Page 52 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

“There we go,” he says, and grabs my hips, pulling me onto the final inch of him.

My body somehow completely relaxes around him. Completely accepts him. Completely welcomes him in.

He pulls back just a little and slides back in. “Now I really want to fuck you. Can I really fuck you now?”

“Please. Yes. Oh, yes.”

His thrusts quickly gather speed, gliding in and out of my soaking core as if he’s the perfect fit.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he pants, his body rocking back and forth above me.

I wrap my legs around him and relax, letting myself go, falling into the rhythm with him.

Then he takes one hand off my hip, swipes his thumb over his tongue, and resumes the circles on my clit.

In seconds I’m gone. I surrender completely. Give myself totally to the wanton, desperate passion of the moment, let every bit of tension he’s spent days building up inside me rise to a crescendo under his touch and the faster and faster thrusts of his giant dick inside me.

And then, that’s it. I’m grabbing his forearm, unable to wrap my hand around its girth, digging my fingers into the muscle, crying out, “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” on what feels like an endless loop.

“Okay, Bugs,” he pants in time with his thrusts. “You can come now.”

And right on cue, I do. My body does exactly as he tells it and shatters into a million pieces under his thumb and around his dick.

Explosions rack my body as my head thrashes from side to side in the seat. My inner walls clenching and reclenching around him. Sounds coming out of me that I’ve never heard before.

“You look fucking beautiful,” he pants.

As my climax slows and I come back to reality enough to be able to open my eyes, he takes hold of my hips with both hands again and drives into me, his handsome face contorting with pleasure as he pumps me onto him as much as he pumps himself into me.

And with one giant thrust that teeters on the precipice from pleasure to pain, his head flies back and he releases a long low groan. His body contracts above me as his hips grind and he pumps himself dry with the final few thrusts.

His forehead comes to rest on my chest, and I push my fingers into his hair until they make contact with his damp scalp.

“Fuck me, that was good,” he says into my cleavage.

“It absolutely was.” I rest my heels on his bare butt. “Oh, are your knees okay on the hard floor?” It suddenly occurs to me that it couldn’t possibly have been comfortable for him.

He looks up and rests his chin on my chest. “I bunched my jeans up under them. I’m a strategic thinker.”

I laugh, and as my lips make contact with the end of his nose, I realize what an inappropriately affectionate gesture that is.

This was a quick fool-around in a theater seat between two people who find each other pretty damn irritating. Ludicrously attractive, but irritating. Andkissing his nose is akin to holding his hand while walking down the street and asking him to meet my parents—neither of which I will ever do.

I press my heels into his butt and pull the penis I thought would never fit a little deeper inside me.

But he pushes himself up and, watching my face again to be sure he’s not hurting me, slowly pulls himself out.

I have never felt so empty in my entire fucking life.

He unsheathes himself and rises to his feet, yanking up his jeans.

A tense and awkward silence hangs in the air as I pull my own underwear and jeans back on.

Okay so, I guess that means we’re done here.

Of course we are.

But did I think otherwise when I grabbed him? Didn’t I jump on him out of carnal lust and nothing more?

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