Page 48 of It's Mother-Pucking Christmas!

Dakota huffed, crossing her arms next to me.

The taste of her lingered on my lips. I wanted her. I wanted her more than I wanted anything, more than I wanted to get adopted, or a puppy, or to win the playoffs.

It was dangerous, this wanting. I knew I shouldn’t, knew I should take her back to her car, send her home, concentrate on the game tomorrow, give her a chaste kiss goodnight.

That would be the right thing to do.

But what had doing the right thing ever gotten me, really?

You do the right thing because it’s the right thing.

“You know,” Dakota said, her voice husky in the dark. “I’m going to make myself come tonight while I think about you. I’m going to stroke my clit and touch my tits while I imagine it’s you there, watching, telling me how you’re going to flip me over and fuck me like one of your puck bunnies as you—”

Dakota screamed, thrown back against the window as, tires screeching, I wrenched the wheel, doing a sharp U-turn in the middle of the street.

“What the hell?” she gasped out. “Where are we going?”

The engine roared.

“Ryder, did you fucking lose your fucking mind? Let me out of this car right now if you’re going to drive like a maniac.”

I floored it, sparing one glance over to her in the dark. “I’m not letting you out. I’m taking you back to my place so I can bend you over and fuck you.”

19

DAKOTA

The f-bomb out of his mouth shocked me into silence, stole my breath more than a cold winter wind ever could.

The planes of his face were pronounced as he drove, taking sharp corners until the car screeched into a parking deck.

He grabbed the front of the sweater that I’d slipped back on, hauling me out of the car into his arms, like I weighed nothing. He flipped me over his shoulder, my palms scrambling for purchase against his bare back, slammed the door, and took the stairs two at a time.

A key scraped in a lock, then we were in a dimly lit apartment. There wasn’t anything gentle about him as he tossed me on the oversized gray couch, attacked my mouth, and tore at my clothes.

Kicking off boots and knit stockings, I sank into the couch, the dense weight of him practically smothering me in the deep couch cushions. His tongue swept into my mouth, stealing my breath. His hands were everywhere—on my tits, in my hair, grabbing my ass, seeking between my legs.

I reached for the hard bulge of his cock in his pants.

“You only get my cock,” he hissed in my ear, the filthy language unexpected, “if you’re a good little puck bunny.”

I didn’t know what I’d expected from Ryder once we reached third-date status, but this wasn’t it. It was thrilling, like I got to see a secret side of him no one else did.

“Show me your cunt,” the deep voice ordered.

He sprang back from me, every single muscle in that six-five frame perfectly controlled as he paced in front of me.

I was half-gone already from him in the car and then just from him breathing the word “cunt” in my ear. Pinned under his gaze, I sat up on the couch.

“You want my cunt?” I said, running my hands slowly over my tits, playing with my nipples while his glazed eyes tracked the movement. “Are you sure? That’s not what you said earlier.” My hands slid down. “You said you didn’t fuck girls until the third date.”

The broad chest rose and fell as I taunted him.

I slid my fingers into my panties. Eyes closed, I tipped my head back on the couch, moaning as I stroked my own clit.

“Maybe I like that rule,” I said as my hips rolled against my hand. “Maybe I’ll just make myself come while you watch and plan date number three.”

I yelped when a huge hand tangled in my hair, forcing my head up. I hadn’t even heard him move.

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