Page 40 of The Professor's Holiday Surprise

“I know. I haven’t had time to go shopping.”

“That’s what the internet is for.”

Embarrassed, I look down at my feet. “My budget is more in the thrift store range.”

He’s silent for a moment, then he strokes along my jaw with a warm, strong finger before slowly tipping my chin up. When I meet his gaze, he gives me a soft, gentle smile. “I’m going to buy you a new coat. And you’re going to accept it without a word of protest, okay? Because Daddies take care of their little girls.”

My toes tingle in my boots at the sincerity. “Oh.”

“I want to make you dance for joy every single day. I want you to be safe and warm. I need?—”

His expression goes very serious.

I stop breathing.

“Daddies probably aren't supposed to be needy,” he mutters.

“You can be needy,” I say so faintly I’m not sure he’ll hear it.

And then I’m in his arms. We’re kissing as we stumble through a door between that first mudroom and what looks likea nice big kitchen. I bump into something—an island—and then he’s lifting me up and fitting himself between my thighs.

“I missed you so fucking much.” His mouth trails down my neck. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to just maul you.”

“Please maul.” I shiver.

He hitches up one of my knees and strokes his hand down the back of my calf, over my jeans. He grabs my boot and sends it flying. Repeats the kissing-and-de-booting on the other foot, and then he yanks my sweatshirt up over my head.

I’m giggling as he takes a step back and looks at me, his mouth slack and his gaze glassy.

“You…”

I shrug. “Yep. This is me.”

He crashes back against me, his hands everywhere now. On my tits through my tank top, on my bare waist as he tugs it up. On my jean-clad hips as he yanks me right to the edge of the counter and grinds his hard, heavy erection against my clit, nailing the right spot even through two layers of denim.

“You’re perfect.”

“Who? Hoodie girl?” I gesture at the fitted, stretchy tank top I’m wearing. I’m not small, exactly, but my breasts don’t weigh anything. If body parts could be clouds, that would be my tits. Fluffy and light, I don’t really need to wear a bra. And I don’t like them. Underwire hurts unless it’s expensive and well-fitted, and I can’t afford expensive, well-fitted bras. “I’m just a casual girl all the way down to my base layers.”

“Is this…” He wipes his mouth. “Standard?”

“What?”

“No bra.”

I glance down. “Yeah, in the winter.”

“Fuuuuck.” He cups my breasts through the light shirt. “I can see your nipples.”

“They can see you, too,” I deadpan.

He chuckles, then groans, as if he’s in pain. “Do you know how fucking insane I’d have been all term had I known you didn’t have a fucking bra on under those sweatshirts?”

He’s breathing pretty hard now and he does actually look a little insane.

I love it.

Reverently, he peels my tank top down my chest. My breasts pop out and bounce, and the unholy sound he makes is the best early Christmas present a girl could ever receive.

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