Page 20 of Santa Daddy
"I can't." The confession broke me. "I can't say it and I hate myself."
His teeth sank into my shoulder.
Not hard enough to break skin.
Hard enough to make me cry out.
"Good." He yanked my pajama pants down. "Hate yourself. Hate me. I don't give a fuck."
Then I was naked and he was lifting me, my legs wrapping around his waist, my back hitting the wall so hard it knocked the air from my lungs.
His mouth was everywhere. My neck. My collarbone. My breast.
When his tongue circled my nipple, I arched into him, my hands fisting in his wet hair.
This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.
His hand slid between us. Found me slick and ready and absolutely mortified.
"Fuck, you're soaked." The word was reverent. Awed.
One finger slid inside.
The stretch was foreign. Intense.
"Oh God?—"
He added another.
I cried out, my head falling back against the wall.
"So tight." His voice was strained. "When was the last time?"
Never. It's been never.
But I couldn't say it.
Couldn't admit I was twenty-four and pathetic and completely inexperienced.
His fingers curled. Found something that made stars detonate behind my eyes.
My hips bucked.
"Please." I didn't know what I was begging for. "Please?—"
His thumb pressed and I shattered.
The orgasm ripped through me, my body clenching around his fingers, my mouth open in a silent scream.
He worked me through it, drawing out every pulse until I was boneless and gasping.
When I could breathe again, his fingers slipped out.
He brought them to his mouth.
Sucked them clean while maintaining eye contact.
Oh fuck.
