Page 69 of Christmas Kisses

I’ve felt more alive the past two days than I have the past two years, and it is all compliments to the woman seated next to me.

As a victim’s screams boom from the TV’s outdated speakers, Angel’s nipple grazes my arm. My cock throbs when she buries her head into my neck. As her hot breaths bead condensation on my neck, a spark zaps through my balls. Her mouth is so close that my body responds as if she is kissing my neck instead of hiding from a movie too gory for prime time.

I am hard as stone, and I am not the only one noticing.

Angel’s eyes are no longer on the horror flick. The bulge in my sweats can’t be hidden, so it’s only fair her glare scalds the narc incapable of acting disinterested when a woman as alluring as Angel is within sniffing distance.

Except this time, Angel’s glare isn’t pronged with disgust.

It is needy.Wanton.

It is downright fucking hungry.

“Angel.” My rumble of her name isn’t bossy, domineering, or in warning. It is desperate.

It tells her everything my mouth refuses to speak. I want to undress her. Lick her. Fuck her until her legs buckle. Then I’ll do it again, in her bed, with her gorgeous body suspended above me.

Jesus. I could blow my load right now just thinking about her riding my face from above.

Angel runs her tongue over her top lip, doubling the thickness of my cock, before she shifts her eyes back to the television. “You really need to watch this part, or you’ll be confused for the rest of the movie.”

She hits me with a wink that announces she is aware a man can die of blue balls before she sinks back onto her side of the couch and tugs over the blanket, conscious not even the cool air whipping off the coast will aid in the deflation of my cock.

15

CHRISTIAN

Angel’s grin for the next thirty minutes is shit-eating… until the slasher flick breaks for a commercial.

Damn Prime and they’re requirement for an additional monthly fee for no-ad movies.

The festive tune of Michael Bublé’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” is a stark contrast to the murderous cries that were escaping the television’s speakers only moments ago, but it appears more detrimental to Angel’s sanity than a serial killer on a killing spree. The color drains from her cheeks as her nose screws up. She looks equally angry and devastated.

After checking the coffee table, her hands dig into her side of the sofa. She grunts and groans while searching for the remote before she shifts her watering eyes to me.

“Please turn it off,” she begs when her search for the remote in its prospective hiding places comes up empty-handed.

When she gasps in a sharp breath, announcing her panic is surging, I dig out the remote from under my thigh, where it slipped when she cozied up to my side, and then stab the off button repeatedly.

It takes several long seconds to switch off the commercial selling family-sized turkeys. The batteries in the remote are so old that I have to remove the back and roll them in their holder to will the television into submission.

It is too long for Angel.

She is on the cusp of a debilitating panic attack.

“It’s gone,” I murmur upon noticing the rapid rise and fall of her chest. “It’s off.”

I bounce my eyes between hers. Her cheeks are white, and her pupils are swamping her corneas, but she is still the bravest woman I’ve ever encountered.

A dick tease, but still brave.

“Take a big breath for me.”

She does so without further prompting.

“Good girl. Now another.”

Her chest rises, sticking out her ample breasts, before it deflates.

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