Page 87 of The Crush of Christmas Past
What happens next isn’t a simple removal of undergarments. It’s a fucking ceremony. A measured, explicit performance of power disguised as surrender.
Once the scrap of fabric hits the floor, she resettles.
Her thighs squeeze together, pelvis tilting in a slow, desperate grind. Then another. She lets out a pouty little whine when the movements fail to satisfy her needs.
My cock jerks under the restraint of my jeans, volunteering for duty.
Her bold gaze drops to my erection, pink tongue flicking out to wet her lips.
For one wild, unhinged second, I indulge the fantasy that assaults my thoughts.
Isla on her knees, unzipping me with her teeth, mouth open wide, tongue out and waiting.
Swallowing hard, I refocus my attention to the task at hand.
Literally.
“Spread your legs, Sunshine. Show me my pretty prize.”
A breathy laugh escapes her as she scoots higher on the bed. Her knees part in invitation, but the hem of the shirt obscures my view.
“Wider, Isla.” I step closer, looming over the bed. “Make it worth my while.” I manage to keep my voice and movements on a tight leash, but on the inside? I’m a feral beast.
“Last night ruined me. I can’t stop picturing how you looked. Open. Dripping. Glowing. I want to see you like that again. Need to touch you. Taste you. Bury myself in your scent and hear you scream my name. I’ll invent a sixth fucking sense if that’s what it takes to make you mine. Will you let me?”
My words spark an immediate response. A fresh surge of power saturates her gaze.
She hikes the shirt higher, bunching it at her ribs.
I hold my breath as she blooms open for me.
Knees bent. Feet braced wide. Lust laid bare.
My stalker of a shadow swallows her whole as I lean over to indulge in the view. “I want to see how badly you want it.”
“So,sobadly,” she whispers, hand sliding down her stomach. Two fingers slip between her legs, and she parts herself slowly, gifting me with a view that brands itself onto my brain.
I don’t bother biting back a depraved groan.
This image of her—wet, wanting,mine—will live inside me forever.
“That’s it,” I murmur. “Let me taste how much you need me.”
She shivers, offering up her hand, flaunting the slick proof of her arousal.
My mouth waters. I take her wrist, lift her fingers to my lips, and suck. Tongue twisting around her taste, I lap up every drop of her rich, heady excitement.
“Perfect.” The word is a throaty growl. My next line? Bitten out between groans. “Every. Drop. Of. You.”
Isla moans out a delightful little noise that shoots straight through me.
I reach down and palm my cock.
Grip. Adjust. Breathe.
Don’t fucking come.
Her hand remains my hostage. I keep licking until she’s whimpering and writhing beneath me.
