Page 64 of The Crush of Christmas Past
“Fine.” Willow sighs dramatically, dropping her shoulders in mock defeat. “Since you’re dead set on avoiding joining the family, maybe I can introduce you to my friend’s cousin? He’s visiting for the holidays. Really great guy. Hot. Smart. Works in finance.”
“Isla is not interested,” I cut in firmly. There’s no way I’m letting some random finance bro hijack the last few days of our holiday.
I’ll gladly endurenostringswith Isla over no Isla at all.
The territorial bastard awakened in me demands I drag her out of here and away from this allegedgreat guy.
I rein in the feral impulse, gesturing toward the cupcake tower instead. “Let’s get you something that will actually satisfy you,” I offer, then point a finger at my sister. “You, little demon,stay.”
“Ooh. A night full of twists and turns!” Willow sing-songs after us.
As soon as Isla and I reach the dessert table, I grab a plate and assess the elaborate display. “One of each flavor?”
“What? No way.” A soft laugh spills past her lips. “We’re at a wedding. I should at least pretend I have manners. Jovie isn’t here to bail me out.” She gestures to a cupcake dusted with edible silver glitter. “Let’s go with this one.”
Sleigh Bells.
One of her top three favorites from Holly’s winter collection.
I make quick work of plating it. The frosting catches the light, resembling a freshly dusted snow hill. When I hand it over, our fingers brush. The contact lasts a beat too long. Or, rather, just long enough for a jolt of electricity to travel from her skin to mine.
Isla brings the treat to her lips with an R-rated kind of reverence that would be wasted on baked goods if it was anyone else doing it. But because it’s her—she’s got my undivided attention.
Her lashes lower, eyelids fluttering shut like she’s bracing for bliss. Her tongue swirls through the frosting in one smooth, indulgent lick. She goes back for seconds. Then thirds. Each stroke is a masterclass in torture.
By the fourth pass, my grip on reality is slipping.
Watching Isla savor sugar is infinitely better than consuming it. It’s a spectacle. A performance I can taste in more ways than one.
My cock twitches in agreement, fully invested in the show. I shift, subtly adjusting the growing pressure behind the fly of my tailored trousers.
Our eyes catch above the cupcake, locking with a tactile kind of tension. As if tuned in to the thoughts barreling through my skull, Isla grins.
And—fuck.
Fantasies of sucking the sweetness off her lips roar to life. I want to taste the icing from her fingers, chase it down her throat, lick it from between her thighs. Coat her in sugar so I can clean her with my tongue. I crave to feast on every inch of her until she’s entirely mine.
I’ve seen her come twice. Felt her tremble against me once.
Her next orgasm?
It belongs to my mouth.
The thought of devouring her winds me so tight that when her tongue darts out to swipe the corner of her mouth, I groan.
Out. Loud.
Shit.
“Oh my!” A chirpy voice slices through my lust-drunk haze like a candy cane shiv.
Holly—in all her sugar-dusted glory.
“What a sight!” she exclaims.
I jerk back like she’s the pastry police here to bust me for indecent thoughts about her product.
Honestly?Valid.
