxurious glide, he laved the peak before sucking it into his mouth and drawing it firm against his tongue. She felt the sensation all the way to her clit. A persistent throb beat in her core and she writhed against Trig restlessly.
    As if he were completely unconcerned with the torture he was inflicting on her, he slid his mouth to her other breast and treated it to the