Page 39 of Santa Daddy
“Send me the bill,” I muttered, dragging the shredded black down her body and flinging it aside.
She went for my shirt with equal viciousness. Buttons pinged off hardwood. Her nails scraped my chest, raking down muscle. Heat and pain mixed; I nearly lost the thin line of control keeping this from turning feral.
She was marking me.
Claiming. Like I was hers to ruin.
Perfect.
We came together in a tangle of skin and breath and shredded fabric. This wasn’t careful. Wasn’t gentle or sweet or any of the fantasies a sane man should have about a woman he’d pulled out of a murder scene.
This was possession. Two people already in too deep, smashing the rest of the way through.
I claimed her mouth again, swallowing the sounds she made as my hands mapped her skin. Smooth curves, soft valleys, the sharp jut of hip bone. She arched into every touch like it burned, like she wanted more of the flame.
Mine.
Whether she’d admitted it yet or not didn’t matter. The truth was already written across her body, etched into the way she pulled me closer instead of pushing me away.
She gasped my name, half curse, half prayer. The sound unspooled what was left of my restraint.
My hand slid between us, across the inside of her thigh, to the heat I already knew well. She was slick and ready, no hiding that from me. Fury hadn’t dried her out; if anything, it made her wetter.
I shoved a finger into her.
She tensed, then melted, back arching off the bed, eyes fluttering closed before she forced them open again to glare at me.
“Fuck you,” she groaned.
“I am,” I said. “And you like it.”
She did. Her body told on her with every squeeze, every little sound she tried to swallow.
I added a second finger, curling them, stroking that spot that made her eyes glassy. Her nails dug deeper into my shoulders. Somewhere in the background, snow drifted past the glass, white flecks against a steel sky. The Christmas tree’s reflection flickered in the window behind her, a ghostly halo around the mess we were making.
She was wound tight. Too tight.
I pulled my fingers free, earning a strangled noise of protest.
“This will hurt,” I said, because honesty cost me nothing and lies weren’t worth shit to either of us. “You know that.”
“I already know what you feel like,” she shot back, breathless. “Get on with it.”
Brave little thing.
I freed my belt and shoved my pants down enough. Fisted my cock once, slow, because my body needed one second to catch up to what my brain had already decided.
Then I pushed into her in one hard stroke.
She gasped, eyes squeezing shut, fingers clawing at my back. Pain flashed across her face. I held there, buried, every muscle straining against the need to move.
“Look at me,” I ordered.
Her lashes fluttered. She obeyed. Big dark eyes on mine, pupils blown, jaw clenched against the burn.
“Breathe,” I said. “Let it in.”
Slowly, her body adjusted around mine, the brutal edge of pain softening at the seams, shifting into something else. Her legs wrapped around my waist, ankles locking at my lower back, dragging me deeper.
