Chapter 12 #2
The bath is steaming, pine-scented soap already swirling at the surface. It smells like something comforting, something intimate.
I bring her close to me slowly. I lift her thin sweater up and over her head, revealing the small frame beneath. She’s wearing yoga pants and a bra, simple and soft. Still, she shifts on her feet.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she whispers. “I look terrible.”
I smack her ass, quick and sharp. Not hard—just enough.
“Stop that. I don’t want to hear that again.”
“What?” she says, startled, her eyes wide and cheeks brightening.
“I’m just—” She looks down at herself.
“This is nothing,” I growl. “You heard me, Emma. Did you already forget what happened this morning?”
She bites her lip. “No, sir.”
That’s better.
I spin her gently and unclasp her bra. It falls away like silk, her small breasts exposed, soft and flushed. I take my time and cup them in my palms, savoring the weight of her. I bend, suck each nipple into my mouth, one at a time, while my hand teases the other.
“Oh god,” she moans. “That feels good.”
“Good.” I pull back just enough to speak. “I told you—I have all kinds of ways to unblock you. You ready to write that next scene?”
She nods. “I think I could write the whole damn book.”
I push down her leggings next, then her panties, dragging them down her thighs like I’ve got all day. Like there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
“Into the tub,” I say.
I help her step in, my hands steady on her hips. She lifts one foot hesitantly, then the other. I crouch, guiding her in.
“Relax. Let me do this.”
I pull over a rough-hewn stool and sit. From here, I can take my time with her. Worship her.
I love this.
I love Em.
I want to memorize every second I get with her.
I start with her feet—washing slowly, reverently. My fingers trail up her calves, her knees, and then her thighs, where I linger just long enough for her breath to catch.
She starts to speak. “Let me—”
“No,” I cut in, my voice like a command. “You don’t get to rush this. Let me take care of you.”
I reach for the cloth again, warm and waiting, and I slip it between her thighs.
She gasps. I lean in.
"You smell like Christmas now.”
Her breath breaks off into a sharp little gasp when I spread her thighs and press my thumb to her clit. Her breathing is ragged now, her body betraying her even as she tries to keep some distance. When she shivers, I know it's not from the cold. Not this time.
"Do you remember that holiday party?" I ask her.
"Oh my god," she says. "Owen."
I stroke her clit again. Then again. Deliberate. Unrelenting.
"After this bath," I tell her, "we're going to recreate that night."
She groans. "Owen, that was so embarrassing."
"Embarrassing?" I echo. "No. Heartbreaking."
She doesn't respond. I know she's remembering it too.
"It’s going to be better this time."
She was eighteen years old then. I still remember the way she looked on the porch—her arms crossed, eyes glassy, shut off from everyone.
"Why are you out here?" I asked her. “You’ve been out here for an hour.”
“Didn’t know you noticed.”
She looked so small, so utterly helpless.
Like she'd forgotten how to want something for herself.
"Everyone forgets I’m here," she whispered. "Until they need something."
Then she added, softer, "Sometimes I think I’m just… forgettable."
Forgettable.
It hit me like a knife sliding between ribs. I cupped her cheek before I could even stop myself.
"You're not invisible to me," I told her. "Never to me."
She looked up at me. God, she was only eighteen. We were. Not. Related. No matter how many times our parents tried to pretend we were.
But we were still forbidden.
I knew I shouldn't have been anywhere near her. But her lips parted, and I leaned in—
"Emma!"
A voice from inside. Laughter. Glasses clinking. Our parents.
She blinked and stepped back, shaking her head. Just like that, it was over.
I let my hand fall.
"You’re never invisible to me," I repeated.
She turned and fled.
"I thought you were going to kiss me that night," she says now, laughing quietly, embarrassed. Her voice shakes just enough.
"Of course I was."
"What? Are you serious?"
I reach for the soap again. Her skin is flushed, her breathing shallow. I quickly shed my clothes, then shift the stool behind her, lift her gently, and set her down between my legs.
Now I'm in the tub, too, water sloshing as we settle.
Her bare back presses against my chest. Her eyes rake over me—possessive, hungry—and fuck, I love that.
"We should have a do-over," I whisper into her ear.
"A what?"
“I got eggnog. Spiked eggnog."
She laughs. “My god, you’re right. We were both drinking rum and eggnog that night, remember?"
“You thought you were the Queen, didn’t you?”
She bursts out laughing. "I did?"
"Yeah. So did I."
I smirk. "I still like it, you know. Eggnog and rum." I nod to the fridge. “And we have some."
"Perfect," she says, her voice soft. "Let’s do it."
I rinse her off and wash her hair, tilting her head back and lathering it gently. This one smells like sugar cookies.
"Mmm, that’s delicious," she says as I rinse the suds away. I like the smell too. It’s nostalgic. Innocent.
After toweling off, we head to the front room, wrapped in thick terry cloth, still damp and flushed, the fire roaring beside us.
I pour us each a glass of rum and eggnog, heavy on the rum.
"Ready for a do-over?" I ask.
"Yes," she says, curling up beside me on the rug. “Do I have to be awkward and gangly?”
I snort. “Do I have to have garlic breath from your mother’s pasta?”
“Owen, please do not mention my mother right now,” she says with a groan, but she’s laughing, even while grimacing.
We clink our glasses and drink. I watch her lick off her eggnog mustache.
“Do you still build model cars?” she asks.
I look away and shrug. “Haven’t in a while. I had a girlfriend who told me they were childish and it was time to grow up.” I sigh. “Stupid how we internalize that shit, eh?”
“Yeah,” she says, taking another huge sip of her eggnog. “Jake told me I needed to start wearing makeup like a grown-up.” She sips again. “All the while, he was fucking another woman and didn’t have the balls to break up with me.”
My fingers tighten around the glass. I take another drink.
“Dick.” I sip again.
“Total dick.” She upends the rest of her glass and leans back.
“I like you without makeup,” I whisper. I tug a lock of her hair, letting my gaze roam over her pretty, pert tits and full hips. I remember the way she tasted when I ate her out for breakfast.
I want her again. And again. And a-fucking-gain.
“How much rum was in that?” Her speech is already slurred.
Enough so that she’ll spread her legs for me and let me fuck her to her next word count goal?
When she reaches for the rum, I take the neck of the bottle. “That shit’s strong. You're done," I tell her, not even looking. "I decide when you've had enough."
"Mmm, just a little more," she says, giggling, tipping the bottle just enough to put some in her cup before she finishes it.
"Bad girl," I murmur, shaking my head. "I should spank you for that, then fuck you like the bad girl you are. Is that what you want?”
She stills. Her eyes widen.
"What if that’s… wrong or something? I don’t know."
“Wrong?" I ask quietly. "According to who?"
The cabin falls silent. This time, I’m not touching her.
But I will. Soon.
She leans in closer to me, fisting my towel in her palm. “No one who fucking matters.”
We kiss, long, hard, and breathless. My dick’s hard as steel, pressed between us, and her little moans make me stifle a groan.
When we pull away, her eyes are shining. I want her tight pussy wrapped around me. I want to taste her again. I’ve waited this fucking long for her, like a man starved. I want her so damn bad.
I pick up her wrists and yank her toward the fire.
Her towel’s nearly slipped off, her hair drying in straggles. She stumbles and protests.
I don’t listen.
I drop into the armchair and pull her across my lap, her knees framing me.
My hands roam up her thighs, stopping just before her sweetest spot.
"You think you can disobey me and get away with it?"
She laughs, breathless, exactly what I’m going for.
"I think you should tell Santa you’ve been a good girl," I tease.
"What if I don’t want to play a game?" she says, flirting. "I have work to do."
My lips curl. “Maybe you don’t know the rules yet."
I reach over to the side table where a mug of thick candy cane sticks sits. I grab one, open it, and pop the end into my mouth, and suck until it’s slick and glistening.
I press the tip to her lips. "Take a taste."
Her tongue darts out, pretty and pink. My dick throbs.
“Mmm. Minty. Better than garlic breath.”
But when I trail it down her neck, leaving a sticky, shimmering path, she gasps, laughing, her hand coming up to stop me.
I raise my brow at her. "If you stop me, I’m going to tie those hands up."
Her eyes flash, I dare you.
Then she gasps again as I drag the peppermint cane across her nipples.
"Does it sting?" I ask, my voice low.
She nods, her breath hitching.
"Yes. A bit,” she whispers.
“Good.” I drag the candy cane down the length of her torso—slow, teasing, deliberate. Over her belly button. Down, down, until I reach the top of her pussy.
“Owen!” She gasps, her eyes wide, voice already trembling.
I tease her clit with the very tip, barely brushing, just enough to make her shiver.
“Oh god,” she whispers. “Ah!” Her breath catches. That minty, sticky sweetness must be a shock, cold and sharp, lighting her up. And fuck, it hits me too—hard and deep, just watching her react to it.
I pull it away from her sensitive skin, slide it into the wet heat of my mouth, and suck. She moans, grinding against me.
I want to fuck her so damn bad.
I want her spread and begging.
I love watching her unravel. I love teasing her, winding her up until she’s trembling and desperate.
And I love waiting.
“Open those legs for me.”
She obeys, slow and obedient, her legs falling apart for me like a gift.
She’s glistening, pretty and flushed pink with arousal. I stroke her with the very tip of the candy again, just tracing. Just watching her hips jerk. I lick the candy again.
I remember eating her out this morning. The way she came undone on my mouth, her fingers tangled in my hair, that desperate way she said my name.
Bloody hell, I want her again.
I tease her clit with the rounded end of the candy. Her head falls back, and she moans as I tease her, over and over. I bend my mouth to her nipple and gather the peaked bud between my teeth.
I set the candy cane aside, lean over her, and snatch a length of gold garland from the nearby tree. It glints in the dim light, sparkling.
“What did I tell you?” I growl, giving her ass a sharp slap.
“Owen!” She gasps again, her breath hot.
I loop the garland around her wrists, not tight, just enough to hold them up above her head. I clench one end in my fist, anchoring her. She shivers, trembling beneath me.
“Mm-mm,” she hums, needy and sweet.
“Nope,” I say, my voice going stern. “Good girls don’t tell me what to do.”
Then I flip her over in one swift, practiced motion.
She lands on her front, arms above her head, ass up and waiting.
I remember how she lit up like a Christmas tree when I spanked her this morning—her face flushed, eyes glazed.
“You were a good girl,” I remind her. “You got your word count in. You obeyed me in the bath. But now you’re being a little naughty, aren’t you?”
“Owen!” she whimpers, but her hands can’t stop me now. They’re bound in sparkling gold, glittering like a halo she doesn’t deserve.
The first spank is slow, measured—less punishment, more possession. A claiming.
She arches into it, moaning low and desperate, and I trail my fingers between her legs—her clit is sticky and slick. I stroke it, circle it, then lick the sweetness off my fingers, tasting her and the hint of mint with a grin.
The second spank lands harder.
She gasps, so sharp, so pretty, that I don’t stop.
Each strike is followed by my hand, warm and steady, soothing and stroking, blurring pain into pleasure and heat.
I bend down, press my mouth to her ass, stubble grazing her delicate skin as I kiss, then bite.
“Oh my gosh!” She moans again as I land another spank, and then another. Her body jerks with each one, caught between restraint and surrender.
“You gonna be a good girl?” I ask, my hand still working her clit, stroking, circling, spreading her wet heat on her most sensitive parts.
“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes.”
I turn her upright again, wrists still bound, her chest heaving, breath ragged. Her eyes are glazed with need.
“Are you going to continue to be a good girl for me?”
“Yes,” she whispers again. “Yes, please.”
“Good,” I tell her, and then I give the order—low, commanding, final.
“Come for me, baby. Come on my hand.”
I hold her gaze, never looking away, and watch as she falls.
Falls right over the edge, into oblivion. Into me.