Page 38 of Rebel Without a Claus
The sound of our breathing fills the room, punctuated by the occasional gasp or soft moan. Outside, the wind howls its winter song, but inside, we’re creating our own music—skin against skin, the subtle creak of the bed frame, half-formed words that dissolved into sighs of pleasure.
He moves with the rhythm of the storm, every stroke deliberate and intense, claiming me like we have all the time in the world and still too much to lose. He shifts, angling his hips to catch deeper, and my eyes squeeze shut as a new spasm of want shoots through me. It’s too much and somehow not enough, and I hear a sound like a desperate sob as I rock against him. It takes a second for me to realize it came from my own mouth. Luke’slow laugh breaks into a guttural groan as I clench tight around him, and he lowers his head to capture my earlobe between his teeth, fire spreading outward from the sensitive spot.
Luke shifts his angle slightly, hitting a spot within me that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. My gasp this time is different, primal and my entire body arches like I’ve been hit with a live electrical current.
"There?" he murmurs against my neck, his breath hot against me.
"Yes," I manage, the word fracturing as he repeats the motion. "Just like that."
His arms cage my head, but I’m not trapped. I catch his rhythm immediately, feeling a sense of freedom in the movement.
He shudders as I arch up to meet him, a desperate sound in the back of his throat, and the noise pushes me higher, warmer.
He presses his forehead to mine, stroking deep and sure. His breath tangles with mine, a knot that tightens with each thrust. The pleasure coils between us—a joint tether that draws impossibly taut, spinning fast and wild and out of control.
Tension coils tighter within me, my body climbing toward that precipice again. Luke's movements grow more erratic, his breathing harsh against my ear.
"Luke," I gasp, feeling myself start to fracture. My fists squeeze around the soft sheets, my back arching as Luke’s thrusts grow more insistent, erratic, demanding. “Oh, god, Luke,” I pant, my voice barely more than a breathless whisper.
"I've got you," he promises, his voice strained with his own approaching release.
And I believe him when he says he’s got me—his arms around me, his body moving with mine in perfect synchronicity, his heart beating against mine through skin and bone.
I don’t fight it as the white-hot burst of pleasure explodes behind my eyes, swelling into every part of me just as I feel him tense over top of me.
“I’m here,” he growls against my throat, his voice raw with desire. His strong arms wrap around me, holding me impossibly tighter against him as he pounds deeper inside me. “I’m right here. Feel me.”
His words send a jolt of pleasure through me, cascading me over the edge. I clench around him, my inner muscles contracting around his throbbing length. He groans again, his control fraying, snapping. “Eve,” he pants, his voice rough with pleasure. “I can’t… I’m…”
“Yes,” I gasp, interrupting to urge him on as I tangle my fingers into his hair.
That’s all it takes for us both to release. His hips buck against me a final time until he spills inside of me with a shuddering moan. I cry out, my own orgasm cracking through me in a wave of white hot ecstasy.
In the aftermath, we remained connected, unwilling to separate just yet. With anyone else, it would have felt strange. Awkward. But not with Luke. Our foreheads press together, breath mingling as we slowly descend from the height of our climax.
"So," Luke whispers, mischief returning to his eyes, "about those candy canes..."
I laugh, the sound vibrating through both our bodies, before silencing him with a kiss that promises this night is far from over.
CHAPTER 13
Luke
The town square is a circus today.
Strings of lights dangle from every tree branch, speakers test sleigh bell jingles on loop, and a line of sugar-high children swarm the cider booth like ants to syrup. If chaos had a smell, it’d be cinnamon and wet wool.
And smack in the middle of it all—Eve, wearing that peppermint-striped scarf that makes her blonde hair look like candlelight in the snow.
Somehow in a matter of one week, she has fully integrated herself back into our little town like she never left.
There was a time I would have resented her for that; but now, all I feel is respect.
With an ornament still in hand and Cringle’s leash in the other, she throws her head back, laughing at something Tom Mitchell just said. Tom Mitchell, who used to have braces, but now apparently has a jawline and too much confidence. He’s a tax attorney in town now. Boring as fuck. But somehow I can picture Eve setting up a life with him. A small suburban homewith a white picket fence and children and that little ankle biting dog of hers.
But she wouldn’t be happy with him. Not my adventurous, playful Eve.
I grip the railing of the temporary stage with one gloved hand and resist the urge to throw something at him.
