Page 43 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
The rug situation reaches critical mass when a particularly uncomfortable lump threatens permanent damage.
"Okay, we need to move," I decide, starting to shift.
"Don't you dare," she warns, wrapping her legs around me. "I'm comfortable."
"You're lying," I accuse.
"I'm committed to the bit," she insists.
"The bit is going to put us both in traction," I argue, but I'm laughing as I gather her up and move us to the couch, which is marginally more forgiving.
"Better?" I ask, settling between her thighs.
"Much," she agrees, pulling me down for another kiss.
We take our time despite the urgency humming through my veins. Every touch is an exploration, every kiss a question. When I slide my hand between her legs, she gasps my name—the wrong name—and it should bother me more than it does.
"Yes?" I ask, fingers teasing.
"Yes," she confirms, her hips lifting to meet my touch. "Please."
She's warm and ready, and when I finally press inside her, we both freeze for a moment, adjusting to the intimacy of it. The connection. The reality is that this crossed every boundary we'd drawn.
"Okay?" I manage, holding still despite every instinct screaming at me to move.
"Perfect," she whispers, her hands gripping my shoulders. "Move. Please move."
I do, slowly at first, finding a rhythm that makes her breath catch and her fingers dig into my back. The couch protests our activities with creative squeaking, which makes us both laugh even as we're gasping.
"Your furniture is judging us," I point out between thrusts.
"Everything in this apartment is a critic," she agrees, then loses her train of thought when I angle differently. "Oh. There. Right there."
I focus on that spot, that angle, watching her face as pleasure builds across her features. Her eyes squeeze shut, her mouth falls open, and small sounds escape that I want to record and replay for the rest of my life.
"Look at me," I ask, needing to see her.
She does, her eyes hazy but focused on mine. The intimacy of it steals my breath more than the physical sensation.
"Don't stop," she pleads, her body tightening around mine.
"Not planning on it," I promise, though my control is fraying at the edges.
I can feel her getting closer—the tension coiling through her muscles, the way her breathing changes, how her nails rake down my back. When I slip my hand between us to add pressure where she needs it most, she makes a sound that's my name and a prayer and a demand all at once.
"Come for me," I murmur against her ear. "I want to feel you."
She does, her whole body arching as pleasure crashes through her. The sensation of her contracting around me, the sound of her crying out, the way she looks at me like I've given her something precious—it's enough to undo me completely.
My own release follows, intense and overwhelming, and I barely have the presence of mind to muffle my groan against her shoulder. For a moment, we're just breathing, tangled together, sweaty despite the cold, the fire casting dancing shadows across the ceiling.
"That was..." she starts, then trails off.
"Yeah," I agree, because words seem inadequate.
"The couch survived," she observes.
"Barely," I counter, noting the concerning angle of one cushion.
