Prologue Sleigh Me In The Garage #4
He pinches my nipple again, rolling it between expert fingers, and the combined sensation—him inside, wrapped around, under my skin—makes the room tilt.
“I want to see you cum, Sugarplum. I want to see your pussy milk every inch of me while Christmas carols play and snow paints the world white outside.”
I break.
Not neatly.
Not quietly.
The orgasm is a detonation—legs seizing, one foot skating off the peg, the other desperate to hold onto anything as my entire body clamps down on Nash’s cock.
Heat floods up, over, through me, and the only sound I make is a high, barking cry that would absolutely haunt the neighbor’s nightmares if they were ever invited to observe.
Nash grunts, bows over me, and for a second, I’m weightless—adrift in the high, the aftershock, the feeling of his hands cradling me, keeping my body upright while fireworks of sensation blind me to everything but the flood of release.
Colored lights spark above, bathing the world in neon.
Our breath clouds in the cold air, soft puffs that spiral and join, fogging up and ghosting over chrome and skin and every inch of me he’s marked.
“Fuck, Rev,” Nash snarls, the sound so rough and deep it vibrates straight into my spine—and then he’s coming, the full-body shudder of it rattling through his chest and arms, his whole Alpha presence bearing down, pinning me on the bike like I’m the only thing holding him to this fucked-up earth.
The sudden heat floods me, thick and molten, and I react on pure instinct, squeezing down so hard his cock jumps inside me, already sensitive, already straining with that telltale pulse that means he’s about to knot.
He’s losing it, every muscle in his body gone wire-tight and shaking, and I can feel—not just feel but literally hear—the wet, obscene squish of his cock rutting me open, the slick mess of our fucking painting down my thighs and all over the cold chrome, dripping onto the oily garage floor.
I think I might actually bite through my bottom lip, because the knot is swelling, swelling, desperate to lock us together, and the sensation is so raw, so overwhelming, it fuses every synapse in my brain into a single, blissful scream.
But we’re not supposed to tie, so I do what any clever Omega would do: I shoot a trembling hand back and grip the base of his cock, right where the knot’s bulging, and squeeze.
Hard. But not just hard—perfect, calculated, milking it, massaging the way that makes most Alphas black out for a second time from sheer relief and overload.
Nash’s voice is just a noise now, feral and broken, and he’s babbling something about, “Holy fuck, you’re a goddamn menace,” and, “That’s it, take it, take it,” and a string of words so filthy and affectionate it might just be another love language entirely.
He’s slamming into me in short, desperate thrusts, the rhythm stuttery and intense, but his body is fighting itself—half wanting to pin me forever, half needing to collapse and never move again.
The combination does something wild to my head.
I’m still riding the aftershocks, every nerve in my pelvis buzzing, but now I’m also giddy, alive with the wicked pride of knowing I just gave a six-foot-three ex-biker Alpha the best orgasm of his life while he was literally inside a garage, in a position that would get us banned from every respectable holiday event in the state.
It’s not enough for Nash, though.
Even in the throes of his own pleasure, he’s greedy for mine, and he lets go of my leg—just drops my thigh so the foot slams back down onto the cold metal—then wraps both arms around me in a bearhug.
With a grunt, he yanks me backwards, hauling me against his chest so tight my back arches and my hair flies everywhere.
I make a little noise, startled, but he just holds me, arms banded around my upper body, my tits squashed against his tattooed forearms, my whole body forced into a perfect arch of submission.
All my bravado is gone.
It’s just me, and Nash, and the wild, helpless pulse of my cunt still fluttering around his softening cock.
My cheek is mashed against his jaw, and I can feel the stubble, the sweat, the hot-fog of his breath in my ear as he muffles a laugh, boneless and happy and completely, utterly destroyed.
The burn of humiliation and the dizzy rush of pride tangle up inside me, but the only thing I can do is go limp and let him hold me, still half-impaled, fused together by heat and slick and the kind of shared ruin I’ll never admit I wanted this badly.
He’s still trembling.
I can feel it in the small shakes of his arms, the way his chest hitches with every breath. For a long, fragile moment, neither of us says a word.
The only sound is the slow, steady drip of our combined mess onto the floor, and the soft, electric crackle of holiday lights reflecting off every metal surface.
He pulls me closer, if that’s even possible, and his lips find the pulse behind my ear, not biting now, just pressing there, tender and grateful.
I melt. Completely.
There’s a song on the radio, faint and tinny through ruined speakers—“Jingle Bell Rock,” which is probably illegal in seventeen states under circumstances like this—but all I can hear is Nash breathing, steady and low in my ear.
He holds me wrapped up, marks and all, and when he tilts my chin, the look in his eyes is wild but so soft I don’t know how I ever thought he was just a bad boy caricature.
Still, Nash can’t let a moment pass without causing more chaos.
“So what do you say, Princess? Want to go another round?” He licks up the shell of my ear, biting just enough to make me shudder. “Or should I unwrap my present somewhere a little softer?”
My brain refuses to compute.
Maybe because every nerve ending is still zinging with aftershocks: the cold of the garage, the burn in my cunt, the sticky gloss of sweat and slick and everything Nash has done to me—all tangled with the scent of frosted pine, bourbon cocoa, vanilla, and spun sugar.
The bike is a holy relic, the two of us a mess of want and satisfaction and Christmas lights painted over our skins.
My lips barely work.
“You… are… an offense to Christmas decor everywhere.”
He grins, pure demon.
“Yeah? You gonna punish me?”
The thought of doing anything but falling apart is laughable. I sag back, eyes fluttering, the world dissolving into flashes of twinkling green and red, into jelly-limbed relaxation, bliss, and the way Nash pets his hands along my body.
Possessive. Proud.
He drags his knuckles along my jaw, bends me back, and plants a slow, syrupy kiss on my cheek.
“No one else gets this view,” he murmurs. “No one else ever gets to see you cum for them like this.”
“Did you forget you have a pack, Sir?” I taunt him with a gleaming grin, trying not to acknowledge my own exhaustion.
“Hmm,” he only needs a nanosecond to think about it. “I guess they can have a glimpse, but if we’re going to get this naughty, I need to be present.”
“Greedy.”
I’m grinning like a fool in love.
He holds me there while the holiday lights dance above, while our breath ghosts together, and the carols warble out of the beat-up radio.
Outside, the snowstorm is mythic, thick and silent.
But inside Nash’s garage, the world is built for two.
He nuzzles me, ink and stubble rough at my neck, but his hold never wavers.
“You good, princess?”
My laugh is so spent it barely counts as a sound.
“I’m gonna have to ice my thighs, but, yeah. Best damn Tuesday ever.”
He chuckles in return, and deep down, I’m relieved that he’s so relaxed.
“That’s my girl,” he praises, the words making my heart swell further. “You want cocoa or a second course?”
I should say cocoa. I know I should. But Nash’s hand strokes my breast, his thumb brushing the pebbled peaks, and I can’t help the way my body lights up, not after the plot-level wreckage he just delivered.
“If I say second course, you gonna make my world spin?”
He kisses my pulse.
“If you say jingle bells, I’ll make you see red and green flashes until New Year’s.”
I dissolve into laughter, full, loose, unrecoverable.
Outside, the snow piles up.
Inside, Nash sets the bike back into a stable position, swings me into his arms, and walks us deeper into the glowing fortress of color and chaos that is his garage.
Christmas music, sugar, and sex in the air with Nash Rivera Callahan’s voice in my ear.
Fair to say, the holiday season just got a lot more interesting.