Chapter 13
CHRIS
Hannah has been holed up in that room for the last hour, planning the town celebrations for her event, and I’m down here trying to give her space when every instinct I have is screaming at me to go check on her.
This is fucking torture.
Kane and Noel are out running errands, picking up supplies, checking in with a contact about an upcoming target.
We agreed one of us would always be around her, especially after what happened the other night when she climbed into Kane’s bed thinking it was Noel’s.
Her pre-heat is making her needy. The memory makes me grin despite the ache in my cock.
Wish it had been my bed she’d stumbled into, my cock she’d ridden until she screamed.
But knowing she came apart on Kane while moaning Noel’s name? That’s its own brand of torture and the hottest thing I’ve ever heard about.
Since kissing her as Santa, she’s fucking haunted me. Can’t sleep properly or focus on anything but the phantom taste of her mouth, the way she pressed against me, soft and warm and perfect.
Last night I barely slept. Just lay there staring at my ceiling, fighting the urge to walk down the hall and stop by her room. See if she was awake. See if she needed anything.
Ask if she’d let me touch her the way I’ve been fantasizing about since the moment I scented her.
It’s not much better this morning.
So I’m making breakfast. Pancakes from scratch because the boxed shit is an insult to food.
The first batch is already plated and waiting on the dining table.
Now I’m chopping strawberries and bananas into perfect slices.
Whipping cream with the mixer is done and in a bowl because I want this to be perfect for her.
The whole house smells like vanilla and butter and maple syrup, and if this doesn’t coax her downstairs, nothing will.
I’m working on the second batch, watching bubbles form on the surface before flipping, when I hear her burst out laughing from the living room.
“Corn Dog! Should you be in here?”
Fuck, no! That goddamn reindeer got inside again?
I drop the spatula and sprint out of the kitchen, rounding the corner to find a complete disaster.
Corn Dog is up on his hind legs, front hooves braced against our Christmas tree, stretching his neck to try to catch a walnut ornament with his mouth. The nut keeps swinging away from him, and he’s making these frustrated huffing sounds that would be funny if I weren’t so annoyed.
Around the base of the tree, candy cane wrappers lie torn, open, and scattered everywhere, baubles knocked off branches and rolling across the floor, walnuts that have fallen and been partially chewed.
On the dining table, one corner of the tablecloth is bunched up where he clearly tried to climb up, and there’s half a pancake on the floor with teeth marks, the rest sitting on the table looking violated.
“Corn Dog!” I bark, noticing the front door now swinging open. Did I forget to latch it properly?
The reindeer pauses, peers at me over his shoulder with those big brown eyes like he’s saying Oh, you said something?, then immediately goes back to trying to catch the walnut.
I shake my head, already moving to shut the door properly then toward him, when I spot Hannah stepping down from the final step from upstairs.
And fuck me, she’s gorgeous.
She’s wearing jeans, these soft-looking denim ones that sit perfectly on her hips, not tight but draping over her curves in a way that makes my imagination run wild.
Her shirt is a long-sleeved thermal in a deep burgundy that skims her body, loose enough to be comfortable but clinging in places that make my hands itch.
The neckline dips just low enough to show her collarbones, and the way the fabric moves when she breathes is mesmerizing.
My gaze drops to her breasts. I can’t help it, not even going to pretend I’m trying, and the way they press against the fabric with each breath has me captive.
“Morning,” I manage, forcing my eyes up to her face, where she’s fighting a smile. Then I’m marching toward Corn Dog again and swing an arm under his belly, wrenching him off the floor and tucking him under my arm like a very large, very indignant football.
He makes outraged reindeer noises, bleating and grunting, and starts thrashing his legs.
The bastard isn’t light. He’s got to be a hundred pounds of muscle and attitude, and I need my second arm to keep him from squirming free as I haul him toward the back door.
“Yeah, yeah, express your feelings,” I mutter as he tries to headbutt me. “You’re still in trouble.”
I manage to get the door open one-handed and carry him out to the pen, which is swinging wide because this escape artist has figured out how to work the latch.
“Get in there, troublemaker.” I release him, and he immediately rushes toward the snowman we built this morning when we fed him. And proceeds to absolutely demolish it.
He’s headbutting it, stomping on it with his front hooves, destroying our work with obvious glee. Snow explodes everywhere.
“You have serious aggression problems,” I tell him, pulling out the padlock from the side gate we bought specifically for this purpose. “You know that? Might want to talk to a professional about all that pent-up rage.”
Corn Dog knocks the snowman’s head clean off, sending it rolling.
The other reindeer are just standing there watching him like they can’t believe they’re related to this maniac.
I secure the lock, testing it twice. “Try getting out now, Houdini.”
He’s too busy stomping on snow chunks to care about my threats.
When I head back inside, Hannah has already cleaned up the mess around the tree and the table, wrappers in the trash, ornaments rehung, tablecloth straightened, and munched on food removed.
She’s sitting at the table now, eyeing the pancakes that survived Corn Dog’s rampage.
“This smells divine,” she says, gesturing toward the kitchen, where I still smell the second batch cooking. “Clearly worked too well—got me downstairs and broke Corn Dog into the house.”
I laugh, heading back to the kitchen to finish the fresh batch. “He’s got a nose for good food. Can’t blame him for having taste,” I call out.
I plate the new pancakes, golden and perfect, still steaming, and grab fresh plates since Corn Dog contaminated the others. Load up a tray with the pancakes, the bowl of whipped cream I made, fresh fruit arranged in a separate bowl, maple syrup squeeze bottle, and clean forks and knives.
When I bring it all out and set it on the table, her eyes light up like I’m presenting her with treasure.
“You made all this?” She sounds genuinely amazed.
“Someone had to learn their way around a kitchen.” I sit next to her—close enough that our knees brush under the table—and start serving her. “Can’t hunt criminals on empty stomachs.”
Her scent curls around me as she leans forward, and it’s fucking intoxicating. My mouth waters for her.
I stack three pancakes on her plate, top them with sliced strawberries and bananas, and add a dollop of whipped cream that I know is perfect because I made it myself.
She takes a bite, and the sound she makes is low in her throat, her eyes closing, and it goes straight to my cock.
“These are incredible,” she says, already going for another bite. “Like, legitimately the best pancakes I’ve ever had. Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Taught myself. Got tired of eating microwaved food.” I’m watching the way her tongue darts out to catch a drop of syrup on her bottom lip, and my jeans are getting uncomfortable.
I rip off a piece of pancake with my fingers, dip it in syrup, and hold it up to her mouth. “Open.”
She hesitates for half a second, then parts her lips.
I feed her slowly, watching her mouth close around my fingers, and when her tongue slides along my skin to catch the syrup, my control nearly shatters.
“Again,” I say, my voice coming out rough. This time when I feed her, she licks my fingers deliberately, slowly, thoroughly, maintaining eye contact, and I’m barely holding it together.
My cock is so hard it’s painful, straining against my jeans, and all I think about is those lips wrapped around something else entirely. She’s going to destroy me. Absolutely fucking wreck me, and I’m going to let her.
I feed her another bite, and when she swallows quickly, she licks my fingers again—taking her time, her tongue warm and soft—and I break.
I lean in and lick her lips, tasting maple syrup and her.
Then we’re kissing. Her mouth opens under mine immediately, her tongue meeting mine, and she tastes like everything I’ve been craving. Sweet and warm and perfect. I angle my head to deepen the kiss, my hand coming up to cup the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair.
She half gasps, half moans.
I immediately draw her onto my lap without breaking our kiss, and she straddles me easily, her thighs bracketing mine, and starts rocking against me. The friction is incredible, torture and pleasure all at once, and I grip her hips to guide her movements.
Fuck, she’s perfect like this. Small in my arms but strong, soft yet with muscle underneath, and so fucking sexy I can’t think straight. Her weight is just right, her body fitting against mine like we were designed for this.
I reach up and squeeze her breasts through her shirt, loving how she fills my hands, how she moans against my mouth when I find her nipples through the fabric and roll them between my fingers.
“You taste so sweet,” I growl against her lips. “But I need more of you.”
She tries to respond but purrs instead, an actual Omega purr that vibrates through her chest, and her eyes go wide. “Oh, that’s new,” she breathes, sounding shocked.
I chuckle, dark and pleased, my hands sliding up under her shirt to touch bare skin. “That’s your body reacting to mine. Calling to me. Telling me exactly what you need.”
“Is that so?” She’s teasing now, rolling her hips deliberately, grinding against my erection.
“Absolutely.”