Chapter 6 Tripp
Tripp
“Why do you hate Christmas?” Harley asks from across the kitchen island as she breaks apart a freshly baked sugar cookie and takes a bite.
The little moan of pleasure she makes causes the blood to rush south, not that my cock needs any help getting all the way hard again.
After that fucking kiss in the kitchen earlier, I’ve been stuck at half-mast. Not even the negative temperature outside was enough to calm the fucker all the way down.
I want Harley.
I want her in the worst fucking way.
And now that we’re stranded together in my cabin overnight, I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to resist her. Not when I know she wants this as badly as I do. It’s only the thought that we’ll both have to face my sister tomorrow that keeps me rooted in my barstool.
“Does it matter?”
“I want to know.” She holds out the other half of her cookie to me in offering. “Cookie for your thoughts?”
Because talking about my deadbeat dad has promise of chilling the mood, I accept the cookie.
“Hey!” she scolds as I take a bite.
“Story fuel,” I say.
“Oh.” She leans both elbows on the counter, catching her face in her palms. She pulled off her hoodie right after her phone call with Mandi, which means I have a nice view of that red bra from where her tank top dips. I can practically feel the lace in my palm.
“My dad left on Christmas Eve.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Mandi never said anything.”
“She was hardly a year old. She doesn’t remember him. But me? I was old enough that I can’t erase that unwanted memory. Much as I’d fucking like to.”
“Where is he now?”
I shrug, pretending that this subject isn’t as tender as it is. “I haven’t heard from him since my second ex-wife thought it’d be a wonderful surprise to invite him to our Christmas dinner.”
“She didn’t?”
“There’s a reason we’re divorced.”
“Speaking of divorces, do you have any Tripp Jr.’s running around out there?”
“No.”
“You want kids?” she asks, wiping a crumb from the corner of her mouth with her thumb. It makes me think entirely too much about sucking that thumb into my mouth and nibbling on it.
“I used to.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“I gave up on the dream after the second divorce. Guess it’s just not in the cards for me.”
“You’re not that old, you know. And even if you were, your sperm can make babies for a scary long time. You have way more time than I do.”
“Do you want kids?” I catch myself holding my breath, anticipating her answer entirely too much. What does it matter if she wants kids or not? I’m not the man to give them to her.
You’re the only man to give them to her.
“Yeah, I do.” She lifts her gaze to mine, licking a crumb from her bottom lip as she does. “Want to make a baby right now?”
“You want to explain that one to Mandi?”
The whole off-limits argument is growing weaker by the second. We’ve already crossed a line we can’t go back from. We’re both full-grown adults more than capable of making our own decisions. Our sleeping together isn’t going to destroy Harley and Mandi’s friendship. I’d never let that happen.
“Maybe we could just practice making a baby this time. See if we’re any good at it.”
“Oh, we’d be more than good at it.” I don’t make a conscious decision to abandon my stool, but before I know it, I’m on the other side of the island once more. Harley leans back against the counter, hands posted on the edges of the quartz, practically offering her tits up to me for the taking.
“Then let’s put that theory to a test,” Harley says, fisting my shirt in her hand to pull me closer. “Unless you’d rather spend the evening decking the halls and singing Christmas carols?”
“The only thing you’re going to be singing tonight is my name when I make you come, sweetheart.”
“Oh, I like the sound of that.” She drags her hand down the front of my shirt, gripping the hem to tug it off of me.
I rid her of that pesky tank top and toss it aside, pulling her body against mine as our lips meet in what I can only describe as a homecoming.
I go instantly hard as our mouths sync with the rhythm of our roaming hands.
Her fingers slide up neck and into my hair as I complete my mission to free her breasts from their red lace prison.
“Fuck, Harley.”
“You like them?” she playfully shimmies against me, rubbing her bare tits against my chest. The skin-on-skin contact is nearly enough to make me nut in my jeans.
I lift her by the ass and carry her to the couch. Before I let her sit, I tug off her leggings. “Of course you’d have matching panties.”
“You think I was going to get kissed under the mistletoe in mismatched underwear?”
“No one’s kissing you under the mistletoe,” I say, gripping her ass with both hands and yanking her against me. “Unless it’s me.”
“Your possessive side is pretty sexy,” she pants, running both hands along my arms as those hard nipples scrape my chest.
I slide down her body, taking her pebbled nipples into my mouth, one then the other, before heading south. I press kisses to her hot skin until I’m on my knees. I apply pressure to her panties with the tip of my tongue, and she lets out one of those sexy little gasps again.
“I bet you taste sweeter than those sugar cookies,” I say, slowly peeling away her panties and urging her to sit down.
“I don’t know. Those are pretty good cookies.”
She spreads her legs wide, granting me access to the most beautiful pussy I’ve ever seen. It’s even more gorgeous in the glow of Christmas lights from the tree—not that I’ll ever admit that out loud.
“There’s only one cookie I want tonight.” I press light kisses to her inner thighs, loving the way she’s watching me enjoy her. My cock throbs, pissed off that it’s not part of the party—yet. Soon. Soon I’ll claim her for my own.
After taking my time kissing my way up to her pussy, I finally flick my tongue against her wet folds.
“Fuck me, Tripp,” she groans.
“Oh, I’ll get to that part. But not until I devour your pussy first.” It’s the last thing I say before I fuse my mouth to her soaked center.
I savor her like she’s my last fucking meal, swirling my tongue around her swollen bud and drinking in her intoxicating juices.
I want to get drunk off this pussy and never sober up.
“Fuck, Tripp,” she pants, rocking her hips to my vigorous movements.
She digs her nails into my shoulders, crying out name as she comes apart. I suffocate myself with her pussy, refusing air so I can taste every last drop of her orgasm. I refuse oxygen until her body stops convulsing.
When I finally come up for air, she’s smiling like a sated fool.
“You have cum on your beard,” she says, threading fingers through my hair. “And tinsel.”
“I suppose it’s only fair you get cum on you too,” I say, standing and tugging her to her feet as she pulls the tinsel free.
“Where are we going?”
“To my bed, Goldilocks.”