Page 72 of Never Kiss a Krampus
He licked a slow stripe through my sensitive flesh, and I gasped, my hands flying to the soft fur of his shoulders. His tongue was long and agile, a hot, rough velvet that circled my clit with a devastating precision. I was already so sensitive from our earlier encounter, the sensation overwhelmed me, a wave of pure pleasure that crashed over me, leaving me breathless and shaking.
“Bastian,” I gasped, my hips bucking against his mouth.
He hummed, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through me. He slid two fingers inside me, curling them to find that sensitive spot that made me see stars. His tongue continued its relentless assault, stroking and circling and teasing, until I was a writhing, begging mess.
“Please,” I whimpered, not sure what I was begging for. More. Less. For this to never end.
He responded by sucking my clit into his mouth, a hard, possessive pull that sent me flying over the edge. My orgasm tore through me, a blinding, all-consuming rush of pleasure that left me shaking and breathless. I cried out his name, clutching his shoulders as he rode out the waves of my release.
When I finally came back to myself, he was kissing me again, his mouth soft and gentle against mine. I could taste myself on him, a heady, intimate flavor that made me shudder.
“Delicious,” he murmured against my lips. “My favorite treat.”
I could only respond with a contented sigh, my body limp and boneless against him.
He pulled the comforter more securely around us, tucking me into his side. I rested my head on his chest, the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart a soothing lullaby. The lights from the tree cast us in a soft, multicolored glow. For the first time since I’d inherited the shop, I felt a sense of peace. Of rightness.
I drifted in that state between waking and sleeping, my body humming with a languorous satisfaction. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest with each breath, the gentle weight of his arm around me, the soft brush of his fur against my cheek. This was home. Not just the shop, not the apartment, but this. This feeling of being wrapped in warmth and safety, of being held.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he murmured, his lips brushing against my hair. “Not yet.”
“Mmm,” I managed, burrowing deeper into his embrace. “Too comfortable.”
“We need to talk about Grinchly.”
The word cut through my haze of contentment like a shard of ice. I stiffened, pulling back slightly to look at him. “Really? Now?”
“The binding is… restless,” he said, his expression serious. “The more intimate our connection becomes, the more its purpose is… amplified.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, a knot of dread tightening in my stomach.
“Remember why I am here. To observe. To judge. To ensure you fulfill the terms.” He paused, choosing his words with care. “The binding seems to be interpreting our… transgression… as a distraction from that purpose. It is… urging me to redirect my focus.”
“Redirect it how?”
“It wants me to be what I am,” he said simply. “A judge. A punisher.”
I sat up, the comforter pooling around my waist. “You’re not going to punish me, are you? Because that would really kill the mood.”
He actually smiled, a small, wry twist of his lips. “No, little light. I am not going to punish you. But the binding is insistent. And since I refuse to take it out on you…” He trailed off, his gazedrifting towards the window, in the direction of Grinchly’s real estate office.
“Oh, no,” I said, reading the look in his eyes. “Bastian, no.”
“I will not harm him,” he said, a little too quickly. “But the magical pressure is… significant. The urge to deliver justice is becoming difficult to resist.”
“What does that even mean?” I pressed, my heart starting to pound. “What are you going to do?”
“I am going to investigate,” he said, his tone firm, brooking no argument. “Properly this time. The magic that fueled the blizzard left a residue. A trail. I believe I can follow it.”
“How?”
“There are… pathways. Ley lines of emotion and intention that run beneath your town, unseen. The magic Grinchly is using, whether knowingly or not, is bleeding all over them. I can sense it. It is like… sewage in a pristine spring.”
The image was revolting, and not just because of the metaphor.
“But the binding… it’s pushing you to do more than just investigate, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he admitted, his voice dropping. “It wants a reckoning. It wants the source of the town’s despair to be… addressed. Permanently.”
