Page 60 of Santa Daddy
His hand left my throat and slid down between us. Fingers dragging along my stomach, then lower, finding wet heat like he’d put it there on purpose.
He didn’t waste time.
Two fingers pushed into me, stretching, filling. His thumb found my clit, circling in that cruel, perfect rhythm he was already too good at.
“Give me your anger,” he murmured. “Give me all of it. Your hatred. Your fear. Leave only the need.”
I didn’t want to.
Because somewhere along the line, I’d stopped hating him. Or I hated him and wanted him in equal measure, and the wanting was winning.
“I’m ready to fuck you now, kotyonok,” he growled, voice thick. “I’ll fuck you so well you’ll forget your own name.”
Promises. Promises.
He pulled his fingers free, unzipped his pants, and freed his cock. My body remembered the size, the stretch, and clenched in reflex anticipation.
Then he was there.
Pressing into me in one long, slow thrust.
The burn was familiar now. The sweet, horrible fullness. My walls fought, then yielded, and he didn’t stop until he was as deep as he could go.
For a second, neither of us moved.
“Look at me,” he said.
I did.
His eyes were wild. Possessive. Worshipful in the most fucked-up way.
Then he started to move.
Hard, sure strokes at first, driving me into the mattress, making the headboard bump softly against the wall in a rhythm the Christmas music on the speakers tried and failed to match.
He found my mouth again, kissing me like he was trying to eat the sound out of my lungs. His hand went back to my throat, not to cut off air, just to remind my body who it was opening for.
“Come for me,” he ordered, fingers abandoning my wrists to work my clit again. “Now.”
Too much. Too fast.
Every muscle tightened, strung so tight they had nowhere left to go. The pressure built and built until it snapped.
I came with a raw, broken sound, body clenching around him, the world bleaching out at the edges. He didn’t let up. Kept fucking me through it, using my convulsing body like the perfect sheath it had become for him.
Somewhere in there, he lost it too.
His thrusts turned ragged. He cursed against my neck, bit my shoulder, and then I felt his release—hot and deep and final.
He stayed inside me until the last tremor passed, until our breaths synced, until the music in the background slid quietly from one carol to another.
We lay there tangled in each other and sheets and mistakes. My chest heaved. His hand slackened around my throat and slid down to rest over my racing heart.
For the first time since I’d stumbled into that tree lot, I didn’t think about escape.
“Regrets?” he asked eventually, voice rough.
“A million,” I said. “Ask me tomorrow.”
