Page 25 of Pucking Christmas Triplets Surprise

Christopher chuckles again and my ears turn bright red, and hot to the touch. He scoops me into his arms, pulling me tightly to his chest. “I know, princess, but you are still being punished.”

“What?” I snap, my eyes darting back to him as he kicks off his boots and makes his way across the foyer and up the stairs.

“You are not cumming tonight.” He answers matter-of-factly.

My eyes are so wide because I just gave this fucker a blow job on the fucking floor of his foyer and he is going to leave me hanging all night. “The hell I’m not!”

He pauses on the landing right before the final staircase, his eyes narrowed on me so precisely I suck my bottom lip in my mouth and nervously suck. “First, stop that. Second, you make yourself cum tonight and I won’t fuck you, but I will make you cum again and again until it fucking hurts.”

Jesus Christ. I want that.

“But if you wait like a good girl until after I drop Abby back off at boarding school, I will fuck you so well you’d think I was a god.”

Fuck, I want that, sign me up for that.

Christopher’s chest rises with a low chuckle that reverberates through me, and he turns left into the dimly lit hallway. The warm light spills from wall sconces spaced evenly, their golden glow casting elongated shadows across the matte slate walls. The subtle scent of cedar and pine lingers in the air, blending with the faintest hint of something musky and smoky—so unmistakably him.

The polished wooden floors creak gently under his footsteps, the noise blending with the rustle of my breath. My arms circle tighter around his neck, and he adjusts his grip on me, keeping me pressed flush to his chest. He dips his head, mouth dangerously close to my ear.

“Option one,” he whispers, his voice low and deliciously dark, “I will make you cry, and beg, but I won’t stop, even when you say ‘no I can’t’ because I will make you until I’ve decided you can’t handle anymore.”

A thrill dances along my spine, and I shiver, clinging to him, unable to see his eyes but feeling the intensity of his words ripple through me. “No safe words?” I laugh nervously.

He shakes his hand no very slowly, a small smile curves his lips as he adds, “No, because I will never hurt you, princess.” His nose inhales me deeply. “Besides, you have never been fucked by a man, and I am sure you don’t know how much your pretty little pussy can take, but I do.”

A sharp breath leaves my lips, just as mypussy throbs with need— because any release would feel good right now, even if he ripped it out of me. “What about option two?”

I tilt my head to catch his gaze, my heart racing, but all I see is the confident set of his jaw and a smile so wicked I am as scared as I am excited. “Option two will leave you breathless, because instead of ripping every orgasm out of you. I’ll let it build and you’ll beg me for more, and more, even when you are done. Your body will want me again, and again.”

“Will I have a safe word then?” I whisper, as he shifts me in his arms to unlatch the cherry red double doors, pushing them open with a gentle nudge.

“If you want.” He shrugs, entering the room and forcing all of my senses to be invaded with him in a way that excites just as much as it scares me.

The rich scent of aged leather mingles with that of burning wood from a stone fireplace that looks recently lit. Dark oak beams span the high ceiling, and the walls are painted a deep charcoal, contrasting with floor-to-ceiling windows draped in thick, black velvet curtains.

His bed dominates the center of the room, a massive, dark mahogany frame draped in a charcoal duvet with piles of crisp, slate gray pillows. Hockey memorabilia decorates the walls: framed jerseys from his college days, black-and-white action shots of him on the ice, and a glass case housing an array of pucks, each engraved with a date and score. A leather armchair sits by the fireplace, paired with a sleek, black-topped coffee table scattered with hockey strategy books and a few worn paperbacks, the spines cracked from use.

As he carries me gently across the threshold, the room feels intimate and deeply his, in a way I feel so comfortable in this room like everything that enters it is his to possess— even me.That thought scares me but I don’t have enough time to think about it, as he strides to the bed, and lowers me onto the plush duvet.

His hands linger on my hips as he pulls away, and I sink into the comforting softness beneath me, my heartbeat hammering in my chest. My pulse stutters when he straightens and reaches for the hem of his fitted black tee, pulling it up and over his head with an effortless motion. His skin catches in the low light, golden warmth playing over the hard planes of his chest and sculpted abs making my clit quiver, fuck I may pick option one if he keeps this up.

“Wait—I thought you said no sex?” I question, in such an eager manner that I want to face palm, because why am I so giddy at the idea of this man fucking me?! I could have had anyone at the club tonight, but none of that matters when you just want him.

His brows lift slightly, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, more amused than wicked. “Relax,” he murmurs, stepping closer and brushing a calloused thumb over my cheek. “We are going to take a shower.” He pauses, his gaze softening. “Then, I’m putting you in one of my jerseys, and we’re going to bed. Nothing else.”

I stare up at him, breathless, as a wave of longing and sadness washes over me. “Just... sleep?”

He nods, gentle and steady. “Just sleep,” he promises. “Unless you cum….then no one sleeps.”

I bite my inner cheek and nod, feeling my pulse race as I pull the leather dress over my body. The fabric clings to me and I catch Christopher’s eyes darkening, transforming into that familiar storm I’d love to be drenched in.

My eyes trail over the sculpted lines of his body, every muscle carved like a work of art, and my fingers twitch with the need to touch him. I’m drawn in by the intricate tattoos that span his chest, the inky black designs etched into his skin. Stark, swirling patterns spread across his left pec and weave around his ribs, creating a story I haven’t yet been told but desperately want to learn. Lines and symbols form a map of pain and passion, beautiful and haunting.

My gaze shifts, lingering on the one burst of color in the sea of black—a vivid design on his left pec. My name,Josie, in elegant, sweeping letters, surrounded by watercolor splashes of deep blues and reds. The colors blend and bleed into each other, vibrant yet soft, as though the tattoo artist captured a dream and made it permanent on his skin.

My breath catches in my throat. The shock of it, of seeing my name inked over his heart, leaves me frozen. My mind spins, trying to comprehend the weight of this, the permanence. It’s more than romantic—it’s all-consuming, a declaration that’s almost too intense to bear.

“Christopher,” I whisper, my voice trembling.

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