Page 69 of Lovingly Restored

I snap out of my sultry daydream. “Breakfast, right. I have oatmeal and lots of toppings.”

His face falls the tiniest bit.

“It’s like adult cereal, you’ll see. I have chocolate chips for you, Little One.” I tease, using his grandmother’s term of endearment.

“Nuh-uh.” He shakes his head. “I’ll eat the oatmeal, but you can’t call me that.”

“Mummo does.”

“She’s my grandmother. It feels wrong when you say it.”

“Ha!” My bark of a laugh echoes through the trees, scaring off a group of finches. “What shall I call you that speaks more to your manliness? Big guy? Master?” I list the options on my fingers.

“You can call me Isaac.”

He buries the axe in a log with one powerful swing, and instead of taking the stairs like a normal person, he climbs smoothly over the porch railing. He crowds me against the cabin, hemming me in with a hand on either side of my body. Taller than tall, I have to tilt my head to gaze up at him. He looks down at me with enough heat in his eyes to melt every bit of snow in a hundred-mile radius.

“But say it like you did last night when you were coming on my cock.”

My knees almost give out.

“What are you thinking?” He smirks knowingly.

I swallow. “I’m thinking the oatmeal can wait.”

“Perfect answer, babe.”

He wrenches open the cabin door and stands aside. “Get your ass in there.”

“Yes, master,” I sass.

“God help me,” he says before the heavy door slams, blocking out the innocent chirps of woodland creatures.

We’re on each other in a flash, winter boots thudding against wood planks, Isaac’s belt buckle jangling. Smells of fresh chopped cedar and sweat cling to his skin. I do my best to reach his luscious lips, but he grunts in frustration and cups my ass, lifting me effortlessly, walking us toward the loft ladder. Somewhere along the way, I lose my hoodie. We lean against the rungs, making out so deeply that my cheeks will be pink with beard burn later. I break away, glancing up at the loft.

“Do you want to…”

He presses himself against me, jeans splayed open already. His thick cock is on display through the material of his white briefs.

Yeah, he wants to.

I turn to face the ladder, reaching for the rungs.

“No.”

He places his hands on my hips, effortlessly preventing me from climbing. I push my ass against him, because I can, peeking over my shoulder to see the effect. He sheds his hoodie and shirt and I drink in the sight of his slightly sweaty torso. Another roll of my hips, and he barks out a simple command: “Go face the couch.”

Wordlessly, I go, eyes on the plaid cushions.

I can’t see him approach from behind, but I hear the grind of the heavy coffee table skidding several inches across the floor, as he shoves the furniture out of his way to get to me. One hot hand presses between my shoulder blades, forcing me forward. A whimper passes my lips. I fold in half, hands sinking into the couch cushions, ass in the air. Fabric rustles, and when he takes hold of my hips and runs his hardness over my cheeks, I know he’s ditched his boxer briefs. A damp trail forms as he paints my skin with his precum, wet and leaking for me. I moan, dropping my head so it hangs between my shoulders. My breasts have popped out of my white tank, and Isaac’s strong, bare thighs are visible behind me. I crane my neck to try and see more of the beautiful man. All that height plus who knows how many inches hanging between his legs.

“Should we take these off, Miss Carter?” He tugs lightly at the waist of my tiny sleep shorts.

“Yes, please.”

I’m ready and willing, and he wants to talk and tease?Damn him.

“Hmm, they aren’t exactly in the way.”

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