Page 127 of The Crush of Christmas Past
It consists of three strategically placed strings: one riding up front, barely enough to cover a thing, and two skimming across the curve of my ass, tying off in a bow at the base of my spine.
To say Theo’s eyesdarkenat the sight would humble actual darkness.
“Really leaning into the wholestringsthing, huh?” His voice vibrates on some low, deep register that qualifies as foreplay in audio form.
An eager hand toys with the skimpy front panel that serves to cover absolutely nothing. Curving two fingers under the delicate fabric, he gives it a measured tug. I stumble forward half a step, knocked off-balance both physicallyandspiritually. My thighs press together on instinct, pulse fluttering where the lace meets wet heat.
“This definitely calls for a more thorough evaluation.” His knuckles graze up and down my front as he toys with the string—and my sanity. “I’ll have to put in overtime. An all-nighter is likely.” He’s still playing his game; I’m clinging to consciousness by a thread.
“Get over here.” With another tug, he leads me across the room by my makeshift underwear leash to the antique vanity we picked up at a garage sale last weekend.
Mirrored from every angle, I get the full view: my flushed skin, swollen lips, and the man towering behind me—seconds from snapping and giving me the best orgasm of my life.
Our eyes meet in the reflection, and I sink deeper into him, molding to the solid wall of warmth at my back. Even fully clothed, he radiates enough heat to scorch me.
Releasing his grip on the lace, he slides two fingers under it—then thrusts them inside me. My moan shatters against the mirror, and I slap my palms onto the cold vanity as my legs give out.
“Soaked.” His voice hums with satisfaction as he drags his fingers up my torso, brushing the shimmering proof of my arousal across my stomach, between my breasts, and all the way up to my throat. He wraps a steady hand around my neck, thumb resting on the frantic pulse beneath my skin. “Look at you,” he murmurs, kissing my heartbeat without breaking eye contact. “A fucking vision.”
Restraint and abandon war in his blistering stare. “Bend over.” A commanding pressure lands at the base of my spine. “Taste test time.”
I fold forward, stance parting, spine arching. “NXT is nothing if not thorough.” No idea how the words make it out past my stuttered pants.
“Client satisfaction guaranteed.” Theo’s warm words drift down my spine as he lowers behind me. His palms glide up the backs of my thighs, coaxing them wider, before landing on my ass. With a firm grip, he spreads me open.
“Theo…” I can feel how wet I am, and from the rough groan he releases, there’s no doubt he likes the view.
Without removing my underwear, he gives me a thorough lick through the material, skilled tongue sweeping along myseam in a long, hard drag. The sensation shoves every coherent thought from my mind.
A startled moan tears out of my chest when he does it again. The next pass is deeper, darker, and each one after winds the tension tighter.
I’m so close.
My body begins to tremble, caught in the high of the climb before the crash.
Just when I think his tongue is going to wear a hole in the lace and give me what I need, he pulls back.
“No!” I whine, voice cracking, hips jolting back in protest. My nails scrape against the glass. “Don’t stop.”
“You gave Librarian Santa way too much credit today,” he says darkly, each word underscored by a possessive lick. “Let me remind you who owns the privilege of torturing you.”
I manage a choked laugh. “You’re such a sadist.”
“Say that again.” His teeth sink into the soft flesh of my ass. “With gratitude, this time.”
The strings of fabric are swiftly yanked to the side, and his mouth returns to the task of ruining me. Piece by piece. My clit becomes the center of his universe.
And, frankly,mine.
Two skilled fingers join the fun, curling deep inside me with a precision so perfect and familiar, I’m certain his brilliant mind has patented the very blueprint of my pleasure.
His tongue flays me as his fingers gut me. Hardly apoeticway to describe the act, but accuracy matters, and I’m being annihilated. Dismantled neuron by neuron. I can’t even tell if I’m sobbing, moaning, or have devolved into making sounds that no longer resemble any human language.
I’m going to come.
I’m going to comehard.
Screw his permission—I happily surrender to the free-fall.
