Page 24 of Snowbound with the Santas

A pulse of heat flushes through me, from the top of my head right down to my tail bone, and an achingly familiar pull of muscle flexes at my core.

It’s been so long since I’ve been with another man and I’m spoiled for choice.

And then there’s Archer. His stoic silence is like a drug. I want him. I want to look into those gorgeous eyes as his cock slides into me. I want to drag a sweet, needy moan from that rough throat of his. I want to kiss him, pull his hair, and?—

His back. I can’t imagine what he went through, but in my dreams, he lets me touch him. Kiss him. Stroke his back and soothe his pain before he disappears between my legs and makes me see stars.

“Fuck…” My own breath warms my cheeks as I shove my face deeper into my pillow, and my sleep-addled mind paints too many scenes in my mind. I’m spoiled for choice and I can’t pick one.

Slowly, my hand skims down between the blankets and settles between the heat of my thighs.

The moment I touch myself, coating my fingers in the dampness between my thighs, Nick bursts into my mind. His beard would be the perfect cushion, and I can feel the strands of his long, blond hair winding around my fingers as his tongue delves deep inside me. My hips roll down onto my own fingers, a cheap imitation of the fantasy in my mind.

And then there’s Frankie. His adorable eagerness excites me, and while his hands stroke up to my breasts, I can perfectly picture the appreciation in his eyes as he fondles me and uses those sexy, rough fingertips to tease my nipples into aching peaks.

My nipples give an enticing throb at the thought.

Fuck.

Nick buried against my pussy, Frankie lavishing attention over my chest, and then there’s Archer. I can’t decide if he would be rough or deceptively gentle. Would he thrust his cock down my throat or tease the tip against my lips? Kiss me hard and fuck me feral, or would he hold me close like he did last night and weave a dance of lovemaking?

My body flushes hotter and my heart begins to race as muscles pull tight at my core. I thrust my fingers inside myself with a groan, switching desperately between whose cock would feel better. They’d all fuck me differently, desperate for a taste of me.

Fucking hell. If I’m lucky, I’ll be snowed in here forever and they’ll snap, have their wicked way with me, and leave me panting for more. The dirtier the fantasy gets, the faster my breath escapes me in eager pants.

I’d give in. I’d spread my legs for the first sexy man to walk through my door.

Frankie, Nick, Archer. I don’t care. They’re all hot.

They’d treat me right. I know it.

They’d fuck me like a real man?—

I come hard, muffling my pleasure-soaked moans into the pillows and curling hard around my thrusting fingers. My thighs close around my wrist, and my body trembles as images of those men flash through my mind.

Their strength. Their smiles. Their sexy voices.

Fuck.

I lose track of how long I lay like that, simply soaking up the tingling aftershocks of my orgasm. By the time I draw my hand out of myself, the sun is streaking brighter against my wall, and there are subtle sounds of noise rising from deeper in the cabin.

Shit.

Maybe it’s the painkillers making me have such thoughts because that’s not me. It’s been so long since I let someone touch me that I don’t even know if I can. Ashton left his mark, and fantasizing about the three strangers I’m trapped with doesn’t feel wise.

Post-orgasm clarity is the worst.

And yet, as I lie there all cozy and warm, I feel minimal guilt over having such dirty thoughts about my rescuers. As long as they don’t find out, there’s no harm, right?

I’ll look each of them in the eye and try not to think about how I just masturbated to them.

Easy-peasy.

As my heart slows, the pain in my leg finally flares up and the only beat of regret I have is grinding the bed on my stomach. That definitely didn’t help my leg, and when I throw the covers back, crimson dots the bandage.

Shit.

When I stand up to get dressed, I notice an array of clothing left on top of the dresser. They must belong to Frankie. While they’re all muscular, Frankie is the smallest of the three, and the fresh shirt I slip into doesn’t dwarf me quite as much as the one Nick gave me.

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