Starstruck. Julie Kenner

“It’s locked, Alyssa.”

      The box teetered, she tilted back to catch it, her head swam and she yelped. “Chris!”

      “Hang on!” he called.

      She heard the slam of his own apartment door, followed a few seconds later by the rattle of a key in her lock. She said a silent thank-you that she’d designated both Chris and Claire as the keepers of her spares, and then muttered a desperate “help!” as the door burst open.

      “What on earth—”

      She heard the confusion in his voice contemporaneously with his footsteps pounding across her apartment. She couldn’t turn her head to look, but she didn’t have to. She felt his hands around her waist, holding her tight, and the simple pressure gave her such a sense of security that she wanted to cry. She wasn’t going to fall backwards and break her neck. She wasn’t going to drop her grandmother’s heirloom ornaments.

      Chris had arrived, and everything was going to work out just fine.

      “What were you thinking?” His arm shifted, and she realized he was in short sleeves. The bare flesh of his arm brushed against her midriff, exposed now because raising her arms had raised the pajama tank top above the waistband of her Sylvester and Tweety pajama pants. For a moment—the briefest of moments—she felt a sensual thrill whip through her. Her nipples peaked, and her breath hitched, and she cursed Claire for all her talk about boyfriends and holiday romance because right then all those old Chris-lust thoughts that she’d so thoroughly quashed came rushing back.

      At first, she’d ignored that sensual tingle because she’d been dating Bob when Chris had wandered into her life. Then, she’d tamped it even more firmly down because she’d learned about his frequent travel schedule and utter disinterest in managing his money or his career.

      Best just to be friends, she’d told herself, and that had been easy advice to follow when she was dating Bob. Now, though, she was single, and even if Chris was as N.M.M. as they came, she couldn’t stop the heat—the desire—that was bubbling up inside her.

      She told herself it was the schnapps. The. Schnapps.

      Because this was Chris. Her friend. Her best friend besides Claire, and she was not in a million years going to let herself get the hots for him. She treasured the friendship too much to let holiday cheer and an innocent touch blow everything good there was between them.

      But, oh, my gosh, she’d like to feel the heat of his kiss right about then.

      “Alyssa!”

      “What? What?” She realized he’d been talking to her. She’d been in a sensual funk, and she’d completely spaced out. “What did you say?”

      “I said, how heavy is the box?”

      “Oh. Not very.”

      “Then let go.”

      “No way! It’s full of Christmas ornaments. The thin glass kind. No way I’m letting them shatter. Why do you think I’m teetering on my toes in the first place?”

      The hand on her abdomen shifted, and Alyssa stifled a moan. Alcohol and skin-on-skin touches really didn’t mix. Not if she wanted to keep her wits. Not to mention her distance.

      “Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice thick and rich, like warm, delicious chocolate.

      “I—” She cleared her throat, mortified that talking was so difficult. The drink, she thought, and the fact that she was currently in the midst of a major romantic dry spell. But she had a plan, and a goal, and a Starr on the horizon. And she would focus. “I do. I trust you.”

      “Then let go of the box.”

      She took a deep breath and pulled her fingers away, moving to grab the door even as he broke contact with her, his own hands going up to catch the box as it fell.

      “Got it. Now let me get you.”

      She looked over her shoulder to see that the box was safe and sound on the floor, and when she turned back to face the closet, she felt Chris’s hands on her bare waist. “Turn around,” he said.

      “No, I—”

      “Turn.”

      She turned, and he lifted her off the stool even as he pulled her closer to himself, then slowly eased her down until her feet were touching the floor. It was a sensual journey, and though she imagined that the elapsed time could probably be measured in seconds, to her it seemed like hours. Lazy, hedonistic hours with the press of Chris’s hard body against hers, and the glancing thrill that accompanied the way her breasts brushed softly over his chest as he lowered her body in front of his.

      Once her feet were on the ground, she tilted her head back to tell him thank you, and suddenly his mouth was right there, the corners curved up in a grin that was both sexy and cocky, and she realized that she wanted to taste those lips more than she wanted to breathe. And even though a reasonable, rational Alyssa screamed that she was about to make a huge mistake, the Alyssa in Chris’s arms shut her ears and raised herself onto her toes, and then closed her mouth over his and took exactly what she wanted.

      4

      FOR ABOUT two seconds, Chris was certain that he’d not only died, but had landed squarely in heaven. The second after that, his brain processed the fact that Alyssa—his Alyssa—had pressed her mouth hard against his, her arms tight behind his head as if she wanted to deepen the kiss.

      Chris was a lot of things, but he wasn’t an idiot, and he opened his mouth, giving her access, then swallowing a low guttural groan as her tongue swept inside, hot and demanding.

      She tasted of chocolate and mint, and though he had absolutely no idea what had gotten into her, he saw the kiss as a challenge—a chance to prove he was worthy of this woman who every day filled his thoughts and fantasies.

      Chris had always loved a challenge, and he met her lips with gusto. His tongue warred with hers, his mouth claiming her, sucking and nipping on her lower lip even as his hands splayed across her back, holding her closer to him, the contact setting every inch of his body on fire.

      She wore a thin pajama top, and her body rubbed against him, her nipples like hard pebbles against his chest. He wanted to touch, to explore, to memorize every inch of her body, but he didn’t, terrified that at the slightest wrong touch she’d pull away and this magical bubble would burst.

      Part of him wanted to risk it, though. To take his cue from Max Dalton, who wouldn’t leave his hands on her waist. He’d slide them up, skimming under the skimpy top, his fingers on her back, his thumbs easing forward to stroke the curve of her breast.

      He wouldn’t stop there, either. He’d present a full assault, sliding his thumbs forward until the pads teased her nipples, then deepening his exploration of her mouth as his hand slid down to the waistband of her flimsy pants. He’d feel every twitch of her skin, every sweet hesitation, but she wouldn’t tell him to stop, and that simple surrender would arouse him as much as the feel of her body against his.

      He’d slip his hand down, his erection painful with need, then moan when his finger found damp curls and her slit, already wet and ready. Only a little bit more, and he would brush her clit and she would tremble in his arms, her back arching, and her lips parting beneath his mouth as she whispered one sweet, simple word: Yes.

      No.

      The real world rushed back to smack Chris in the ass. “What?” he said, groggy and confused.

      “No,” Alyssa repeated. “I’m sorry.” She backed away from him, managing to look both completely turned on and utterly mortified.

      “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “I should never have—I’m just…I’m just sorry.”

      “It’s okay,” he said, though it wasn’t at all. His body was on fire, his desperation acute. He wanted her back in his arms. He wanted to finish what they’d started, and then he wanted