Page 88 of A Manny for Christmas

I cast one last glance upwards through my eyelashes before leaning forward. One hand goes to cup his balls, which are already high and tight as fuck. You wouldnotthink he’d got lucky last night. My other hand wraps loosely around his shaft and gives him a light, leisurely, teasing pump I know will drive him crazy and piss him off in equal measure. My tongue darts out and licks up his slit before painting that hot, velvety crown with his own pre-cum.

Max jolts like he’s been electrocuted, and I smile to myself. Good to know I’ve still got it. It’s not the first time I’ve gone down on him since we’ve been together second time around, but so far, the others have been opportunistic. Hurried. And they’ve usually ended in him hauling me up so he can finish inside me.

He hasn’t come in my mouth this time around.

Not yet, anyway.

Predictably enough, his hands go to my hair as I give him a little more. Slurps instead of licks. Shallow sucks. Light pumps with my hands. My thumb running over his balls. I was in a rush to get my mouth on him, but now I’m here, I’ll take my time.

Even if I should have thought ahead and grabbed a cushion for my knees. I’m possibly getting too old to be on my knees, blowing someone on a wooden floor.

My knees will be fine. I focus instead on the delights in front of me.

Of having my mouth full of Max.

Of being as intimate with him as I possibly can.

Of soaking up the salty, musky taste of him, inhaling his scent, which is laundry liquid and shower gel and, best of all,him. Male and gorgeous and so riddled with pheromones that I don’t stand a chance.

Of feeling his pleasure. His cock hardening impossibly, the tiny tremors that vibrate through his entire body, his hands fisting and tangling in my hair with a desperation that has my soul soaring, because I can’t believe it’s come to this. I can’t believe I get to do this. That I’m allowed to fill myself up with Max Rutherford. That he wants me this badly.

‘This is so fucking amazing, sweetheart,’ he grits out, one hand stroking my hair back off my face while the other one holds the base of my skull through a tangle of hair, as if he’s worried I’ll abscond before I let him finish.

‘Mmph,’ I agree, and I reward him by suctioning my mouth around him and sucking as I pull most of the way off him. I swirl my tongue around his weeping tip and push him back into my mouth, firmly, and he makes a very male, very agonised noise that’s catnip to me.

I fucking love doing this to him. Love the feel of his cock growing slicker as my saliva and his pre-cum mingle to lubricate my movements. Love the ease with which my mouth and hand are moving back and forth over his length. Love running my lips and tongue over the hard veins and ridges of his erection. He’s so close; I can feel it. His entire body is vibrating now.

He slides a hand under my arm to hoist me up, and I release his cock long enough to sayno waybefore diving back in.

‘Oh God,’ he shudders out. ‘Oh fuck. Molly—fuck.Mol. JesusfuckingChrist.’

I focus on taking him as far into my mouth as I physically can, which is definitely not all the way, and on making my pumps slower, harder, as he stills and goes rigid. And then he’s coming, pouring his arousal into my mouth in shuddery, jerky motions as he works through his orgasm.

When I’m sure I’ve wrung every last drop of his climax from him, I release him and swallow before taking him in my mouth one last time and sucking him clean. His cock twitches, and I grin. I get carefully to my feet—holyfuckthat floor is hard—and he gathers me in his arms, squeezing me to him in a vice-like grip.

‘Jesus, Mol,’ he says into my hair, his voice hoarse and wrung out. I raise my face to his and he kisses me. Hard. His tongue finds my mouth and devours me hungrily as his breathing returns to normal. His hands rake through my hair and smooth it over my shoulders, sliding the straps of my bra down. He reaches between us with one hand and cups my breast, his thumb strumming my nipple, and the ache that’s been building in my breasts and between my legs while I worked him with my mouth becomes more intense. I arch my back to get more of his touch.

‘I want everything off,’ he orders. ‘Want my hands full of you all day long.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ I squeak.

A whole day. With Max. No kids. No early wake up call. Just white gorgeousness all around me, a bed that’s calling my name, and the hottest, most thoughtful man in the world putting his hands on me, and hopefully other body partsinme, and hours and hours for us to enjoy each other’s bodies.

This time, it’s he who walks me backwards, shuffling because his trousers and boxers are around his ankles. I giggle as we go and match his pace. He lowers me to the edge of the bed with his hands, and I allow myself to flop back, my body hitting a thick cloud of a duvet and my arms falling above my head.

He stares at me as he stands there in front of me. Those hazel eyes have a dangerous look in them. A hungry look. He makes quick work of his shirt buttons, and I stretch, lazy and catlike with gratification as he peels it down his arms.

Max.

Naked.

(Well, almost naked. He just needs to get those trousers the whole way off.)

It’s the best view in the world.

‘What are you going to do to me?’ I ask, my voice betraying my excitement with a quiver as he bends and gets his shoes and trousers off (and, hopefully, his socks too).

He straightens up. ‘Everything,’ he says with a wolfish smile.

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