Page 48 of War on Christmas

I lick my lips. He’s an impressive sight, big and toned, but my head is still buzzing with annoyance. Well,screamingwith annoyance. He climbs onto the mattress, grinning when I lean back on my hands and scurry away from him toward the head of the bed. He follows, pinning me beneath him, and I sink under the weight of his body.

Gods, he feels good.

My limbs wrap around his, moving restlessly against the prickle of his hairy arms and legs.

“I fucking hate you,” I whisper.

“No you don’t.” He dips his head and sucks my nipple into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, and my hips try to shoot off the mattress.

“This is definitely a hate fuck.”

“Nope.” He leans back for a moment and considers what I’m still wearing—high heels, stockings, garter belt, panties—and raises one thick golden eyebrow. Then, before I know what he’s going to do, he grabs the top of my panties and tears them straight down the middle before tugging them off and throwing them behind him. It’s the exclamation point on my own failed attempt to rip that cursed T-shirt.Ass.“I’ll buy you new ones,” he promises. “As a Yule present.” He slides a hand up my leg from calf to hip. “But these stockings are staying.”

“Have I mentioned that I hate you?” My hands are on his shoulders, massaging and kneading. Pulling him closer.

“Not true.” His mouth is on my breasts now, teasing and sucking. “And it’s not nice to lie, Frey.”

“What can I say? Sometimes the truth hurts.” I reach down, wanting to feel his cock. I want to feel the hard length of him in my hands, skin to skin, nothing between us. But he holds me down and drops lower, out of reach, his kisses trailing down my stomach.

“Notthe truth.” He’s between my legs now, spreading them wide and dropping one on either side of his broad shoulders. I can feel his breath on me, warm and intoxicating, and I start to squirm. He looks up at me and winks.

“Oh, I definitely hate you,” I assure him, grabbing his hair. He chuckles, even as he lowers his head and runs his tongue along me in one long, firm stroke that leaves me panting.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he mutters, pausing long enough to suck gently at my clit before returning to the topic at hand. “If you hate me so much, then why are you going tobegme to fuck you?”

I laugh, trying to sound way more confident than I’m feeling. It comes out more like a gasp. “Not going to happen.”

“Hmm,” he hums against my pussy. “We’ll see.”

And with a final smile, Jeremy immerses himself in discovering me with his mouth, growling with appreciation when my hands tighten in his hair and I pull him closer. He’s bold and unembarrassed in his explorations, trying out different strokes and pressures with lips and tongue. Within minutes, I feel like a code he’s cracked that he can read at will, and I hate it. I hate how I’m melting, completely taken over by heat and wanting. I hate how my legs are trembling. I hate the desperate, needy sounds I’m making in the back of my throat. I hate how I can feel something cracking inside me, a tiny fissure that looks almost imperceptible from the outside but hints at something gaping and huge beneath the surface.

But mostly I hate how empty I feel without him inside of me.

Because while Jeremy has been more than generous with his mouth, he’s been holding out with his hands. He’s been using them to cup my bottom, tipping me to the angle he wants, or reaching up to massage my breasts, pinching and rolling my nipples. He’s even skated a fingertip around my clit and played with the sensitive folds around my entrance. But no matter how much I roll and tilt my hips toward his fingers, he won’t put theminsideme.

A particularly clever swirl of his tongue leaves me teetering on the edge, but when I lift my hips, trying to get that final bit of friction to topple me over, he pulls back, chuckling when I give his hair a frustrated tug. Then he’s kissing his way back up my body until his forehead is pressed to mine and I can feel his cock pressed to my core.Yes.I squirm, and he kisses me long and slow, letting me taste myself on his tongue.

“What do you want, Sunshine? Say it.”

I’m hollowed out. Wanting. He’sright there, the length of him rubbing against my slick heat, but every time I shimmy, trying to position myself to take him, he pins me with his hips.

“Tell me what you want.”

His voice is bossy, but his hands are gentle in my hair, his kisses soft. My hands slide from his shoulders to the round muscles of his ass, and I press him closer, silently signaling where I want him. But he pulls back.

“What. Do. You. Want?”

He’s circling his hips now, tiny, nudging movements that press the head of his cock directly against my clit. I’m so close. The heat is gathering deep in my belly, hot and electric, and my head hums. I grab his face between my hands and stare at him,willinghim to give me what I want.

But still he denies me.

His tongue is in my mouth, and I hate how much I love tasting myself on him. How I can’t get enough of it. But goddamn it, I don’twantto give him this. I stay silent, beseeching him with tiny thrusts of my hips, but he pulls back from the kiss and stares down at me, his eyes full of promise.

“Tell me what you want, Freya, or I swear to you I will meet my maker with the worst case of blue balls this world has ever seen before I fuck you.”

He means it. He may have waved the white flag when it comes to us having sex, but he’s determined to take some ground of his own. I can tell from the set of his jaw that he will burn this battleground to ashes before he steps down.

“Fine.” My hands are back on his buttocks, kneading and pushing. “I want your cock…please.”

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