Knotty Christmas Wish (Bakedverse #2)

Prologue Sleigh Me In The Garage

~REVERIE~

Being fucked against a motorcycle wasn’t on my Christmas list, but here I am…in the season of bliss.

Nash’s garage workshop smells like a mechanic’s fever dream crossed with a Christmas tree farm and the world’s most exclusive bakery-slash-cocktail bar.

It’s four parts engine oil and solvent, one part peppermint mocha, and one seriously obscene overdose of vanilla-laced anticipation, which is extremely on brand for me.

Snow is tumbling down outside the fogged windows, and up on the bench there’s a ceramic nutcracker army ready for war against an army of battery-operated reindeer, but none of that has anything to do with why I’m moaning right now.

Now why am I letting every wild creature and townsfolk hear me moan like my life depends on it?

Well, it's because Nash's hands are wrapped around my hips-hard enough to make new indentations, as he's fucking me so hard that I have to clutch at his precious motorcycle just to keep from hoisting myself straight into orbit like one of Santa’s more deranged reindeer.

If anyone asks, there was never a plan for this level of chaos on a Tuesday in December.

There’s a very dignified—absolutely cataclysmic—holiday content calendar sitting in my backpack next to a velvet Santa hat and three tubes of lip gloss. There was going to be cocoa, sparkling twinkle lights, and maybe Nash in a tacky sweater if I bribed him enough.

Instead, I’m bent double over a cherry-red Harley tank, gasping, “Oh my god” just as Nash snaps his hips forward again and my knees nearly go out for good.

It’s the way he moves.

Controlled, unstoppable.

Like everything in the world is just an obstacle he’s already figured out how to knock over, and I’m the only thing he handles with care.

Except right now he’s not handling anything gently.

This is full-throttle, no-holds-barred, and technically, I don’t even get to pretend to be scandalized because I started it. I did. I one hundred percent started it. It is also one hundred percent Nash’s fault, for existing in my general vicinity in the first place.

“Careful, princess.”

His voice does that thing. The one that sounds bored on the surface, but underneath has so much smug satisfaction, not even a little subtle, it could be selling tickets to the afterparty.

“You even think about knocking this bike over, and you’re paying the insurance claim.”

My cheeks flame. I’m not talking ‘oh, I’m blushing demurely.’

I’m talking my entire face and half my chest go up in full-body flush, the kind that can be seen by passing satellites.

Possibly because my slick is already dripping down the thick length of Nash’s cock, the pressure and friction and overstimulation toeing the line between “I can take this” and “I am absolutely about to evaporate.”

I try to remember how to speak.

Not easy when your lungs are somewhere around your ankles and your brain is three steps ahead, writing captions for the highlight reel.

“You sound very confident for someone risking historic property damage in the name of holiday plot,” I gasp, fingers splayed against cold metal, every shudder up my spine ricocheting through the garage like another bell ringing.

There’s no way I’m going to live this down—no fucking way—but the plot is queen, and if this is for “content”, I’m going for broke.

Nash’s laughter is mostly teeth.

“Don’t insult the Panhead, Reverie.” He punches the last word, and I swear I feel it everywhere.

“You know what I went through to get her? Two years hunting. Three cash offers rejected. Antique 1948 Harley-Davidson, cherry-factory paint, not a single aftermarket piston anywhere on this fucking engine. Do you know what a pristine Panhead even goes for at auction?”

I do not.

My entire universe is contracted to the way his cock drags inside me, the head stroking over that spot so perfectly it should be illegal, and the way my whole lower body tingles with pleasure and frost.

I’m pretty sure if you cut me open right now, I’d be half sugar, half liquid lust, and probably some metallic paint chips from the Harley.

I want to say something clever.

Or literally anything.

All I manage is, “Not enough to make fucking me on it less worth it.”

He groans.

The sound is simply delicious to hear.

“You’re something else, you know that?”

Then Nash leans in, covering my body with his, forearm braced beside me on the tank, and the cool of the Harley cuts through the inferno of my skin, making me arch and shake all over. I’m wrecked. Absolutely, gloriously wrecked.

Nash is making absolutely sure of it.

He thrusts again, and this time my vision whites out at the edges. If I let go for one second, I’ll just slide boneless to the floor and spend the rest of my life with grease in my hair and a permanent tremor in my thighs.

“You’re lucky—fuck—this is just for the damn plot of things,” I get out, because spite is stronger than shame, even when you’re seconds from losing your mind at the hands of a tattooed ex-motorcycle gang member with the self-control of a junkyard dog and the technical precision of NASA mission control.

Nash laughs-low, dark, full of promise-and then he does the next thing.

He slaps one of my thighs—rude—and hauls my left leg up onto the foot peg with zero warning, folding me higher, tighter against the bike, making my calves burn and my balance go completely out the window.

Instinct kicks in-hard-and I clutch even tighter to the bike.

I don’t even care about the paint job anymore; I am very suddenly all about not face-planting into the seat leather while Nash ruins me on a piece of motorcycle history.

He leans in, mouth so close to my ear I can smell the peppermint on his breath.

“Is this why you wake up at five to do Pilates, princess?” His hand fists in my hair, and I get a burst of Christmas lights behind my eyelids. “To be flexible for me?”

Like I said. Rude.

I mean, also, yes. God, yes.

My entire forearm is pressed to the bike frame, white-knuckle grip, the glossy red tank cool against fevered skin, and I can feel every rivet, every seam, like it’s imprinted on my body.

Nash is moving behind me, slow-and-rough at the same time, too thick, filling me so deep it feels like I’ve been spread open just for him.

I can’t catch my breath.

The air is syrup-thick, all engine heat, sweat, sugar, and the insane collision of our scents.

Vanilla, buttercream, and caramel from me versus snow-frosted bourbon, smoked cedar, and wild air from him, both of us tangled up in motor oil and the faintest trace of citrus from somewhere—maybe a cleaning wipe, body spray, or just a figment of my delirious imagination.

Either way, I am drowning in it.

Above us, the strung holiday lights throw pinwheels of color across everything. My skin glows tinsel-pink and green and electric blue, even more ridiculous when Nash leans in and his tattoos light up like Christmas came early for anyone with a tattoo fixation.

The overhead bulbs rattle, festive and unbothered by the potential insurance liability going on directly underneath them.

“Are you even listening to me, Princess?” Nash taunts, dipping his hips forward in another rough snap that tells me, in no uncertain terms, he is nowhere near finished with me yet. “This bike is worth more than your car. I rebuilt every single part by hand, and if you even dent it—“

“Oh, I am not the fragile object in this scenario,” I manage, voice wrecked, hair falling in my face like I’m auditioning for a horror movie for degenerates.

Nash’s hand pushes my hair back, tugs a tiny bit, then braces me even harder against the Harley, his fingers leaving little points of heat wherever he touches.

He’s big. Not just in the “oh, what an impressive Alpha specimen” way, but in the “bench presses the sun on weekends and then comes home to fix your toaster” way.

Behind me, Nash is a wall, all muscle, force, and raw determination, but even more than that, he’s locked in, inescapable, completely focused on breaking me down to atoms.

I shudder, slick soaking his cock, and this?

This is the dream, the one that doesn’t make it onto the Vlogmas content drafts. Me, braced on a piece of motorcycle history while Nash—who should be considered an attractively dangerous holiday hazard—hammers into me without mercy, eyes glinting in the colored lights.

The angle is everything.

Up on a tiptoe, one leg hiked so high it’s practically a yoga pose, every brutal thrust hits places I didn’t even know I could feel.

The edge of the tank digs into my skin, cold and perfect, and I swear I can see stars.

The chorus of carols blaring from the workbench radio is distant—punctuated by soft curses and the clang of wind outside—but that just makes the here-and-now sharper, more real.

Nothing but Nash’s voice in my ear and the pulse between my thighs.

He hoists my leg higher, heel balanced precariously on the peg, and the stretch burns. Not a bad burn. A choir-of-angels, this-was-why-Pilates-bootcamp-was-invented kind of burn.

Nash is smug as hell about it, too.

“You gonna break first, sugarplum, or am I?” Nash purrs, and the way his voice vibrates at my back nearly knocks my last shred of self-control off the table and onto the garage floor.

I want to get the last word in.

I always want the last word.

But the best I can do is a ragged whimper —humiliating— and a glare over my shoulder.

Those damn Christmas lights reflect in Nash’s eyes, and beneath the cocky exterior, I can feel it—how easily he could just let go, stop being careful, show me exactly what happens when you test all his limits.

Heat licks up my spine, and I arch, grinding back onto him, desperate and shameless and not even a little embarrassed about it. Nash rewards me with a palm smacked across my ass.

Oh, look, now I’m a matching set of bruises and pride.