Chapter 6 Cora
Chapter six
Cora
I wake up to the slow drag of Dawson’s beard across my shoulder and his cock already nudging between my thighs like it knows exactly where it belongs.
My whole body is sore in the most delicious way, every muscle humming with the memory of last night and how he stretched me open, how he looked at me like I was the only thing he’d ever wanted.
I’m still reeling from the fact that I’m here, in his bed, in his life, and he hasn’t let me go once.
He slides into me from behind without a word, just a low, satisfied groan against my neck when he bottoms out. I’m so full I can’t breathe for a second, then he starts moving with slow, lazy rolls of his hips that make me see stars even though the sun is up.
We stay in bed until hunger finally forces us downstairs.
I’m wearing nothing but one of his flannel shirts, sleeves rolled a dozen times, hem brushing my thighs.
He’s in low-slung sweatpants and nothing else, and the sight of his bare chest and the V of muscle disappearing under the waistband makes my mouth water.
He sets me on the kitchen table like I weigh nothing, spreads my legs wide, and drops to his knees. I’m already soaked, and he licks me like he’s starving, slow and thorough, until I’m gripping the edge of the table and whimpering his name.
Then he stands, shoves his pants down just enough, and lifts my legs over his shoulders. One smooth thrust and he’s buried to the hilt. My back arches off the table.
He locks eyes with me and doesn’t look away once.
“Fuck, Cora,” he growls, voice rough with sleep and want. “Look at you taking me. This perfect little pussy is strangling my cock like it never wants me to leave.”
I can’t answer; I can only moan and nod frantically.
“That’s right,” he says, rolling his hips slowly and deeply, hitting that spot that makes my vision blur. “You feel how deep I am? That’s where I belong. Never letting you leave this mountain, sunshine. You’re stuck with me now.”
The words hit harder than his thrusts. I come with a broken cry, clenching around him so tight his rhythm stutters. He slams in once, twice, and follows me over, pulsing hot inside me, forehead pressed to mine while we both shake.
Later, in the shower, steam curling around us like a secret, he pins my wrists above my head with one hand and uses the other to wreck me.
“Gonna fuck you every Christmas Eve for the rest of our lives,” he rasps against my ear, two thick fingers pumping inside me, thumb circling my clit. “Gonna keep this pussy full of me. You want that? Want to feel me dripping out of you while we open presents?”
I come so hard my knees buckle, screaming into his palm as he muffles the sound. He spins me, bends me forward, and slides home from behind in one slick thrust. The water makes everything louder.
He fucks me hard and steady, one hand still over my mouth, the other gripping my hip. When I come again, he slams deep and unloads, cock jerking, filling me so full I feel every spurt.
We finally drag ourselves out of each other long enough to decorate. I cut paper snowflakes with trembling hands while he strings white lights around the windows, across the beams, over the fireplace, until the whole cabin glows soft and gold.
I find the battered sprig of mistletoe that had been tied around the cookie tin and hold it up with a wicked grin.
He takes it from me without a word, climbs the stairs two at a time, and hangs it dead center over the bed.
“For easier access,” he says, voice gravel and promise, and tackles me into the sheets.
I laugh into his mouth as he spreads me open again, but inside my chest, something vast and terrifying and perfect is blooming. I’m not ready to name it yet, but every time he looks at me like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, I fall a little deeper.