Chapter Eight #3
Her hips jerk at the contact, a broken sound catching in her throat. I grip her thighs, holding her open as I work my tongue over her—circling her entrance, teasing, then sliding up to her clit, testing what makes her gasp and what makes her try to swallow the sounds back down.
“God, Nick,” she pants, one hand tangling in my hair, the other fisting in the sheets. “That feels—”
Her words snap off in a choked cry when I wrap my lips around her clit and suck, slow but sure. I slide a finger inside her, then another, curling until I find that spot that makes her whole body jolt.
The effect is instant. Her back bows off the mattress, thighs tightening around my head, but she doesn’t push me away. She’s shaking, caught somewhere between holding on and giving in, and I can feel the war happening in her body.
That small voice reminds me I don’t deserve this—her like this, open and unraveling on my tongue after everything I’ve done—but I’m too far gone to step back. If she’s going to fall apart, I want it to be here. With me. Safe, even if she doesn’t forgive me for a long damn time.
“Breathe,” I murmur against her, dragging my mouth over her again, my fingers stroking that spot inside her in steady rhythm. “Just feel it.”
She trembles beneath me, fingers digging into my scalp.
“Oh, God—!”
Her whole body goes tight, every muscle strung sharp, and then she breaks.
She cries out my name—my full name, the real one—as her inner walls clamp around my fingers, pulsing with her release.
I keep my pace, working her through every wave until the tension bleeds out of her and her legs go weak, her hand sliding from my hair to the mattress.
Only then do I ease up, pressing one last, reverent kiss to her inner thigh before crawling back up her body. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed, lips parted as she drags air back into her lungs. She looks wrecked and unfairly pretty.
“Hi,” I murmur, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead.
A lazy, dazed smile curves her mouth. “Hi.”
I shift onto my side and pull her into me, needing her close more than I need air.
My cock is a constant, throbbing ache behind my zipper, but for a second I let myself pretend this is enough — her breathing against my chest, her leg hooked over mine, the Christmas lights throwing soft color over our tangled bodies.
It isn’t enough. It never has been. But I’d stay right here if she asked.
Her fingers drift down my stomach, tracing the line of my abs. They pause at my waistband, hesitating for just a beat before sliding lower, cupping me through my pants.
“You said you’ve wanted this for ten years,” she says quietly, eyes lifting to meet mine. There’s no haze now, no confusion, just heat and something rawer, more dangerous. “Show me how badly, Nick.”
The way she says my name makes my pulse stutter.
“If we stop here, I’ll live,” I tell her, because I have to give her that, even if it kills me.
Her thumb presses into the button of my jeans. “You already dragged me out here,” she whispers. “Now finish what you started.”
That goes straight through my ribs.
Her hands fumble with my button and zipper. I help her, shoving my pants and boxers down and kicking them off the bed until I’m as naked as she is. The air hits my skin, cool and sharp, and then her gaze is on me, on all of me.
She swallows, taking in the scars, the hard lines of muscle, the way I’m so hard for her. Her eyes flick to the pale line along my ribs again, fingers ghosting toward it. I catch her hand before she can ask and bring her knuckles to my mouth, kissing them once.
Her breath shudders out of her, and whatever question she had dies on her tongue.
I roll, settling between her thighs, bracing my weight on my forearms so I don’t crush her. The head of my cock nudges against her, slick and hot, and it takes everything I have not to just push in and lose my mind.
“Look at me,” I murmur.
Her eyes meet mine, wide and beautiful and sure.
Her fingers slide up my back, nails lightly scratching my skin as she pulls me closer. “I’m not going to tell you to stop,” she whispers, knowing exactly the question playing in my head.
I guide myself to her entrance and start to push forward, inch by inch. Heat and tightness close around me, and my vision whites out at the edges. I have to clamp my jaw shut to keep from swearing loud enough to shake the roof.
She gasps and grips my shoulders as I slide deeper. When I’m buried in her completely, I stay still, just feeling. “Holy shit,” I breathe, closing my eyes. "You feel—"
Like the thing I’ve been starving for my whole life.
I don’t say that part out loud.
Her body gradually relaxes around me, the tension in her shoulders melting, her hands sliding to the back of my neck. Her breasts press against my chest, and I can feel her heart hammering in counterpoint to mine.
I pull out a fraction and push back in, slow and careful. The sensation is…obliterating. Heat, pressure, the tight clench of her body trying to memorize me the same way I’m memorizing her.
We find a rhythm, small at first, testing. The mattress creaks softly beneath us. The Christmas lights above the headboard blink lazily, casting shifting reds and greens across her flushed skin. Her breath stutters every time I sink deep, like she’s surprised all over again.
“Fuck,” she pants, fingers tangling in my hair.
Her words break off into a moan as I rock my hips, angle changing just enough to drag along that sensitive spot inside her.
“Tell me,” I murmur against her mouth, not stopping. “Tell me how it feels.”
“Full,” she gasps, head tipping back, throat exposed. “So full of you. I— Nick, I—”
A broken sound tears out of her as I thrust a little harder, finding the pace her body begs for. Her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my lower back, dragging me deeper. Every time I sink into her it feels like crossing a line I can never come back from, and I don’t want to.
“You’re killing me,” I groan into her neck. “You know that?”
Her nails scrape down my shoulders, sending sparks through my nerves. “You stole me,” she breathes, the words almost a challenge. “You don’t get to complain now.”
I huff out something that might be a laugh if I wasn’t coming apart. “Not complaining,” I grit. “I’d do it all over again if it meant this.”
I sink my teeth lightly into the curve of her shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to mark. Her inner muscles flutter around me, and I feel her clamp down, body starting to shake beneath mine.
“You were made for this,” I growl, feeling her squeeze me from below. “Made to take my cock.”
Her breath fractures. The muscles in her stomach tighten. She clings to me like she’s going to drown and I’m the only thing keeping her above water.
And then she breaks.
She comes apart around me with a strangled cry, my name torn from her like it hurts to say it and she’s saying it anyway.
Her body clamps down, pulsing around my dick, dragging me that last inch over the edge.
My spine locks, and I spill into her, burying my face in her neck as I empty myself inside her, her name breaking loose from my mouth like a confession, like a curse, like a promise I’ve been holding onto for a decade.
The world narrows to heat and breath and the frantic thud of our hearts. For a moment, I don’t know where I end and she begins.
Eventually, the sharp edges of it fade, leaving us tangled and shaking, still joined, skin damp with sweat. I shift just enough so I’m not crushing her, but I refuse to pull out, not yet. Not when everything in me is screaming to stay exactly where I am.
“Are you okay?” I murmur into her hair, pressing slow, soft kisses along her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth.
She lets out a breathy little laugh, the sound low and disbelieving. “Better than okay,” she whispers, tightening her arms around me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear.
I roll to my side, taking her with me, wrapping her in my arms. She tucks herself against me, one leg thrown over my hip, head on my chest. I yank the blanket up over us, and the Christmas lights cast lazy, colorful patterns across the bed.
Through the window I can see that snow begins to fall, drifting down in thick, silent flakes that blanket the woods around the cabin.
I press my cheek to the top of her head and draw slow circles on her back. After a long moment she lifts one hand to trace the scars across my chest with a fingertip. I close my eyes, something warm and painful and stupidly hopeful cracking open in my chest and I pull her closer.
For the first time in ten years, I don’t feel like I’m on the outside of my own life, watching it happen without me.
If this is all I ever get—one stolen Christmas and the feel of her still wrapped around me—it’ll ruin everything that comes after. But I don't care, nothing else will touch this.
Merry Christmas to me.