Epilogue
NOELLE
“You have to be kidding me.”
Roman looks at me, his face the model of innocence—which I am not buying in the slightest. “Why would I be kidding?”
“There’s no way you actually want to use that…that thing.”
He holds up the gift I received at Smutty Secret Santa to inspect it. “I promised you that I was going to try to have more Christmas spirit.” His grin turns wicked. “What says Christmas spirit more than fucking you with a candy cane?”
I burst out laughing, leaning into him. His eyes remain steady on my face, like he’s drinking me in.
I’ve noticed this, over the last week since we got together.
He likes to watch me laugh, always wears this soft, almost bewildered expression— like he’s not quite sure how he got here, but he’s happy as hell about it.
My rugged, grumpy, serious man. So much sweeter than he gives himself credit for.
“Come on,” he cajoles, bringing the stupid candy cane closer to my face. “I’ve been wanting to use this since I saw you open it.”
“It’s not dirty sex toy time,” I tell him, trying to be stern. “It’s hot chocolate and Christmas tree lights time.”
“Hmm.” His chest rumbles. “What if I pour the hot chocolate over your tits and—”
“Roman!” He laughs at the outrage in my voice, and my chest feels a million times lighter.
I’m pretty sure I’ve heard him laugh more this week that we’ve been together than I have in the entire first year of knowing him at the club. He smiles more, too. Happiness looks good on Roman Gray.
“Fine, fine,” he says, pulling me up onto his lap and relaxing back into the couch cushions. “No dirty sex toys in front of the Christmas tree.”
I snuggle into him, my back to his chest, loving the way his big arms feel wrapped around me. Hell, I love everything about this.
Roman surprised me this morning when I woke up to find a Christmas tree in his living room.
We’re cutting it a little short—it’s already Christmas Eve.
But he’s been true to his word and basically kept me naked in his bed since the night of the club holiday party, so we haven’t quite had time for Christmasy things.
But he had remembered what I’d told him about decorating the tree with my dad. “I know it’s not the same, doing it with me,” he said this morning, sounding uncharacteristically shy. “But I thought it might be fun to make a tradition of our own.”
See what I mean? Sweet.
I’d compromised by agreeing we could exchange eggnog for hot chocolate. He still said it was too sugary, but at least he didn’t grimace like he was being poisoned, the way he had with the eggnog.
We spent the afternoon decorating the tree and now we’re sitting here cuddling on the couch in our PJs—well, sweatpants for Roman. He’s not exactly the jammies type.
“You were right,” he murmurs into my hair as we both gaze at the softly glowing lights on the tree. “This is nice.”
I wiggle a little in his lap, too happy to sit still. “This is better than nice. It’s perfect.”
He kisses the side of my head. “You’re perfect.” His arms tighten around me. “But if you don’t stop wiggling on my dick, this is going to get a lot more R rated really fucking fast.”
My blood immediately heats. It really doesn’t take much with him—a look, a casual touch. A week hasn’t been nearly long enough to satisfy my desire for this man. I’m basically on the edge of being turned on at all times when he’s around.
And he knows it. And uses that fact to his advantage.
Very purposefully, I wiggle my hips again, relishing the hiss of breath he releases. “Angel,” he warns.
“We said we’re making our own traditions, right?” I pull one of his big hands from around my middle and bring it lower, down over my belly. “Maybe in our version of Christmas tree decorating, we do more than cuddle on the couch.”
“I can get behind that idea,” he growls, sliding his hand lower, down under the waist band of my flannel PJ pants. He makes a satisfied noise when his fingers reach my center. “So wet already,” he murmurs. “So soft and sweet for me.”
It shouldn’t feel this good this fast, but that’s Roman. He knows exactly how to touch me, how to control my body for maximum pleasure. He slips a finger inside and I throw my head back onto his shoulder, moaning.
But he removes his hand almost immediately, ignoring my sharp cry of protest. “You’re not coming on my fingers,” he says, sliding out from under me. He pushes me back onto the couch and kneels on the floor in front of me, already tugging my PJ bottoms down. “You’re going to come on my mouth.”
I stop complaining immediately and he gives me that wicked grin. “Such an eager girl. Get that top off, baby. I want to see your tits while I lick you.”
I do as he says, not bothering to come up with a reply, not when he’s already leaning over me, his lips sliding up my naked thighs. He grabs my knees, roughly pushing them apart, then swears at the sight of me, legs spread, pussy on display for him.
“Fuck, I love your cunt,” he grunts, running a finger through my wetness, eyes locked on my center.
“Roman,” I whine, trying to shift my hips for more contact. He tsks softly, pinning my hips with his hands. “You’re not in charge here, angel,” he reminds me. “If I want to look at you, I can.”
I nod feverishly. “You can do whatever you want.”
His eyes lock on mine. “You think if you say filthy things like that it will get me moving faster, don’t you?”
I bite my bottom lip. “Figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.”
He smacks my inner thigh, making me cry out, then kisses my stinging flesh.
“It’s a good thing for you that I have no desire to wait to taste you,” he says.
Then he does exactly that, lapping at my pussy in long strokes.
I moan, trying to rock my hips, but he keeps me pinned in place, keeps me still while he feasts on me.
By the time he moves to suckle my clit, I’m already on the edge. “Can I come?” I gasp.
He looks up at me and the sight of his wild blue eyes and ruggedly handsome face between my thighs almost pushes me over. “You can come. But I’m not stopping when you do.”
Roman is always a man of his word. He makes me come twice more, his fingers plunging into me while he switches between long licks and maddening suction on my clit. I’m a writhing mess on the couch, crying his name over and over again. But still he doesn’t let up.
“I could do this all night,” he groans after my third orgasm. “You taste so fucking good. Better than hot chocolate. Better than anything.” His eyes glint at me with mischief. “Even better than candy.”
I realize what he’s hinting at a second later when I see the red and white striped object in his hand. “Roman!” I gasp.
“Keep your legs spread,” he demands, raising the dildo to my mouth. “Open baby.”
“I thought we said no dirty sex toys in front of the tree,” I say, breathless.
“Fuck that. Open your mouth.”
God, I love it when he gets bossy. I do as he says, core fluttering when he groans at the sight of my lips stretched around the toy. Once he’s satisfied that it’s wet enough, he brings it back to my center.
“I’ve wanted to see what this would look like inside you since the party.” He begins to slide it between my folds and he releases a low breath as the tip enters me. “So much better than I imagined.”
“Oh god.”
He chuckles, low and dangerous. “If I knew Christmas could be this fun, I would have gotten into the festive spirit a lot sooner.” Then he’s fucking me with the candy cane, watching in fascination as it slides in and out, his free hand coming up to strum my clit. “Fuck, Noelle, that’s so hot.”
My only response is a low moan. It’s hard to form words when he’s angling the toy to rub against my g-spot with every thrust. The sensation, combined with the way he’s rubbing my clit, turns me into a trembling, panting mess.
The look on his face is what really pushes me over the edge though—a combination of lust, awe, and possession.
“I’m gonna come,” I whine, shifting away from him, almost afraid of how big the sensation is, how overwhelming. “Roman, I can’t—”
“You can,” he growls, thrusting the toy harder, his eyes darting between my face and the mess he’s making between my thighs, like he can’t quite decide which he’d rather look at.
“It’s too much!”
“Noelle,” he growls. “Look at me.” Our eyes lock and I catch my breath—he looks practically feral, as overwhelmed as I am but hanging steady to his control. “Who decides when it’s too much?”
I moan as he continues to press the toy in and out. “You do,” I manage to gasp, and his answering grin is positively wicked.
“That’s right. So you’re going to take this toy like my good girl, aren’t you?” Suddenly, the toy starts vibrating—he must have pushed a button—ramping up the sensations shooting through my core to an almost unbearable degree
“Roman.”
He slides it deeper, groaning at the sight. “Aren’t you?” he says again, voice harder, more like the Dom I remember from all those nights behind the glass wall at Wyld.
“Yes, sir.”
By the time he lets me come, I’m a mess.
My hair is a sweaty tangle, my entire body flushed red as I gasp for breath.
I feel completely boneless, like I can’t even hold my head up.
A long moment passes before I realize that I’m no longer alone on the couch.
Roman has moved up to take my seat, cradling me in his strong arms. He runs a hand up and down my back, the pressure firm, grounding me.
“I’m right here,” he’s murmuring, kissing the top of my head over and over. “I know that was a lot, but you did so good. Shh, baby, I’ve got you.”
“Oh my god,” I manage to gasp out. “That was…I can’t even…”
He chuckles, continuing to run those calming strokes down my bare back. “So I take it that’s a yes vote on the Christmas dildo?”