Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
Tabitha
Rory, as Santa, has adopted a voice with a commanding edge that makes my stomach flip. He’s into this as much as I am. I consider pushing back, playing hard to get, but I want this. Want him. Want to let go for once, instead of always being the one in control.
So I strip off my jeans with shaking hands, hyperaware of him watching.
The Santa coat is pooled on the floor near the tower of wrapped presents, red velvet stark against the rainbow rug.
The ridiculous beard is somewhere near the bookshelf.
Evidence of how we got here scattered across my carefully curated children’s section.
He guides me backward, and I sink into the reading chair, trying not to think about how often I’ve curled up in it when the bookstore is quiet and I need a minute.
Because after today, I’ll never look at this chair the same way. Whenever I sit here for Storytime, I’ll remember this. Him. The way he’s looking at me right now, as if I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
But before I can spiral about how he’s leaving tomorrow and how the deal I agreed to has gone sideways, his hands are on my ankles. His fingers slide up my calves, and logical thinking becomes impossible.
“Lift up.”
I obey, raising my hips so he can strip off my panties. The worn cushion is soft beneath me, familiar in a way that makes this whole situation feel surreal.
But these past few days have been so…unexpected it tracks that right now, as the storm begins to clear, I’m having sex with a professional caddy in full Santa getup in my bookstore. Or, he’s about to go down on me, at least.
“Cold?” His hands slide up my thighs, spreading them wider.
“No.” My voice comes out breathless. “The opposite.”
He kneels between my legs, his dark eyes locked on mine as his hands lift my legs, positioning one over each armrest, so I’m completely open to him. Exposed. Vulnerable.
This is just sex, I remind myself even as my heart pounds. Really, really good sex. Don’t make it more than that.
But I’m already memorizing details I shouldn’t, the concentration on his face, the way his breath comes faster, how his fingers press into my skin as if he’s trying to leave an impression.
“You’re so beautiful.” He traces a languid finger through my folds. I may be beautiful, but I’m also embarrassingly wet. “Christ, Tabitha.”
“Please—” The word escapes before I can stop it.
His thumb circles my clit with perfect pressure. “Please what?”
“Touch me. I need—”
His mouth replaces his thumb, and I cry out, too loud in the quiet store. He’s methodical, building me up with slow licks and gentle suction that make me squirm. When he slides two fingers inside me, I gasp, head falling back.
“Eyes on me.”
I force my gaze down, and the sight of him kneeling on the floor, his head of dark hair between my thighs, makes everything more intense. He crooks his fingers, hitting that spot inside, and I cry out.
“That’s it. Let me hear you.”
I’m already close, and with the encouragement, my thighs start to shake.
The memory of him coming apart for me minutes ago flashes through my mind.
How powerful I felt watching him lose control, how he’d gripped the armrests as if he’d fly apart otherwise.
I never imagined I’d love that so much. Never imagined any of this.
“Please—” I beg. “Please, Santa—”
He groans against me, the vibration pushing me closer to the edge.
His fingers pump faster, his mouth working my clit, and I’m right there, teetering.
“Come for me.” The command is rough as he nips at my inner thigh with his teeth. “You’ve been such a good girl.”
And when his tongue finds my clit again, it’s barely a second before I comply, the orgasm crashing through me, my back arching, legs shaking as pleasure rolls through me in waves. I’m crying out, hands fisting in his hair, and his name falling from my lips before I can stop it.
He works me through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks fade. When I can finally focus, he’s standing, and there’s a heat in his expression that makes me clench with renewed need.
“On your feet.” His hands pull me up to unsteady legs.
He spins me to face the chair, guiding me forward until I’m bent over, gripping the armrests. And hell, if it isn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever done, getting fucked in my bookstore. From behind. In broad daylight. By a hot athlete who knows exactly what he’s doing.
The transgression of it sends a thrill through me even as some logical part of my brain warns me to enjoy every second, to commit the sensations to memory for later. For when he’s long gone.
“Perfect.” His hand slides down my spine. “Just like that.”
“Please—” The word is barely a whisper.
His cock presses against my entrance, hot and hard, but he doesn’t push in. “Tell me what you want.”
“You.” I wriggle back, against him, but his hands on my hips hold me still. “Please, I need you—”
He drives into me with one thrust, and I cry out, the fullness stealing my breath.
“God, you feel good.” His hands tighten on my hips as he pulls out then pushes back in. “Perfect.”
The angle is devastating, each thrust hitting deep, and I’m already building toward another orgasm. Nothing exists but this, the slide of him inside me, the grip of his hands, the way he makes me feel completely undone.
“More—” I gasp. “Now—”
He gives me what I want, his pace increasing, hips snapping against me with a rhythm that makes my eyes roll back.
“That’s it.” His voice is rough. “Take what you need.”
I do, meeting him thrust for thrust as my eyes squeeze shut.
“So close—” I manage. “I’m—”
“Let go.” He thrusts deeper. “I’ve got you.”
For right now, he means. At this moment. Not forever. But my orgasm, hitting harder than the first, pushes the thought from my mind and steals my breath. My legs give out, but he holds me up, supporting me as I shatter.
“Rory—” His name tears from my throat.
He groans at the sound, his rhythm faltering, and then he’s coming, too, buried deep, my name on his lips.