Page 88 of The Crush of Christmas Past
Another sugary moan punctures the air. That’s when I clock her rogue hand. It’s slipped between her thighs, traitorous fingers circling her clit, chasing release.
If her sharp, erratic pants are anything to go by, she’s close. Very,veryclose.
Truthfully?
So am I.
It’d be easy to give in—hold her down with just my stare, watch her fall apart while I stroke myself then paint her pussy with the evidence of her ownership.
But if I allow that to happen?This ends before it even has a chance to begin.
I’m not willing to let her go that quickly.
I trap her hand with mine, dragging it away as I take over. “Next time, I want the full show. You can wear that tiny costume from your last solo performance.” Teasing her entrance with one finger, I let the tight throb of her body guide me as I ease in with just enough pressure to make her hips jerk. “And, from now on, don’t even think about touching yourself in anyone’s bed but mine. If you’re coming under this roof, it’s my sheets you’re soaking. Do you understand?”
Her eyes widen. They’re so dark, only the thinnest rim of color is left uncorrupted by lust. Her mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again. She looks like she’s in the middle of a full-on system crash.
When she finally speaks, her voice is so soft and breathless I have to lean in to catch it. “I’ve already soaked your sheets. Many times.”
It’s my turn to glitch. “What?”
“Your bed and I have a history.”
I blink. “Elaborate. Before I start putting my own creative spin on things.”
“Every Christmas you didn’t show,” she says, biting down on her lip, “I stayed in your room. Your scent…that’s how it started. I—ah—” She chokes on the next word because I swipe my thumb over her clit. “I imagined you. Always.”
“I’m going to need a full demonstration,” I tell her, rubbing faster. “You’re going to give me a play-by-play of how you fucked yourself while thinking about me. Narrate every dirty detail I missed. I’ve got a lot of Christmases to catch up on.”
She swallows. “Right now?” Her hand flexes slightly, like she’s waiting for permission.
“No.” I catch her wrist. “I’m in a selfish mood tonight. I don’t want to share my toy.” I tap the spot above her head. “Hands up here. Let me play.”
She complies eagerly. Then she fists the pillow, spreads her thighs wider, and offers herself to me without hesitation.
A breathtaking display of obedience.
“Good girl.” I reward her with two fingers.
“Theo!” My name tears from her like a sacred offering.
Emboldened, I press deeper, pushing through the clutch of warmth.
She arches up on a gasp, trembling from the stretch but clamping down like she never wants me to leave. Her head falls back, hair fanning out in a ring of fire.
“Please…” Soft, broken whimpers come tumbling out as she rolls her hips to meet my every thrust.
I live for the way she begs, so I give her what she wants.
More pressure. More intensity. More of me.
The slick sound of her body accepting me is obscene. Deeply fucking addictive. She’s soaked, quaking, her cinnamon-scented skin glazed in a sheen of sweat.
Isla Greene—radiant in her ruin.
The curl of my fingers earns me the sweetest moan, and when I thrust harder, she bucks off the bed, gasping for air.
“Don’t hold back, Sunshine. Let go. Make a mess on my hand.”
