Page 104 of The Crush of Christmas Past
Together, we shove my sweatpants down just far enough for her to slide her hand between us and find me ready. She wraps her fingers around me, guiding me into her with a sure, steady grip. An electric thrill cuts through me at the sheer possessiveness of the move.
Holding her hips, I drive in, claiming every inch. Hot and wet and so fucking perfect, sinking inside her feels like coming home.
Once I can’t go any deeper, I pause, indulging in the strangle of silk and heat.
Nerves sparking, muscles straining, vision blanching—sanity be damned.
I lace our fingers together, pinning her hands to the mattress. Bracing above her, I grind into her in a molten, liquid rhythm. She responds with matching intensity, her whole body clinging to me, as if begging me to stay rooted inside her as long as possible.
This time around is slower. Softer. Quiet—save for some panted breaths and rasped groans. The exact opposite of the frenzied madness of our first time—yet just as satisfying.
A mind-melting kind of pleasure.
Every thrust winds me tighter, my muscles fighting against the pull of release.
Isla’s gaze flicks over to my braced left arm, snagging on the ink stretched tight across my bicep.When she notices a specific detail in the tattoo, wide-eyed shock flashes across her face.
A tiny piece of her, carved into my cells.
“Theo!”
For some reason, that tips her over the edge.
She squeezes my hands, nails biting into my knuckles as she breaks apart around me. Her head lifts, teeth catching my bottom lip and tugging to drag me down to her. The kiss is rough, her tongue pushing beyond my defenses, erasing every coherent thought until all that’s left is a primitive chant.
Isla. Isla. Isla.
A few more strokes and I’m gone. I come hard, spilling inside her, flooding her with everything I’ve got. Everything I fuckingam.
She takes it all, greedily clenching around me while licking her name from my lips.
Isla. Sunshine. Mine.
It’s not just my body she owns.
Both my heart and mind have long since surrendered.
Even the broken pieces of my soul worship her.
Thirty-One
Isla
Thisishowitends.Not with a bang, but a slow death by duvet.
Technically, it’s a comforter—Evangeline is particular about her bed linens—but the alliteration supplies better tombstone flair.
Theo is still inside me, buried so deep it feels like he’s settling in for a long-term lease.
The smart move would be to evict him. Untangle myself from his hold before comfort morphs into consequence.
Move. Breathe. Survive.
Instead, I succumb to post-orgasmicstupidity and relax my muscles.
“Blanket’s gotta go,” Theo says against my neck. “But you’re not moving from this spot.”
I arch a brow he can’t see. “What?”
