Chapter 5 Dawson
Chapter five
Dawson
I carry her up the stairs like she’s made of spun glass and sin, her legs wrapped around my waist, her mouth fused to mine.
Every step jolts her against my cock, and I have to lock my jaw to keep from pinning her to the wall and taking her right there on the landing.
Cora McClaine is in my arms, warm and sweet and shaking with want, and I’m terrified I’m going to ruin it by moving too fast.
I lay her down on the quilt like she’s the only soft thing I’ve ever been allowed to touch.
The fire downstairs throws just enough light up the open loft that I can see every freckle across her nose, the flush riding high on her cheeks, the way her nipples are still hard under my sweatshirt.
She looks like a Christmas present I don’t deserve, but I’m damn sure going to unwrap.
I brace myself over her, forearms on either side of her head, and look at her for a second. Because Jesus Christ, she’s here. In my bed. In my clothes. Smelling like sugar and sex and me.
“Dawson,” she whispers, fingers sliding into my beard, pulling me down.
I go willingly. Kiss her slow and deep and filthy, licking into her mouth until she’s moaning and arching up, trying to get closer.
I slide one hand under the sweatshirt, palm skating up her ribs that feel too delicate under my rough skin, cupping her breast again because I’m already addicted to the way she gasps when I thumb her nipple.
She breaks the kiss on a shaky breath. “Wait.”
I freeze instantly. Pull back far enough to see her face. “Okay. We stop. Whatever you need, sunshine.”
She shakes her head, eyes massive and luminous in the low light. “No, I don’t want to stop. I need to tell you something first.”
I wait. My heart is hammering so hard I’m surprised she can’t hear it.
“I’m a virgin.”
The words hit me right in the chest. Twenty-eight years old, sunshine-sweet, curves for days, mouth made for filthy things, and no one has ever had her.
I close my eyes for a second and try to breathe through the possessive fire that roars through me. Mine. The word is primal, caveman-stupid, but it’s there, branded across every cell in my body.
She’s watching me, worried now. “I’m sorry, I should have—”
“Hey.” I cup her face, thumb stroking her cheek. “Don’t you dare apologize. Not for that. Not ever.”
“I’m honored, Cora. Fucking honored.” I kiss her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose. “We don’t have to do anything else tonight. Or tomorrow. Or next week. I’ll wait as long as you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
Her eyes go glassy. “You’re not understanding. I don’t want to wait. I’ve waited my whole life, and it never felt right until right now, until you. I know it’s fast and insane, but I know. I want you to be my first, Dawson. My only.”
The word only detonates inside my skull.
I drop my forehead to hers. “Cora…”
“Please.”
One word, soft and sure, and I’m lost.
I kiss her like a starving man (because I am).
Tongue stroking deep, teeth nipping her lower lip, swallowing every sound she makes.
My hand slides down her body, pushing the sweatshirt higher, my mouth following with open-mouthed kisses over her collarbone, down the slope of her breast, sucking her nipple hard enough that she cries out and fists my hair.
I move lower, dragging my beard over her stomach because I’ve already learned she loves the burn. When I settle between her thighs, she’s trembling.
“Gonna taste you again,” I growl against her skin. “Gonna make you come on my tongue until you’re so wet and ready you’re begging for my cock.”
She whimpers. “Yes.”
I spread her open with my thumbs and look for a second. Pink and slick and perfect. I lick her slowly, groaning at the taste of her. She’s sweeter than the fucking cookies downstairs. I could live between her legs and die happy.
I take my time. Long, flat strokes. Little flicks over her clit that make her hips jerk. When I slide two fingers back inside her, she clenches so hard around them I have to grit my teeth to keep from coming in my jeans like a teenager.
“That's it, baby,” I rasp against her. “Open up for me. Let me feel how much you want this.”
She’s soaking my hand, thighs shaking, breath ragged. I curl my fingers, find that spot that makes her sob my name, and suck her clit into my mouth at the same time.
She comes hard, back bowing, fingers yanking my hair so hard my eyes water, screaming into the pillow she dragged over her face at the last second. I keep going, more gently but not stopping, drawing it out until she’s gasping, oversensitive, trying to push my head away.
I give her one last slow lick, crawl back up her body, and kiss her so she can taste how fucking delicious she is.
“One,” I whisper against her lips.
She laughs, shaky and dazed. “One?”
I slide down again before she can catch her breath.
This time I’m merciless. Three fingers stretching her, tongue relentless, beard scraping the inside of her thighs raw. She’s sobbing into the pillow by the time the second orgasm hits, whole body locking up, pussy fluttering around my fingers so hard I can feel every pulse.
I kiss my way back up, licking her release from my lips, and settle over her. My cock is aching, leaking, desperate, but I need to hear her say it one more time.
“Still sure?” I ask, voice wrecked.
She reaches between us, wraps her small hand around me through my jeans, and squeezes. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
I strip fast—flannel gone, jeans shoved down, everything. When I settle back between her thighs, we both groan at the skin-on-skin contact. She’s burning hot, slick, and I have to count backwards from a hundred to keep from embarrassing myself.
I notch the head of my cock at her entrance and pause.
“Look at me,” I say.
Her eyes flutter open, huge and trusting and a little scared. I hate that part. I kiss her soft and slow.
“I’ve got you, sunshine. Going to try my best not to hurt you. Just breathe.”
I push in slowly, watching her face every second. She’s so fucking tight, and hot and perfect, and when I feel the resistance, I stop, let her adjust, kiss her until she’s rocking up against me, impatient.
“More,” she whispers.
I slide home in one long, slow thrust, and we both moan like we’ve been waiting for this moment forever. She’s strangling my cock in the best way possible, every inch of her gripping me like she was custom-made for me. I drop my head to her shoulder and try to remember how to breathe.
“Fuck, Cora,” I grit out. “You feel like you were made for me. So fucking perfect.”
She wraps her legs around my waist, heels digging into my ass. “Move. Please move.”
I do. Slowly at first, letting her body learn mine, watching her face for any sign of pain. There’s only wonder and want and something that looks a hell of a lot like love. I hook one of her knees over my elbow, open her wider, and sink deeper on the next stroke.
Her nails rake down my back. “Yes, God, just like that—”
I set a rhythm, long, deep strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside her. The headboard thumps against the log wall in a steady beat that matches our breathing. She’s meeting me thrust for thrust now, hips rolling up, taking me like she was born for it.
“Touch yourself,” I growl against her neck. “Want to feel you come around my cock.”
She slides a hand between us, fingers circling her clit, and the second she finds the right spot, her pussy clamps down so hard my vision whites out.
“Dawson, I’m—”
“Come for me, baby. Let me feel it. Want to feel you milk every fucking drop out of me.”
She shatters, back arching, mouth open on a silent scream that turns into my name as her body convulses around me. It’s too much. The sight of her, the feel of her, the knowledge that I’m the only man who’s ever been inside her, it snaps the last thread of my control.
I slam deep one last time and come harder than I ever have in my life, pulsing inside her, kissing her through it like I can pour everything I’m feeling into her mouth. Mine. Mine. Mine.
We stay locked together, breathing hard, hearts hammering against each other. I’m still half-hard inside her, and I never want to leave.
Eventually, I pull out slowly, wincing at her small whimper, and roll us so she’s draped across my chest. I yank the quilt up over us both, wrap her tight in my arms, and bury my face in her hair.
She’s limp, boneless, perfect.
I stroke her back in long, soothing passes.
“You okay?” I ask, voice rough.
She makes this soft, contented sound and nuzzles my throat. “I’m so much better than okay, I don’t have words for it.”
I huff a laugh that shakes us both. “Good. Because I’m never want to hear you say you’re frigid again. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever felt in my life.”
She smiles against my skin. “Told you.”
I kiss the top of her head, tighten my arms until there’s no space between us. “Mine,” I whisper into her hair, the word slipping out before I can stop it.
She hears it. Presses closer. “Yours,” she whispers back, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Outside, the storm keeps raging, wind howling, snow piling higher.
Inside, I hold the only warmth I’ve ever needed and finally understand what peace feels like.
She’s asleep in minutes, breath soft against my chest.
I stay awake a long time, listening to the fire die downstairs and the wind scream around the eaves, memorizing the weight of her in my arms.
Six years of silence, and in one night, she filled every empty place I had.
I was done with the world.
Turns out the world just hadn’t sent me Cora McClaine yet.
I press my lips to her temple and close my eyes.
Merry fucking Christmas to me.