Page 69 of Never Kiss a Krampus
“I choose you,” I said again, deliberately. “With intent. While definitely touching. Is that clear enough?”
His breath caught. “You are certain?”
“Completely.”
“Even knowing it binds us? That I will not let you go easily once claimed?”
“Even knowing that. Especially knowing that.” I smiled, feeling reckless and certain and absolutely sure this was right. “I know exactly what I’m choosing.”
I reached down, my hand tracing the line of his chains, lower, lower, until I was cupping the heavy, hard length of him through the dark leather of his pants. He jerked in my grasp, a full-body shudder wracking him. “Now stop being so careful.”
His control snapped.
With a guttural growl that was pure possessive instinct, he grabbed my wrist, stilling my movements. His other hand fumbled with the laces and then he was free.
He was glorious, hard and thick and weeping for me. He was bigger than any human man, the fur of his inner thighs a dark, soft shadow against the rigid, flushed skin. My own arousal, hot and slick, pooled between my legs, a desperate, silent plea.
He stepped forward, nudging my knees apart with his own. The blunt head of him pushed against the damp fabric of my panties, and I cried out, arching my hips, trying to take him in.
“So impatient,” he rasped, but the approval in his voice was unmistakable. “So eager to be claimed.”
His claws, those deadly, beautiful claws, hooked into the flimsy fabric of my panties. With one sharp, deliberate tug, they were gone. The cool air hit my heated flesh, and then he was there, not pushing inside, but sliding through my slick folds, coating himself in my need. The teasing friction was exquisite torture.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
I forced my eyes open, meeting the burning red of his gaze. He held himself poised at my entrance, a promise of everything I wanted and everything I shouldn’t.
“Last chance to run, little light,” he whispered, the words a lie and we both knew it. There was nowhere left to run.
“I’m not running anywhere,” I breathed, and with a final, defiant act of trust, I wrapped my legs tighter around his waist, pulling him towards me.
He entered me with a slow, inexorable pressure that stole the air from my lungs. He was big, the stretch a burning pleasure-pain that made me cry out. My inner walls clenched around him, trying to accommodate his impossible size, to draw him deeper. He paused, letting me adjust, giving me a moment that was both tender and torturous.
“Breathe,” he murmured, his lips brushing against my temple.
I couldn’t. My body was a taut string, vibrating with a tension so profound it felt like it might snap. Then he began to move, a slow, deep glide that filled me completely. Every nerve ending I possessed lit up, a firework display of sensation. This was more than sex. It was a claiming. A binding of a different kind, older and more powerful than the accidental spell that had brought him to me.
His hands gripped my hips, holding me in place as he set a rhythm that was both primal and precise. Each thrust was a declaration, a brand. Mine. The sounds we made filled the shop—the wet slap of our bodies, the jingle of his chains, my desperate whimpers, his low, possessive growls. My world narrowed to this counter, this shop, this impossible being who was taking me apart and putting me back together again, piece by agonizing piece.
I was so close. The pressure was building, a coiling heat in my core that was about to detonate. My hands scrabbled for purchase on the polished wood, my body arching, seeking just a little more.
“Look at me,” he commanded again, his voice rough with exertion and something that sounded suspiciously like awe.
Forced my eyes open, I met his burning gaze. I saw the raw, uninhibited pleasure on his face, the way his jaw was clenched, the sweat beading on his brow. I saw the wonder, too. The shock of it all. And in that moment, I knew. This wasn’t just lust. This wasn’t a magical accident. This was real.
That realization was my undoing.
The coil inside me snapped. My orgasm tore through me with the force of a tidal wave, a blinding, all-consuming rush of pleasure that left me shaking and breathless. My name tore from his lips, a raw, ragged sound, and I felt him pulse inside me, a hot, possessive flood that marked me as his.
He collapsed against me, his forehead resting against mine, our bodies still joined, our breathing ragged and uneven in the quiet shop. His chains were a soft, tangled weight against my skin. The scent of sex and pine and winter smoke filled the air, a new, potent perfume that was ours and ours alone.
For a long moment, we just stayed like that, tangled together, a sweaty, sated mess on a counter that was definitely not built for this. I could feel the frantic, unsteady beat of his heart against my chest, a perfect mirror of my own.
Slowly, carefully, he eased out of me, the loss an immediate, hollow ache. He lowered my legs, but kept his hands on my waist, steadying me. I felt boneless, replete, utterly wrecked in the best possible way.
I looked down at myself. My sweater was in tatters, my skirt was bunched around my waist, and my panties were a casualty ofwar lying somewhere on the floor. I was a debauched Christmas disaster.
And I had never been happier.
