Chapter 16 #3
The tree glowed in front of the windows.
Hundreds of tiny white lights reflected in the glass with the black Pacific beyond them.
Garland covered the mantel. Decorations sat on damn near every available surface.
Stockings were hanging from hooks that hadn’t existed when I left for work that morning.
Two of them.
One with a C.
One with a T.
Something tightened in my chest.
“It looks good,” I admitted.
Cash bumped his shoulder against my arm.
“I know.”
I looked down at him. He looked up at me. And there it was again.
Awareness.
The awareness that had been there all night, hiding beneath jokes and whiskey and Christmas music.
Which I still couldn’t believe I’d listened to.
Beneath it all—every deliberate stretch of naked thigh, every lift of the sweater hem, every flirty Doc and the few Daddy tossed my way because he’d discovered exactly what the word did to me over the last few months and had apparently weaponized it—sat the awareness of the sexual tension between us.
Except he wasn’t laughing now.
Neither was I.
His gaze dropped to my mouth.
Mine did the same, and his tongue slid across the lips I’d been dreaming of since Halloween.
One step. Less, given how hard my cock was.
That was all it would take to have him close enough to touch. And fuck me, I wanted to touch.
My hand flexed at my side.
Cash’s lips parted.
I stepped back.
“It’s late.”
For half a second, something flashed across his face. Then the brat came back at me. “Getting tired, old man?” he asked with a wink.
“I’m thirty-nine.”
“Wow. That’s kinda ancient.”
“And you’re drunk, you fucking toddler.”
“I’m twenty-three and a bratty middle. No diapers needed. But a spanking? I’m always down to get my ass paddled.”
“Now I know you’re fucking drunk.”
“I’m pleasantly festive.” His gaze traveled slowly down my body before returning to my face. “You’re sexy drunk.”
I stared at him. God, I wanted him. Clearing my throat, I played off the hunger heating my gaze and groin by saying, “You’re going to be unpleasantly hungover.”
He snorted, his finger trailing over the muscles in my forearm. “Worth it.”
The way his mouth moved, the way the words sounded…all of it combined into yet another turn-on. How the fuck could those two words be such an aphrodisiac? Bending, I collected our empty glasses before I did something considerably stupider than getting drunk with my patient.
“Bedtime,” I said, turning toward the kitchen.
“Yes, Daddy.”
I stumbled, the glasses nearly slipping out of my hand. Cash laughed. Fucking cackled.
“Keep pushing me, Benjamin.”
He went still.
So did I.
Jesus Christ. The words hung between us, carrying about twelve meanings I absolutely hadn’t intended.
Or maybe I had. God knew his admission to loving a spanking had short-circuited my system.
Cash’s eyes darkened, and he smirked, “Good night, Doc.”
He turned before I could answer and headed down the hall, the steady rhythm of his crutches growing quieter until his bedroom door closed. I stood in the middle of the Christmas explosion he’d created and stared after him.
“Fuck.”
I cleaned up. Or tried to. Mostly, I moved shit from one place to another while replaying the last five minutes in my head.
His eyes on my mouth.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Keep pushing me.”
Brilliant fucking choice of words, Vale.
By the time I turned off everything except the tree, the whiskey had left me warm and loose everywhere except the one place I desperately needed.
I headed for my bedroom. Or the bedroom I used now that I wasn’t sleeping in the lounger in Cash’s room. No way in hell could I sleep upstairs with the kid down here.
A shower didn’t help.
Neither did brushing my teeth.
Neither did getting into bed, turning off the lights, and spending fifteen minutes staring at the ceiling while my brain helpfully supplied an endless highlight reel of Cash Benjamin in tiny green briefs and my Fighting Irish sweater.
Those fucking underwear were so damn tiny.
And the alcohol had stolen what modesty the boy had. Not that he had much.
I rolled onto my side. The bed next to me deserted.
Flipped onto my back to stare up at the ceiling
Worse.
I punched the pillow into submission.
Absolutely fucking useless.
There was no sleeping like this.
There was one extremely obvious solution, but I hated the thought of it. I wanted the man, not the image in my mind. My cock throbbed again.
Swearing under my breath, I opened the nightstand drawer.
The cool, thick liquid drizzled over the head of my cock, drawing a hissed groan from me. My head pushed back into the pillows, arching my neck. Wrapping my hand around the shaft, my fist flew over my hardened flesh.
In seconds, Cash’s name danced over my lips.
A litany…a plea for him as need and want and lust gave way.
I lost myself to the visuals my mind conjured of the man.
Over me while he rode my cock. Under me while I plowed his ass.
His beautiful, sassy mouth wrapped around me, sucking me dry while I returned the favor.
Too soon, the orgasm I wanted to share with him crashed into me, knocking me over the edge.
“Cash!”
“Holy shit.”
My eyes flew toward the door…toward the door. Brown eyes met blue.
“Shit.”