Page 38 of Santa Daddy
Her makeup was smudged. Hair wild from her own hands. Dress rumpled from my hands.
She was shaking.
Not prey-tremor. Not fear of a blow.
This was something else. Fury and want and frustration wrapped in silk. The kind of trembling that said she’d been replaying every moment in that bathroom and at that restaurant, picking it apart until nothing made sense except the way we combusted when we got close.
Our eyes locked. The air snapped.
Everything we’d been skating around—all the anger, the pull, the fucked-up chemistry—cracked open in a heartbeat.
I walked toward her.
Three strides and her pupils were already blown wide, her chin tipping up like she refused to back away again.
“You can’t keep running from this,” I said. My voice came out rough. Her fault.
“I’m not running,” she said. Her throat jumped with a swallow. “I’m thinking.”
Dangerous for both of us.
“What conclusion did you reach?” I asked.
“That we’re both fucked.” No flinch. No sugar.
She was right.
I reached for her before self-preservation could get a word in. One hand speared into her hair at the nape, tilting her head back exactly where I wanted it. My mouth crashed down on hers, swallowing whatever else she’d been about to confess.
The fight in the living room just changed shape.
She kissed me back like she was trying to exorcise something. Teeth scraping my bottom lip, copper blooming on my tongue. The sting arrowed straight to my cock; I growled into her mouth and yanked her closer, erasing the space between us.
Her hands hit my chest, nails digging through my shirt. She shoved and pulled at the same time, like her body hadn’t decided whether it wanted me gone or under her skin.
She wanted this as much as I did.
Hated herself for it. Hated me more.
Still wanted.
I backed her toward the bed, keeping my fist in her hair, keeping her off-balance. Our mouths didn’t part, just shifted—my teethat her jaw, her gasps against my tongue, both of us breathing like we’d run through snow instead of across marble.
The backs of her legs hit the mattress. She wavered.
I made the choice for both of us.
I pushed her down onto the sheets and followed her weight, caging her beneath me. Her dress rode up her thighs, and lace flashed beneath. My vision tunneled at the sight.
“Tell me no,” I said against her throat, giving her that last out. We both knew it was pointless, but I offered it anyway. Habit from a life where most choices were taken. “Tell me to stop.”
She bit my shoulder hard enough that I’d have her teeth marks there in the morning.
Good enough.
The silk dress hadn’t done anything to deserve what I did to it. My fingers dug into the fabric and ripped. The neat tear of expensive material sounded loud in the winter-quiet room.
“Hey,” she gasped.
