Page 39 of Filthy Rich Santas

I don’t know where my boldness comes from, but instead of scampering back to the room, I stand my ground, crossing my arms.

“Why did you get up so fast? Why did you leave?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

I stare pointedly down at his cock. “It looks pretty relevant to me.”

“Lana,” he straight-up growls this time. “Get the fuck out of this bathroom.”

I open my mouth to argue again, his intensity only turning me on even more, but then he slaps his free hand against the wet glass, startling me, and I spin on my heel and stomp out, restless and unsettled.

I almost leave. I should leave. But knowing he was thinking of me while doing what he was doing makes me feel wild and reckless.

And still so turned on that I want to scream.

My nipples tingle, the soft silk of my cami almost too much to bear, and without letting myself overthink my actions, I crawl back into his bed instead of leaving the room the way I’m sure he expects me to.

“Tristan,” I whisper as I slide a hand down my body and slip it under the sleep shorts I’m wearing. Turnabout is fair play, after all.

I brush my fingers over my clit through my panties, imagining that it’s Tristan’s hands on me, bigger and lightly callused.

My body responds immediately, my legs spreading as if they have a mind of their own and my body arching up as I rub against myself faster.

I whimper, my arousal escalating so fast that it makes me feel a little crazy. This is wild and impulsive, but I’m beyond caring about that right now. Slipping my fingers beneath the waistband of my panties, I lose myself in it. My soft whimpers speed up in time with my hand as I think of Tristan’s desperate-looking motion in the shower. The low need in his voice when he said my name. The feel of him when he was behind me, on top of me?—

I suck in a sharp breath when I hear a heavy thump, my eyes flying open.

Tristan is standing at the foot of the bed, his skin still wet and flushed with the heat of the shower and his eyes, dark and hungry, locked on my body.

He’s got a towel wrapped around his waist, but it’s beyond obvious that he hasn’t come yet, his cock tenting the material in a way that has me whimpering again. But then nerves rock through me as the audacity of what I’m doing hits me.

I walked in on him naked.

I watched him jerk off.

And now I’m touching myself in his bed, moaning his name.

For a moment, shame and embarrassment threaten to swamp me, but then his eyes flick up to mine, and the raw heat I see there burns it all away. I want more. I want a reaction from him. I want to push every button he has so that it’s impossible for him to walk away from what we both clearly want.

I run my free hand over my chest, brushing against my pebbled nipples through the soft silk. It feels incredible, every sensation heightened from the intensity of having his eyes on me. I lean into it, moaning with abandon as I start to rub my clit again.

Harder.

Faster.

My gaze stays locked on him as the flush I thought was from the heat of the shower spreads up his body. His thick cock twitches under the towel, but he makes no move to touch himself again.

He’s holding back, and I hate that.

I spread my legs and let go of all my inhibitions, rocking against my own hand as I let my body’s needs guide me, racing toward the release I crave.

“Lana,” he grits out in that same warning tone as before as his eyes bore into me.

My thighs tremble, my core clenching tight as I stare right back at him. “Tristan.”

His jaw clenches, then he moves so suddenly it’s like a predator being unleashed onto its prey.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, closing the distance between us so fast it makes me dizzy.

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