Page 8 of No Strings Christmas

His mouth follows his fingers, his tongue tracing small circles over my stomach first then moving higher, running over the underside of one of my breasts so I groan, lifting my back; whatever hunger he appeased by making me come so damn hard is right back, building with unrelenting pressure, filling me with a deep, aching need. I roll my hips in a silent invitation, needing to feel his beautiful dick deep inside me.

‘I need—’

But before I can finish the sentence, an unfamiliar noise peals through the suite. I stare at him blankly, but Zach is already pushing off me, reaching for his boxers.

‘Room service,’ he explains.

‘Fuck the bloody oysters.’ I groan. ‘Tell them to leave it.’

He smirks—completely aware of how crazy I am for him. ‘I’ll be right back.’

I pout as he leaves, then fall back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, a slow smile curving over my lips. I hadn’t gone to the bar in the hope of company. In fact, I’d walked in pretty damned steamed up, just wanting to be alone with a Scotch for a half-hour or so before coming to my suite and running a bubble bath. Zach was a very unexpected bonus.

Exactly what I need to forget about my parents, my sister, my brother-in-law... I shudder, pushing them all from my mind. I don’t want to focus on my family right now. Perfect from the outside, a red-hot mess on the inside. But lots of families are messy; it’s not that. It’s my inability to help. It’s the reality of seeing your mum and sister hurt and disrespected every day—of seeing your dad be the instrument of your mother’s pain. It’s feeling as though two of the people you love most in the world are living in pain and not being able to help them.

I don’t want to lose my buzz. I don’t want to let reality intrude. I’ve grappled with my feelings about my mum, my dad, their marriage, for years and never made any headway. It just leaves me feeling heavy in the heart and, right now, I want to feel the opposite. I want a break from that.

I run my hand over my breasts, shivering at the sensations that his touch has aroused, that my fingers now echo. I move my hand lower, over my stomach and down to my sex, arching my back as sensations riot through my body.

‘Uh-uh.’ His voice is a deep growl from the door. I angle my face in that direction without moving my hand away. He’s wearing just the cotton boxers, a very visible arousal making them tent in an obvious way.

I lift a single brow. ‘Did you answer the door like that?’

He lifts his bare shoulders—they’re very nice shoulders, and I’m a bit of a shoulder and arm aficionado, I have to say. His are rounded, muscular without being bulky, tanned in the way of someone who spends time outdoors, smooth and warm to the touch.

‘Nothing they haven’t seen before, I’m sure.’

He’s carrying the bottle of champagne. His eyes hold mine as he strides across the room, placing it deliberately on the bedside table as he strips out of the shorts.

Swoon.

I move my fingers harder, waves of pleasure building inside me, an inexorable heat radiating through my body demanding release. He watches with a look on his face that makes my body throb, then reaches for the champagne, curling his fingers over the cork to avoid a loud noise.

My pleasure builds. I am riding a wave, my body glowing with heat and desire. I watch as he removes a condom from his wallet, his body taut, his concentration all on me as he opens the foil and slides the rubber over his length. My need grows. I groan, so sure release is close at hand.

He hasn’t brought any champagne glasses in. His eyes hold mine as he lifts the bottle to his lips, taking a long drink—it’s one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen. But when he brings his body over mine, the weight of him on me combined with his masculine fragrance and the strength of his cock between my legs, I feel as though I’m in complete free fall. He kisses me, and it’s only then I realise his mouth is still full of champagne. He passes it to me; some dribbles down my cheeks onto the bed, but the flavour is so erotic I don’t care—I barely even notice. I ache for him in a way that takes my breath away.

He pushes up on one elbow as though assessing me, but there’s a look in his eyes of feverish desire that I completely understand. He reaches for the champagne bottle, taking another drink, but this time he brings his mouth to my breast, wrapping his lips around my nipple so I have the strange sensation of warmth and cool as the champagne dribbles over my breast, fizzing as it slides towards the bed. I whimper.

Another sip of champagne and my other breast has the same treatment; I’ve never been so turned on in my life. His fingers pull at my nipples so that I cry out, because despite the anaesthesia of ice-cold champagne there’s a pain in his touch, a beautiful, heady pain owing to how sensitised I am.

More champagne, this time he drinks it, then holds the bottle to my lips, tipping a small amount in. I savour the flavour, watching him. His eyes narrow, so I know he likes that—watching me drink, or seeing me follow his instructions?

‘I want to fuck you hard.’

He’s already said that and I want it as much now as I did then. ‘So what’s stopping you?’

His smile is dark. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

A shiver of something like hot anticipation radiates the length of my spine. ‘Do you think I’m made of glass?’

Something zings between us, fierce and intense.

He laces his fingers through mine, pulling me up.

‘I thought you wanted to fuck me?’

He nods, pulling me across the room to where an antique dressing table sits. ‘I’m not really a missionary kind of guy.’

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