Page 49 of Italian’s Christmas Acquisition

She felt like she was enough. She felt special.

Not just in the context of being the only woman on the mountain.

It was intoxicating.

He stripped his tie away, and shrugged his jacket off, then he began to unbutton his shirt, and she watched with rapt attention.

As he revealed that gorgeous chest, his rippling stomach. He cast the shirt to the ground, and began to undo his belt slowly, and she found her breath hitching slightly with each articulated movement. He stripped himself entirely naked, and sat on the edge of the couch, like an emperor. “Come to me,” he said.

She was very aware that her back was to an open window, and that her front was to a naked man. That she wanted him, as fiercely as he wanted her.

The center of her ached. Felt hollow with the need for him.

She could feel how slick and wet she was with each step she took toward him. It didn’t even occur to her not to obey. Not when obedience would lead her exactly where she wanted to go.

“Take your hair down,” he said.

She reached up and quickly dashed the pins out of her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders in a wild cascade.

“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Now you are feral for me.”

She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. Because of course she was. She always was. She had been from the beginning, hadn’t she? After thinking herself tame for so many years, the truth of it was she had never met anyone who made her wild.

But he did.

And that was when she did something entirely out of character, without even thinking. She ran her hands over her aching breasts, summing the nipples, pinching herself, watching as his expression went from stormy to the black eye of a hurricane.

She let her hands move down her own waist, her hips, before pressing one down between the center of her thighs, where she touched her own slickness. Where she zeroed in on that beat of pleasure, and began to stroke herself.

“Noelle,” he growled.

She didn’t know who she was. Who was this woman? Bold and naked in front of a window, pleasuring herself as a man watched her. Who was this woman, in nothing but red high heels?

Who was this woman, in New York City, with a heavy diamond ring on her left hand.

She was her. That was the stunning thing. She was Noelle Holiday. All things Christmas and bright. And yet sensual and needy with him.

It was like finding herself. Like seeing herself for the very first time.

She continued to walk toward him, and she didn’t have to be asked. She knew exactly what to do. She straddled his lap, bringing her slick center against his hardness. He growled, his large hands cupping her ass as he brought her forward, arching against her, rubbing himself through her slick folds.

“Mine,” he said.

And she could only agree, in small, short bursts of need.

It was like heaven to have his hands on her. And she luxuriated in it. He moved them up her back, down her arms, around to cup her breasts, and his touch on her sensitized skin was so much better than her own could ever be.

He teased her, his thumbs moving over her aching peaks, and then he moved his head there, sucking her deep, biting her. She cried out, the pleasure/pain paradox making her head spin.

Making her ache for more.

He wrapped one arm tight around her waist, and gripped her chin with the other, making bold eye contact with her as he thrust himself up inside of her. She moaned, his possession thorough, complete and glorious.

And she began to move over him, as he held her steady, as he let her have the control. Was there any control to be had? She was this creature that he had made her. One of need and desire.

One of absolute earth and fire. He had broken something in her, or made something in her, she didn’t know which. Perhaps it didn’t matter.

There was nothing but them. All she could see were those dark eyes, gazing deep into hers. The sparkling ring on her left hand, his muscular chest, her hand against his shoulder. He whispered things against her mouth, dirty and beautiful all at the same time.

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