Chapter 8
Willa
We barely make it to the kitchen. My back hits the stainless steel prep table with a thud, a metal bowl clattering to the floor. I don’t care.
Sebastian shrugs off his jacket, pulls off mine, and tosses them aside without a second thought.
His hands find the hem of my sweater dress and shove it up. He tugs down my leggings, slow and rough. I gasp as air kisses my thighs. He curses low when he sees the lace of my underwear.
"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" His voice is rough, thick with need.
One hand slides along my outer thigh, then up to my hip, across my stomach. He presses his palm flat just above my panties, feeling the softness there. The give of me.
My body goes still. I brace for the comment. The judgment I’ve heard before.
But all he says is, "You’re so beautiful." His voice drops, reverent. "Every damn inch of you."
A soft sound slips out of me. Relief and hunger tangled together. He catches it with his mouth.
His hands grip my ass, lifting me onto the table. My legs fall open around his hips. I feel his cock through his jeans—hot and hard—and the ache inside me deepens.
"Take off your pants," I whisper against his lips.
He lets out a low, dangerous laugh. "Yes, ma’am."
He unbuckles his belt and shoves his jeans and underwear just low enough to free himself.
I don’t look away.
He’s cock is thick and long, the head flushed, a bead of arousal glinting at the tip. Hunger clenches deep in my belly.
I reach between us, fingers wrapping around him.
He draws in a sharp breath and nips at my lip. I stroke him once, twice, slow. Memorizing the heat, the weight, the silky skin over solid steel.
His hips jerk. His hands wrap around my wrists, firm but gentle.
"If you keep that up, this is going to end before it starts."
"Then don’t keep me waiting." My voice shakes with need.
He growls and reaches down, pushing my panties to the side. Cold air brushes my slick skin. He slides his thumb through the wetness and lifts it to his mouth to taste.
"Sweet," he murmurs, eyes burning with want.
He lines himself up, then presses in. Slow, steady, inch by inch.
My nails dig into his shoulders. My head tips back as he stretches me, fills me, makes me his.
It’s deep and thick and impossibly intimate.
I moan, low and long.
"You okay?" he asks, voice tight.
"More," I whisper. "Please."
He pulls back halfway, then thrusts in again. The sound we make together is shameless.
He sets a rhythm, slow but deep, each stroke sinking into me with purpose. My legs wrap tighter around his waist. Our bodies slide together. His chest rubs against mine. The table rocks beneath us. Flour dust rises in the air like smoke.
"You feel so good," he grunts. "So tight. So perfect. You were made for me."
The heat of his words spirals through me.
"You like that I’m younger?" I pant, needing to hear him claim it.
His thrusts grow harder. "I like that you’re you. Soft and sweet and untouched by the world’s ugly edges. I like that I get to teach you what it’s supposed to feel like. I like that you’re mine now."
Yes. Every word crashes through me like a wave.
He leans in, kissing me hard. His fingers slip between us, circling my clit. The pressure is perfect. The pleasure hits fast, bright and sharp and impossible to hold back.
I cry out, hips jerking, body shaking. My orgasm crashes through me like a flood.
I tighten around him and his rhythm stutters. He groans, low and guttural, then drives into me again. Once. Twice. Harder. Deeper.
His body locks. His face buries into my neck. I feel him come, heat pouring into me, each pulse echoing through my own aftershocks.
We collapse together, breathless and undone. His weight anchors me in the best way. I don’t want to move.
The air brushes our damp skin. The scent of cinnamon and sex wraps around us like steam.
My heart hammers.
Sebastian lifts his head and presses a kiss to my collarbone, murmuring something I don’t catch.
"You okay?" he asks, searching my face. "Did I hurt you?"
"I’m perfect," I whisper. "But I think you broke my table."
He glances down and winces. A crack splits along the edge. "I’ll fix it."
"Of course you will," I murmur, fingers slipping into his hair.
He kisses me again, slow and deep. Tender.
The shift between fierce and gentle makes my chest ache.
"Stay with me tonight," he says, voice low. "Come back to the inn. Wake up on Christmas by my side."
Warmth spreads through me like rising dough. "I’d like that."
He smiles.
And for a moment, it feels like everything has lined up. Like the world stopped just long enough for us to find each other.
"Good," he says. "Because I’m not ready to let you go."