Chapter 46
SNOW JOB
ISLA
It’s ridiculous how much I want him. I’m wildly aroused from the chase, the game, the kiss. And now from…this.
Rowan, standing tall and proud in front of a towering evergreen, his thick cock bobbing in front of my face, the scent of freshly fallen snow and pine needles surrounding me.
After I blow on my palm—it’s just polite to offer a warm hand on a cold night—I wrap it around the base of his dick, then murmur in anticipation.
But when I part my lips, he shakes his head.
“Not yet, snow angel,” he murmurs, then curls a hand over mine on his shaft and…slaps my cheek with his dick.
Oh.
That’s an unexpected turn-on too. A pulse beats between my thighs as I look up at him, urging him on. “Do it again.”
He smacks his dick against my other cheek. Then he traces my lips with the head. “Mmm…Your lips, Isla. Your perfect fucking lips. I’ve been obsessed with them for a long, long time.”
“How long?” I ask, then flick out my tongue, trying to catch a taste of him.
“A year—who even knows? Definitely since the auction. I haven’t been able to fucking stop thinking about your lips since then.” He drags the tip, shiny now from my tongue and the drop of arousal beading on it, back across my mouth once more. “So pink, so glossy, so pretty.”
I squeeze my hand tighter around him. “Then use my mouth,” I urge, parting my lips again. “It’s cold outside. But my mouth is warm.”
But he won’t let me suck him. Or even kiss him. He’s in control, marking my face with his cock first. “I will, sweetheart. I will. But cold doesn’t scare me. Ice is my friend.”
Of course the temperature doesn’t bother the man. Or his cock. He thrives on the ice. And on teasing me.
“You’re mine, Isla. All mine,” he adds.
My throat tightens with emotions I shouldn’t feel during the prelude to a blow job. And yet, I feel them. This aching want that’s more than physical. That’s soul-deep. I want that—to be his. But does he want more than this? The hope I feel only equals my desire.
“Prove it then. Take my mouth, Rowan,” I challenge. I’ll show him how much I want him with my lips. I’ll show him my need.
“You sure you’re ready for it?” he asks with another drag of his cock across my chin.
“Are you?” I counter.
His smile is confident, his nod even more so. “So fucking ready,” he says, then he taps my chin with his index finger, opening my mouth. “Nice and wide.”
I obey, and he feeds me his cock. It’s not even inch by inch.
It’s more like millimeter by millimeter as he draws out the anticipation, as he plays the game.
He’s edging me as I blow him. I moan shamelessly, squirming in the snow.
The whole time I’m relishing the chance to lick him, to taste him.
To have him. When he’s halfway in, I let out a sigh of relief around his hot length.
His sexy, musky scent fills my nostrils, mingling with the crisp, fresh air.
It’s a heady combination, and I grip the base of his shaft tighter and swirl my tongue around his dick.
Finally. Fucking finally.
He wraps a hand around my head, his fingers curling tight and possessively in my hair. “Yessss,” he groans.
His sounds drive me on. I press one hand to his denim-covered thigh, the other wrapping firmly around his flesh as I take him even deeper.
I suck louder, the sounds echoing in the nighttime stillness.
“Mmm, so good,” he moans appreciatively, and I’m keenly aware that it’s just us on this silent, snowy night. The quiet and the dark are our companions.
But even so, the riskiness excites me. The fact that we’re here, practically in the woods, with only a few Christmas lights flickering around us, sends thrills racing through me with each swirl of my tongue.
I can’t help myself. I want so much more of him, of this, of us. I show him as I suck him off, moving faster, working him over, taking him even deeper.
I’m up on my knees, making obscene slurping sounds, but he’s just as filthy. His groans reach the sky. He starts to pump his hips. He leans his head back. “Fuck, Isla,” he grunts.
His hand tightens around my skull. He thrusts deeper. “Can I?” he asks, all desperate and ragged. “Can I fuck your mouth?”
He barely stops pumping enough to let me answer with words. So I answer with deeds. A desperate nod, a squeeze of his hip. The permission.
He takes it and runs with it. And here in my Christmas tree farm, made just for me tonight, the man I’m falling for fucks my mouth—passionately, possessively—till he can’t stop groaning.
Then I cough. Dammit.
He stops, worried. “You okay? Want me to finish in my hand?”
I growl. Narrow my eyes. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
I grab his dick and haul him back into my mouth till he hits the back of my throat.
It’s not easy, but that’s not the point.
It’s hard, all of this, yet I want his pleasure more than anything else in the world.
I want to taste it on my tongue. I will my throat to relax, but it doesn’t take much, or long for him.
He gives a quick thrust, then grunts out a rough, jagged, “Fuuuuuuuck yes.”
He stills, shudders, then comes.
But barely a second passes before he snaps his eyes open and stares hotly at me, tapping my chin again, opening my jaw slightly. “Don’t swallow.”
I was this close to drinking him down. Now I’m holding his come in my mouth. Waiting.
“Open your mouth all the way and show me.”
I obey, parting my lips, letting him see his release on my tongue.
He lets out an appreciative rumble. “Yesssss. I’ve been dreaming of a white Christmas.”