Page 47 of It's Mother-Pucking Christmas!

My shirt came off. Worth it to hear Dakota make that noise like she’d just bitten into a soft, warm Christmas cookie.

“She said they’re legwarmers because she wasn’t a good enough knitter to figure out how to make actual tights.” A stripe of creamy skin appeared. “She put these ribbons on to keep them up. I thought they were the stupidest thing she’d ever knitted until now.”

Blood pounded in my head as I used every shred of willpower to croak out, “But I wanted to take you somewhere nice.”

“And I want you to take me in the back seat of your truck.” Her breath hitched as she stroked herself through the lacy red panties.

That was enough to snap all my willpower, to obliterate my self-control.

“And to be fair, that was”—she gasped as I gave in and pressed my face to her breasts—“honestly the best date I’ve ever been on.” Dakota arched against me as I sucked her breasts through the thin lace.

My hands cupped her face to I could kiss her, slid down to her chest to knead the soft mounds of her breasts.

She coaxed them lower to the heat between her legs. The scrap of lace there was soaked.

“That’s all for you, Boy Scout,” she whispered against my mouth, moaning as I rubbed my knuckle against the soaked fabric.

I wanted to dip my head to taste her, let her feel my tongue against the wet slit.

Her nipple was tight and pink when I slipped it out of the cradle of lace, hard under my tongue. The soft moans she made went straight to my uncomfortably tight pants. It was playing with fire, but I eased my zipper down, biting back a groan of relief.

“Let me see you,” she gasped.

I stroked her harder, through the lace between her legs, feeling like I was breaking a thousand rules when my fingers slipped under the fabric. It was worth it for the way she ground against my fingers, seeking the pleasure I gave her.

“Oh, that’s good,” Dakota moaned, drawing out the words. “You’re so good.”

She grabbed my wrist as I slipped two fingers inside of her, and my balls seized at the look on her face.

“What I want to know,” she gasped as I sucked on her breast, “is do you fuck like you play hockey?”

I shot back, knocking my elbow against the steering wheel. “I’m not going to do this with you in my car.” The words came out in a low growl.

Dakota let out a string of expletives. “Fuck you. You better fuck me. I cannot wait until whenever this fucking mythical third date is happening. You have me half-gone already. I thought you were a gentleman.”

In the quickly darkening light of the late afternoon, Dakota shifted in the seat, her legs splayed, her breasts out, proud on her chest, her clothes in disarray, her hair around her face. She looked like an image in a porn magazine that one of my crappy older foster brothers had shown me on family number thirteen or fourteen.

Her head tipped back as one of her red-painted fingernails slipped under the band of lace.

I grabbed her wrist before she could start stroking herself, forcing her hand above her head.

“Don’t,” I snarled softly against her mouth, feeling her jump against me. “Cover yourself,” I said brusquely, biting back the rest of the sentence.

Before I drag you into the back seat and give you exactly what you’re asking for.

I put the car in gear and peeled out of the parking lot. Dakota fussed with her clothes while I drove, my foot heavy on the gas until I realized I was going over the speed limit.

Her panting breath in the dark, the smell of her in the car—it was literally making me salivate.

“You can’t just leave a girl with coal in her stocking,” she murmured, trailing her fingers down my bare chest. Her fingers that were moments ago between her legs, in her—

“Santa’s supposed to come down the chimney on Christmas.” Her hand cupped the bulge under my open zipper then moved back up my bare abs to my chest.

My teeth ground.

The fingers that smelled intoxicatingly of her trailed under my jaw to my mouth.

“I’m driving.”

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