Chapter 28
When we finally broke apart, I rested my head against Bastian’s chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. “I’ve missed you.”
His mouth curved in a slow, wicked smile. “I missed you too.
When we finally broke apart, I rested my head against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. “I’ve missed you.”
His mouth curved in a slow, wicked smile. “I’ve missed you too. But I’ve been keeping track of your transgressions.”
“Really? You were on the verge of disappearing forever, and that’s what you were doing with your last hours?” I said, looking up at him.
“I have to have standards.” His fingers traced the line of my jaw. “And your tinsel is still crooked.”
I reached up and ran my fingers over the curve of one of his horns. He shuddered, a full-body reaction that I now knew was a sign of pleasure, not pain.
“And what about my tinsel?” I asked. “Are you going to punish me for it?”
“Absolutely,” he promised and swept me up in his arms, carrying me up the stairs to our apartment and straight through into the bedroom.
He looked around at the room, at the vintage Santa Claus wrapping paper, at the reindeer covered comforter, and the fairy lights draped everywhere.
I braced myself for the critique but all he did was shake his head, his expression warm and loving.
“I can see we will have to address the proper ratio of lights to wall space.”
“I don’t believe there is such a thing.”
“There is,” he said. He set me down on the bed, then kneeled in front of me. “It is a lot. But it is also you.”
He paused, studying my face. “You seem to have acquired a smudge on your cheek,” he noted. I lifted a hand to wipe it away, but he caught my wrist. “Allow me.”
He leaned in and very gently licked the mark away. The touch was shockingly intimate. It sent a shiver through my entire body.
“It appears,” he murmured against my skin, “that you have another transgression to account for.”
“Is that so?” I breathed.
“Oh, yes,” he confirmed, before kissing me. It was a slow, deep, and tender kiss that was an affirmation of everything we had been through. When he pulled away, I was breathless.
“You taste of Christmas,” he said, his voice low and intimate. “And joy.”
He kissed me again, and this time, there was nothing gentle about it.
It was a kiss of possession and hunger and a desperate need that I felt mirrored in my own soul.
When he pulled back, the raw, undisguised hunger in his eyes made my knees feel like they were made of tinsel.
“It appears we need to address an immediate structural vulnerability.”
He reached out, his hand not going for my waist or my hip, but for the collar of my reindeer sweater. His claws, so deadly and precise, hooked into the soft cashmere at my neckline.
“Vulnerability?” I breathed, my hands coming up to rest on the solid wall of his chest.
“Mm,” he rumbled, leaning in, his lips brushing against my ear. “The single point of failure in an otherwise… flawless ensemble.”
He didn’t rip it. He didn’t tear it. He slowly, deliberately, drew one long, sharp claw down the front of the sweater.
The fabric parted, not with a violent tear, but with a soft, sighing sound, as if it were giving up willingly.
The cool air hit my skin, raising goosebumps across my chest. He continued the path down, down, past my navel, until the sweater hung open, a soft frame for the lace of my bra.
The skin of my stomach was tight with anticipation, every nerve ending firing, waiting for that cool, dangerous touch.
He made a low, satisfied sound in the back of his throat. “Much better,” he murmured. “Improved access.”
“You keep destroying my sweaters,” I gasped as he lowered his head, his lips tracing the line he had just created, a hot, rough path against my cool skin.
“Are you objecting?” he growled as he circled my nipple with that extraordinarily talented tongue.
“Fortunately, there are a lot more festive sweaters in the world.” My words ended in a moan as he bit down lightly on the taut peak.
“That sounds like a challenge, little light. Perhaps it’s time to introduce you to my switch?”
“You’re what?” I squeaked as he rolled me over onto my hands and knees and flipped up my skirt.
“Do you not know that a Krampus always carries a switch?” he asked as he ran a single, long claw down the cleft of my bottom. The touch was so light it was almost not there, but every muscle in my body clenched in response.
“For naughty little girls,” he whispered against my ear.
“I’m sure I’ve never heard of it,” I lied, trying for nonchalance and failing miserably. I was already wet and wanting.
“Another lack of essential knowledge,” he growled, his claws now tracing the sensitive skin at the top of my thighs. “Undoubtedly time for a penalty. One I shall very much enjoy.” He tugged gently on my hair until I was looking at him over my shoulder. “As will you.”
I expected a sharp crack of pain. Instead he trailed the smooth bundle of twigs lightly over my skin, a whisper of a touch that made my whole body ache.
It was a question, not a command. I lowered my head to my forearms, arching my back and pushing myself against him. It was all the invitation he needed.
The switch landed. It wasn’t a punishment.
It was a slow, deliberate, stinging slap of sensation, a bright point of pleasure-pain that sent a jolt straight to my clit.
He did it again, a little lower, on the other cheek, the light slap echoing in the quiet room.
I bit my lip to keep from crying out. He brought the switch down again, a slow, steady, rhythm of stinging caresses that made me feel both cherished and claimed.
I could feel the heat blooming across my skin, a warmth that had nothing to do with embarrassment. He stopped, running a cool claw over the heated skin. The sharp, shocking pleasure made me cry out.
“You like that,” he observed, a smug satisfaction in his tone.
“Is that a complaint?”
“Not in the least.” The switch landed again, this time with a bit more force.
I bucked against him, my body moving instinctively.
He was silent behind me, only the soft thwack of the switch and my ragged breathing breaking the silence.
He was watching me, I could feel the intensity of his gaze as I writhed under the steady, rhythmic strikes.
He stopped, tossing the switch aside. I whimpered in protest. He leaned over me, his body blanketing mine. “Don’t worry,” he rumbled in my ear. “That was only the appetizer.”
He slid a single, long finger between my folds. “And you are already so wet for me.” The dark satisfaction in his voice made me shudder. “And so greedy,” he noted as my hips bucked, trying to get more of his fingers inside me.
“Please,” I whimpered, my hands twisting in the sheets. “Bastian, please.”
“Patience, little light,” he teased, slowly circling my clit. I could feel the ghost of a smile against my ear. “We have all night.”
He tormented me with a slow, steady rhythm. His fingers were inside me now, curling to find that spot that made my vision go white. His thumb rubbed against my clit, a slow, steady counterpoint. I was so close, balanced on the knife’s edge of release.
“Not yet,” he commanded, and I sobbed in protest. He slid a third finger inside me, stretching me, filling me. He moved in a slow, deep rhythm that was both torture and bliss. “You will come when I allow it.”
“Bastian,” I begged, my hips bucking wildly, trying to get more friction, more pressure, more of him.
“So demanding,” he chided, but I could hear the heat in his voice. He was enjoying this as much as I was. Enjoying my desperation, my surrender. “What do you want?”
“You. I want you inside me. Now.”
He pulled his fingers away, and the loss was a cry on my lips.
Then he was behind me again, the heavy, hot length of him pressing against my entrance.
He pushed inside in a single, slow, relentless thrust that stole the breath from my lungs.
I was so wet, so ready for him that there was only the exquisite, stretching pleasure of being completely, utterly filled.
He paused, letting me adjust to the impossible size of him. “Is this what you wanted?” he asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
“Yes,” I gasped. “More.”
He began to move, hard, demanding strokes that drove me higher and higher.
His hands clenched on my hips, sending a rush of warmth to the heated skin.
He was pistoning into me now, a relentless, driving rhythm that was both claiming and cherishing.
I was hovering on the very edge of climax, my whole body strung tight.
“Now, little light,” he purred, as his long, agile fingers found my clit, circling it with a precision that sent me flying. I came with a cry that was half-his name, half-scream, my body convulsing around him, pulling him deeper, and he roared as he followed me over.
We collapsed on the bed, a tangled, sweaty mess.
I was limp and boneless, my mind a blissful, empty haze.
He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me against his chest. I could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against my back.
For a long while, we just lay there, the only sounds our ragged breathing and the soft tinkle of Jingle’s bell as he jumped onto the bed and curled up at the foot.
“So,” I murmured into the quiet dark. “Have I been sufficiently punished?”
He let out a low chuckle, a warm, deep sound that vibrated through me. “The tinsel is still crooked,” he said, but there was no criticism in his voice, only a deep, fond amusement. “More penalties may be due.”
In that case, I would be certain to make sure my tinsel was always crooked. I snuggled deeper into his embrace. “You’re staying. You’re really staying.” I still couldn’t quite believe it.
“I am not going anywhere,” he confirmed, his arm tightening around me. “This is my home now. Where you are.”