Page 26 of Pucking Christmas Triplets Surprise

He doesn’t hesitate, stepping forward, his hand cradling my jaw, tilting my face up to his. “You’re safe with me,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against my cheek.

His gaze is sincere, steady, and so devastatingly intense that I feel like I might shatter under it. I want to believe him, I mean the tattoo is new enough, but what type of guy gets a girl's name tattooed on him and they haven't even been on a date, or fucked. I can feel my chest tighten and a large part of me wants to run, but he moves in closer.

“I’ve been obsessed with you since the moment I laid eyes onyou at the winter showcase over a year ago. You’re mine, Josie. And I’m yours.”

My heart thunders in my chest, the gravity of his words pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe. His confession wraps around me like a heated embrace, and memories come rushing back—of that winter showcase over a year ago. I remember seeing him there, leaning against the rink with his sharp jawline and gorgeous cerulean eyes, exuding this untouchable confidence that makes my pulse race.

I remember the way he invaded my space that day, close enough that his presence lit my body on fire. The pull between us was undeniable, raw and electric, but I had brushed it off as a fluke. I thought he was just some fuckboy hockey star, all charm and no substance, desperate for the bragging rights of saying he’d slept with a future Olympic gold medalist. I didn’t think he was drawn to me, that he felt that same gravitational force pulling us together. But now, with his words hanging between us, I realize that moment was as significant for him as it was for me.

I wanted him back then, needed him, but I’d been too afraid to believe that what I felt could be real. Then Dylan came in, and we were still dating, so I pushed everything down and ignored the rushing heat of my body.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, I reach out, my fingertips brushing the tattoo on Christopher’s chest, right over where my name is inked in vivid color. The skin there feels warm and alive beneath my touch, and my heart twists in my chest. The gesture is so intimate, so permanent, that I can’t help but wonder if this is his way of sayingI love you. It’s not the words, but the intention is clear, etched into his skin, impossibleto erase.

And then the thought hits me like a tidal wave:Do I love him?I’m terrified of the answer, of everything that loving him would mean. It’s risky, it’s messy, and it’s more vulnerable than anything I’ve ever allowed myself to be. But as I trace the ink with trembling fingers, I can’t deny the way he makes me feel. He’s chaos and comfort, safety and danger, all rolled into one. And even as fear grips me, something deeper, something real and undeniable, starts to unfurl inside me.

It’s too much, too fast, but also everything I’ve secretly craved. My mind races.Is he about to say it?The three words I’ve been waiting for, dreading, and dreaming about?

He pauses, his fingers tangling gently in my hair. I’m bracing myself, feeling overwhelmed, my body taut with anticipation.

But instead of those three words, he leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “I won’t say it until the moment is right,” he whispers, his voice a tender promise.

Relief and longing flood through me in equal measure. My chest feels tight, and I almost sag against him, grateful and terrified.

I close my eyes and let out a shaky breath, nodding against his touch. The storm in his eyes softens, and he cups my face in his hands, as if he’s afraid to let me go.

I whisper against him. “You’re obsessed with me?”

He nods, and I pull out of his embrace to look into his eyes. Since he came back into my life, it’s like the Olympics didn’t matter anymore, the ice came second for the first time in my life because all I want is him. I need him.

“You are all I want.” I respond, leaning back so he can take in what is his.

“Shit, princess.” He whispers. My lace red bra doesn't leave much to the imagination, along with the matching thong that’s a shade darker in the middle from how worked up I feel. I open my legs wide, just like Margot Robbie inWolf of Wall Street,and he inhales deeply, his eyes trained on my pussy.

“I’m all yours, Chris, all yours.”

Christopher groans, unbuckling his pants as he takes me in.

“Fuck! I can smell how fucking turned on you are.” He pushes his jeans down his legs, kicking them off, and leaving the distinct tent of his dick, which shows that he could go again.

“And what is that smell?” I tease, crossing my legs again forcing his eyes to lock with mine.

He growls, pulling me towards him by my ankle. I squeal, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Like cherries, and my fucking death.”

CHAPTER 11

JOSIE

Christopher kept his word last night, opting for a head massage that had my eyes crossed, and doing everything shy of eating me out to make me break.

His lips caressed every inch of my body, leaving small hickies all over my body and I couldn't help but wonder if he was intentionally teasing me with the occasional flick of his fingers over my clit as he washed my body, knowing how badly I wanted him and chuckling when I shuddered.

But I stayed strong, resisting the intense desire thrumming through my body, so he would have to worship me, because for some reason I had a praise kink when it came to Christopher Jackson. I wanted him to be proud of me.

Last night, Christopher didn’t even bother giving me a jersey. Instead, he’d smirked and muttered something about how my body was far too gorgeous to ever be covered in anything but his cum. My cheeks had burned bright red, and I’d smacked him with a pillow before collapsing into giggles. Eventually, I drifted off, curled up in his arms, feeling completely content.

But now? Oh, now I am dying. The weight of his 250 pounds of solid muscle pins me to the mattress, his arm a heavy, immovable force draped across my waist. The morning sun blazes through the floor-to-ceiling windows, washing the room in golden light and making my eyes water. Yet Christopher is blissfully unaffected, snoring softly, the sound a low rumble against my ear. Adorable, but also maddeningly persistent.

Groaning softly, I wriggle out from under his arm, the motion barely stirring him. My bladder has other demands, and they aren’t ones I can ignore any longer. Naked, I tiptoe into the bathroom, shivering slightly as I hurry to the toilet, feeling the morning chill against my skin. Once I’m finished and my bladder no longer threatens to burst, I wash my hands and look around, trying to figure out where Christopher might keep his clothes because I cannot wear that skin tight, leather dress this early in the morning.

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