Chapter 12
Pippa
Callen didn't just kiss—he took complete control.
One moment we were tangled near the festival's massive evergreen, his tongue claiming mine with brutal precision, and the next he was pushing me backward into a soft drift of fresh snow.
His body followed, solid and demanding, pinning me beneath him.
The cold shock of snow against my back made me gasp, but his mouth was already back on mine, hotter than I'd imagined possible. Steam rose between us where our breath met the icy air.
Discipline? Control? Screw that.
His hands—those steady, scholarly fingers that usually traced old wards and ritual circles—shook where they gripped my thighs through my skirt, bunching the fabric higher.
His mouth tore away from mine only to blaze a trail along my jaw, down the frantic pulse in my throat, with an intensity that took my breath away.
A tiny, frantic voice in my head tried to sound an alarm. This is heat. That's it. Just a Solstice thing. Festival fling. The words felt brittle as ice crystals. No strings, no stakes.
Another lie.
My pixie magic wasn't buying it. I could feel it humming under my skin, restless and bright, sending little gold sparks flickering along the edges of my vision.
He found the hollow where my collarbone met my shoulder and bit down—not hard enough to mark, but hard enough to make my hips jerk off the snow.
His thumb skimmed the inside of my thigh, dangerously close to where I was already aching and damp, and that frantic voice grew shriller. Just fun. Keep it light. Don't let him—
His other hand slid under my skirt.
Not tentative. Not shy. Callen mapped the curve of my hip, the crease where thigh met body, his touch both deliberate and trembling with an intensity that stripped my defenses bare.
He found the waistband of my tights. A rough sound escaped his throat—part growl, part approval—as his fingers slid beneath the elastic, scraping over my hipbone, seeking heat.
Then his hand closed, firm and unyielding, over my mound.
I choked on a gasp, my eyes snapping wide to find his gaze, storm-gray and utterly focused, locked on mine. His fingers flexed possessively. "You talk too much," he muttered, his voice like gravel, and then his thumb swept down, pressing hard against the damp seam of my underwear.
Pleasure sparked, white-hot behind my eyelids. Oh.
My magic flared sharply, a warm, buzzing pressure beneath my ribs. His thumb pressed again, a slow, deliberate circle over the thin fabric. Oh, yes.
He didn't bother with niceties. With one smooth, decisive tug, he dragged my underwear down to mid-thigh. The sudden rush of freezing night air against my wet, exposed flesh made me cry out—sharp and undignified.
Shock. Arousal. Sweet Winter's teeth. The cold wasn't the worst part—it was how exposed I felt, how utterly open.
Not just physically. This was exactly what I'd sworn I wouldn't do.
Let someone see me like this. Want me like this.
Make me want them back so desperately that I forgot every rule I'd made to protect myself.
Before I could twist away or even process the cold, his fingers were back.
Not cold. Startlingly warm. He traced the outer lips first, a slow, assessing glide that sent shivers racing up my spine that had nothing to do with the snow.
Then one blunt fingertip dipped into my entrance, stroking the slickness gathering there.
He made a low, proprietary sound deep in his throat, his eyes never leaving mine.
Cataloging. Studying my reaction like I was a puzzle he was determined to solve.
He pushed that finger inside, deep and sudden, curling it forward.
I moaned, loud and desperate into the quiet night, and slammed my own hand over my mouth.
He paused. One dark eyebrow arched, pure arrogant challenge. Shocked you, did I, pixie?
My attempt at silence only amused him. He withdrew his finger almost completely, then plunged back in, adding a second alongside it.
Stretching, filling. My hips arched helplessly off the snowdrift, seeking friction, that delicious fullness.
His thumb found my clit, rubbing firm, tight circles around the swollen bud, relentless and maddeningly precise.
It felt intense. Overwhelming. His gaze held mine prisoner, watching every flutter of my lashes, every gasp trapped behind my teeth. He knew exactly what he was doing, the arrogant bastard, and the certainty in his touch, the control even as his own breathing grew ragged, was devastating.
My magic crackled under my skin, golden heat meeting the rhythm of his thrusting fingers. More. Please. I couldn't say it. I just ground up against his hand, shameless need taking over.
Without warning, he pulled his fingers free.
The sudden emptiness made me whimper. He ignored it.
He just shifted his weight, his powerful body sliding down mine in the snow, leaving a trail of heat everywhere he touched.
He hooked his hands under my thighs, pushing them wider as he settled between my spread legs.
In the dim, multi-colored glow from the enchanted evergreens, I saw his breath ghost over my pale inner thigh—hot against cold skin. Then, without preamble, he leaned in and licked a long, slow stripe straight up the center of my sex.
It wasn't tentative. It wasn't exploration.
It was a declaration. A slow, deliberate drag of his hot, wet tongue from my entrance all the way to my clit.
I choked on air, my head falling back against the snow, my hands flying to tangle in his dark hair, tugging hard.
He groaned against me—a low, deep vibration that resonated through my core and pushed me instantly, shockingly close to the edge.
He did it again. And again. Slow, savoring laps that tasted me thoroughly, his nose nudging my clit.
"Callen!" His name escaped me, half plea, half gasp.
He answered by closing his lips around my clit and sucking, hard.
The sensation was electric, blinding. I cried out, arching violently, my heels digging into his back.
He didn't slow down. His tongue lashed against the tight little bud fiercely, relentlessly, while his fingers plunged back inside me, curling against that sweet, hidden spot.
He moved with absolute confidence, as if he'd been waiting for this moment. He licked, sucked, plunged—no hesitation, no quarter. His intensity was overwhelming.
My climax hit with shocking force—sudden, violent, and complete. Pleasure tore through me, sharp and golden. Magic exploded outwards in visible pulses, shimmering gold sparks erupting from my skin onto the snow around us.
"Oh!" The cry ripped from my throat, raw and uncontrolled.
My thighs clamped around his head, trembling violently as wave after wave slammed into me.
My fingers clawed at his scalp, holding him exactly where I needed him as I rode that impossible wave, sensations crashing over me until they blurred into pure, white-hot intensity.
His mouth stayed on me, relentless, drawing out every last tremor, every shivering aftershock until I was gasping, keening, physically shaking against the cold snow.
He finally lifted his head. His lips glistened in the dim light, his jaw slack as he dragged in a ragged breath. He looked utterly wrecked and impossibly beautiful. I stared at him, trembling, raw, magic still fizzing through my veins.
Then, panic—or maybe just the sheer, terrifying vulnerability of what had just happened—slammed into me.
I felt exposed, seen all the way down to the messy, wanting core of me. And that meant I had to run. Now. Before he could see any deeper, before I could want him to.
I scrambled upright, almost falling sideways in the snow in my haste.
My fingers fumbled frantically with my panties and tights, yanking them back into place over my sticky, damp skin.
My skirt was rucked up awkwardly, snow clinging to the wool.
Each frantic tug was a desperate attempt to rebuild the walls he'd just torn down.
"That was—" I blurted, my voice too loud, too high-pitched in the quiet night, "—yep. Festive. Very… Solstice."
I swiped a hand over my face, pushing damp curls out of my eyes.
I was sweating inside my coat, my cheeks were flaming, and my magic was still humming, sparking faintly at my fingertips.
I couldn't look at him. Not at his wet mouth.
Not at the dark intensity still burning in his eyes.
Not when my body was screaming for him to do it all over again.
I staggered to my feet, brushing snow off my butt and the backs of my thighs with frantic swipes, as if the damp wool was the only problem here.
Callen stayed crouched where I'd left him, motionless in the hollow of snow near the base of the giant evergreen. He watched me with that unnerving stillness, tracking my frantic movements. He didn't reach for me. He didn't speak. He just watched me run.
The look on his face wasn't smug. It wasn't satisfied. It was patient. Utterly certain. As if he heard every frantic denial screaming in my head and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that they were all lies.