Page 39 of Pining for Christmas

Which, hang on—

“Merry Christmas, Ali Cat.”

She beams as I cover her with my much larger body, my furred belly rubbing against her toned stomach. “Merry Christmas. Santa got it really right this year.”

Ha. “You’re not wrong. Wrap your legs around my waist—yeah, just like that.” Is there any better feeling in the goddamn world than feeling her soft thighs gripping me? Squeezing me? “Now hold on tight.”

Obedient as ever, Alison goes still, body rigid, holding her breath. But no, that won’t do, not if she’s tensed up like that, because I’d rather smash my head against a wall than hurt this girl. Would rather jump off a cliff than leave a single scratch on her.

“Relax, baby.”

A shaky laugh. Alison rolls her eyes. “I’m trying, but it’s scary, okay? I’ve never done this before, and you’re… well…”

Big.

Built like a brick shit house, with the monster appendage to match. I hear that.

And for the first time in my life, I wish things could be different—but this is how I’m made, and Alison ismine, and Iwill burrow my way inside her, by god. Deep inside her, so deep I feel the life energy thrumming through her: that’s where I belong.

But tensing up will only make things worse, so I duck down and seal our mouths together,finallykissing my girl. Finally. And it’s not a stolen peck, not a chaste brushing of lips—this kiss is deep and dirty and slow.

Ali gasps and groans. She kisses me back; nibbles my bottom lip and sucks on my tongue. And it feels so good, so hot and liquid and perfect, that my brain almost forgets what I’m doing here. How I’m trying to help her.

But my body remembers. It rocks against her, shaft rubbing along her damp, swollen slit. Oh, yeah.

“Feel that?” My words rumble against her lips, and Ali whimpers. Nods feverishly. “Feel how good it is when you relax? Don’t tense up, baby. Let me in. Let me in. Trust me.”

“Okay, daddy.”

Jesus H. Christ. This girl will be the death of me.

And even with her body relaxed, even with her slicker than a slip’n’slide, it takes us a while. It’s a steady process of nudging forward and letting her adjust; of rubbing her clit until she melts against the mattress again, tossing her head with frustrated pleasure. My forehead is creased with focus, my breaths coming in short, anguished puffs, and my spine is damp with sweat, but I don’t care.

There’s nothing I’d rather be doing right now. No one I’d rather be with.

Alison Wainwright ismine.

Mine.

Mine.

My perfect girl.

“Oh.” When I’m halfway in, things start to speed up. Ali starts rocking her hips up, chasing that friction, her thighs squeezing my hips. “Oh, god. Oh, god.”

Tell me about it.

“You’re so hot inside, baby. So searing hot. My perfect little furnace.”

She whimpers and tosses her head. I slide an inch deeper, cursing under my breath.

And by the time I wedge all the way home, by the time we’re sealed as tight together as we can physically go—I’m ruined. Feel like I’ve run a marathon, and had my heart wrung out like a dish towel.

“Alison. Ali Cat. Shit, you feel too good.”

She nods, burying her my throat, and lets me thrust. Lets me pick up the pace, clinging to my shoulders the whole time.

“You’re too good. Too perfect. Shit, I’m not gonna last. You feel too fucking good.”

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