Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Clay
I’ve never seen anything so mind-blowingly hot as my packmate – my oldest friend – kneeling between the bare thighs of Hollie Bright. My brain malfunctions. My cock stiffens. And for a moment I forget all my responsibilities and reservations. I think I almost forget my own name.
That is until Tucker stumbles to his feet, his mouth and his chin shiny with– is that slick? – looking suitably sheepish.
“What the hell is going on?” I snap.
“I know it’s been a while since you’ve been with a woman–”
“It has?” Hollie says, cheeks bright pink.
“-- but I think you know,” my friend says, licking all that delicious smelling mess from his lips.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” I growl. Has he forgotten what we talked about? Our agreement to give this girl the space she needs?
“What’s your problem?” Hollie says, snapping her legs closed and scowling my way.
“Clay and Nash are both in agreement,” Tucker says, addressing Hollie but keeping his gaze locked on me, “that we shouldn’t be messing around with you, Hollie.”
“Why not?” she asks, clearly hurt and making me feel like the asshole and not Tucker.
“You only just lost your mom,” I say softly. “You’re vulnerable and–”
“I already told you,” she says fiercely, “to stop treating me like you’re scared you might break me.
” And then, before I understand what’s happening, Hollie Bright is on her feet and marching toward me.
She doesn’t stop until she’s right in front of me.
I’m expecting a slap, or at least a firm talking to.
Instead, she fists her hands into my wet jacket, lifts up onto her toes and kisses me hard on the lips.
It lasts five deliciously long seconds. Then she snaps back her head, peers up at me with those piercing blue eyes and tells me, “I want this. I want you. The question is, do you want me?”
“Of course, I fucking do,” I growl, dragging her right up against me and kissing her back, just as hard, just as passionately, just as hungrily as she kissed me.
She melts into my arms and I slide my hand down her body, over her ass to the hem of her oversized sweater.
Then, I glide my hands under that sweater, finding her pantiless and bare.
It tips me right over the edge. I have no more self control to give. I want Hollie Bright. I’ve wanted her for a very long time. No more waiting. No more reservations. I’m going to have her.
I groan into her mouth and hitch her up off the floor.
Automatically, she wraps her legs around me and, still kissing her mouth, I carry her straight through to the far room of the cabin.
A room we built and decorated when we erected the cabin.
A room that’s never been used. A room that’s been waiting for a moment like this.
As we step through and I kick the door closed behind me, she breaks off our kiss and tips back her head, gaze darting around the room – at the sky light above us (buried under snow), at the oversized bed with all its covers and cushions, at the plush carpet and curtains, at the fairy lights strung around the room, at the armchairs and sofa.
“Is this … is this a nest?” she asks, eyes wide with wonderment – an expression that has my alpha pride well and truly stroked.
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s gorgeous,” she purrs. She swings her gaze back to me and smiles ever so sweetly. “Are Tucker and Nash going to be joining us?”
“You want that?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer, afraid to wish for it as hard as I am.
“Yes, I want that, because I like all of you.” My heart stutters in my chest and I’m forced to close my eyes and breathe. “Clay, is that a bad thing?”
“Fuck, no, it’s the best thing.” I open my eyes and smile at her.
“It is kind of fucked up though, isn’t it?”
“It’s natural, Hollie. You were designed to be a pack omega.” Designed for us. I can’t believe this is really happening. It’s like all my Christmas wishes coming true all at once. “Have you ever done it with more than one person before?”
“No.” The idea obviously turns her on because she whimpers, grinding her hips against mine. Fuck, this girl is needy and dripping with slick. She’s every alpha’s dream. “But I want that so badly.”
“And we’re going to give it to you, baby. But first,” I swallow, “I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to get you ready, all nice and wet and pliant for the three of us. But also because, I’m fucking selfish, Hollie, and I want you to myself for just a little bit. Is that okay?”
“It sounds more than okay,” she tells me. “It sounds perfect.”
I place her down on her feet, shrugging off my wet coat and slinging it to one side.
I left my wet boots and gloves at the front door and so I stand there in my damp pants, socks and sweater, unable to tear my eyes away from the woman in front of me - her caramel hair wet and disheveled from the storm, her cheeks rosy from whatever antics Tucker had been up to, blue eyes radiant.
“Erm Clay,” she says, eying me in the same way I’m eying her. “What the hell is that?”
She points at my chest and I glance down at the sweater I’m wearing.
“It’s my Christmas sweater.” There’s a picture of a cowboy boot in the middle with big red lettering that reads ‘Howdy Holidays’ above it. I hasten to add, I did not choose this sweater.
“Clay Jackson owns a Christmas sweater?”
“Annie and my mom insisted I get into the Christmas spirit. They made me wear it.”
“And you, being a grown man and an alpha, had no choice but to comply.”
“It’s Christmas.”
“And you’re a softie.”
“Sweetheart,” I growl, finding the hem of her sweater again. “I’m definitely not soft.”
“Thank all the Christmas elves and angels for that!”
“Can I?” I ask, tugging at the hem of her sweater.
She nods and I pull it over her head, gently to allow her to thread out her arms, ensuring her chin doesn’t snag on the head hole or her hair catch in the fabric.
She has another top underneath as if she’s a gift I get to unwrap.
I lift this one over her head, finding a camisole underneath this time.
“How many layers are there going to be?” I growl, making her giggle.
Fortunately, the camisole turns out to be the last because when I remove it, I finally find a bra – Christmas red with a sprigs-of-holly design.
“And you had the audacity to criticize my sweater,” I tut. “Do you always wear underwear that matches your name?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“I never thought brown was a good look for underpants.”
She giggles again. “It’s just my Christmas bra. Don’t you like it?”
“Like it, I fucking love it. I’d love it even more if it was decorating the floor.”
She rolls her eyes because I bet the girl has heard that line more than once, especially as she has the most spectacular pair of tits known to man, a pair I can’t help groaning at when she unhooks her bra and tosses it away.
“Fuck,” I mutter, “can I?” I stagger toward her, arms outstretched. She nods and I take those perfect tits in my hands – soft and round and voluptuous. My cock strains in my pants and I can’t help but lean down and bury my face between her breasts, soft against my cheeks and swimming in her scent.
“I’ve wanted to do this from the moment I met you.”
“You mean when I sneezed all over you,” she says with a ton of sarcasm, ”and covered you in snot.”
“When you sneezed and it made your tits jiggle in a way that fucking short-circuited my brain.”
“Oh,” she says, “is that really a thing?”
With difficulty, I extract myself from her tits and roll back up. “It is a very big thing. When your tits jiggle – when your ass jiggles too - it does things to me.”
Her gaze flicks down to where I’m straining in my pants. “I can see.” She arches an eyebrow, then to my absolute delight she shimmies her shoulders cheekily, making her tits bounce. My cock twitches.
“I need a closer inspection,” she says, “to see if that did have the desired effect.”
“I’m assuming you want to take a look at my cock, sweetheart.”
“For science reasons, obviously.”
“For science.” I take a hold of my belt and start to unbuckle it, and, fuck me, this girl is perfect because the little thing actually licks her lips greedily. But then she seems to change her mind.
“Stop,” she says. My hands freeze mid-motion. I’m an asshole – I know I am. But I know where the line sits between an asshole and a creep. I have a little sister. Consent is important to me and if she isn’t in to this, if she wants to stop at any moment then–
“Let me do that, please,” she says.
I can’t help smiling, relief flooding through my over-stimulated body. “Be my guest.”
She doesn’t take a hold of my belt, instead she tackles my sweater first, lifting it over my head, and then my shirt, threading each button through its corresponding hole until the thing hangs open.
It seems to take an eternity. I’m desperate to feel her hands on my body. I’m desperate for her touch.
She yanks the shirt down my arms and peels my thermal tank top over my head. Then she simply stands and stares, her hot gaze running all over me, so hot it’s as if I can feel it against my skin.
“Jeez,” she mutters, “pecs like those should be illegal.” Her eyes flick up to meet mine. “Can you make yours jiggle?”
“You mean like this?” I flex one then the other, making them dance for her. Her eyes light up like a kid on Christmas day who’s just discovered their stocking’s been filled to the brim. And I feel exactly the same way when she reaches out to touch me – finally.
Her hands are warm, her touch tender. She glides her palms over my pecs and my abs skimming the waist of my pants and making me gasp.
She doesn’t stop there. She sweeps her hands back up my body and over my shoulders, and then she’s walking around me, running her hands down my back.
Here, she pauses, her fingertips exploring the scars that run down my spine.
“Is this from the accident?” she whispers, her voice serious now.
“From the surgery,” I explain.