Page 82 of War on Christmas

When he’s finally naked, he reaches around to grab my ass, his big hands firm and possessive as he lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist, greedy for the sensation of him filling me. I’m drowning, gasping for breath, desperate to feel him inside of me, but he controls every movement. He notches himself against me so I can feel the blunt head of his cock at my entrance, then stops.

I bat at his hard, muscled shoulder.

“Stop teasing me,” I grind out, squirming my hips to try to take more of him.

He shakes his head. “Never.” Then he leans forward to nip my bottom lip. “Now tell me you’re mine, Sunshine.”

I grab his face between my palms.

“I’m yours,” I breathe, and he rewards me with a small thrust, giving me the first inch of his cock.

We both groan, but he’s not done yet. “And this pussy?” he demands.

“Yours,” I answer, whimpering as he pushes further, stretching and filling me.

He demands ownership of every part of me—my ass, my breasts, my mouth, my hair, my neck—and for every concession I make—“Yours, yours, yours”—he gives me a little more of himself, until he’s fully seated inside me.

Then he starts to move. He starts to move, and that tenuous grasp on his self-control snaps, the slow, easy glide of his hips quickly escalating into hard, determined thrusts that push me into the wall behind me. If the night of winter solstice was a surrender, this is a claiming.

And I am here for it.

It’s rough and sweaty and raw, the slap of our bodies loud and uneven as he drives into me. His hands grip my ass too hard—there will probably be bruises tomorrow—and I love it. I love every single second of it. That smooth, cautious man who calculates every action, every word, is gone, replaced by a creature who is as dark and greedy as I am. A creature who only I get to hold and love and fuck like this. My nails dig into his scalp, his shoulders, his back, claiming him as surely as he’s claiming me, and every stroke of his cock inside me ratchets up my need, until I’m straining against him, back bowed and head thrown back.

“And you’re mine,” I moan, rolling my hips against him. “You’re mine, Jeremy. Say it.”

“I’m yours, Freya.” He’s panting, muscles laboring with the force of his thrusts. “Always.”

And with a final push, I’m falling, my body shaking as I tighten around him and he jerks against me, every muscle in his body going rigid as he comes inside of me. But I’m not scared of the fall anymore. I’m not scared of the rush of air against my face or worried about the impending doom of a rough landing. Because nothing—and no one—could ever feel as right as this. Ashim. If I’m falling, he’s right next to me, hand in mine, holding on as long and as tight as he can.

Yes, I’m going to piss off his stodgy old boss at some point. And I’m pretty damn sure my ragtag, artsy Sphere family will manage to shock and surprise him. He’ll be too neat. I’ll be too messy. Hecate will pee in his favorite shoes, and Jeremy will do a double take when I hang my flower-bedecked cow skull in his ultra-modern, ultra-boring condo someday.

But we’re in this thing now. In this big, complicated, messy relationship. And regardless of how the dice land, we’ll figure it out. Together.

Fifty

JEREMY

Christmas

Idomybestnot to blush when we arrive at the Nilsen’s on Christmas morning, but it’s hard not to when it’s obvious that everybody crowded into the tiny, familiar living room knows exactly how we spent last night. Thad avoids looking at us altogether—thank Christ—but Sam and Bethany, who are chatting in the corner, wiggle their eyebrows then burst into giggles when my face turns redder than the maroon Christmas dress Mrs. Nilsen is wearing.

I rub at the back of my neck. I guess this is what having siblings is like. It’s kind of…nice. Embarrassing, but also nice.

“Merry Christmas, Jeremy.” Mr. Nilsen approaches carefully, a Tom & Jerry in each hand, threatening to spill.

He hands them off to Freya and me with a relieved sigh, and the sharp scent of brandy assaults my nose. The cups, clear glass shaped like moose, remind me of the cups Chevy Chase uses inChristmas Vacation, and they’re almost enough to make me forget that his daughter is standing next to us sporting obvious whisker burn across her chest.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Nilsen.” I clear my throat, careful not to look at Freya. “Nice cups.”

And then I proceed to down the Tom & Jerry, which contains enough brandy to give me a plausible excuse for my permanently blushing face.

“Thanks,” he says, leaning back on his heels with a smile. “Freya gave them to me. They’re my favorite.”

Andy runs forward, arms outstretched to Freya for a hug, and she’s crouching to fold him in her arms when my mom wanders in from the kitchen, balancing a plate of Christmas cookies on one hand.

“Mom?”

I’d called her this morning to let her know I’d be spending some time with the Nilsens before heading home, and she’d said it was fine. But here she is, looking pretty and made-up in a long plaid skirt and green sweater, her eyes shining brightly as she leans up to kiss me on the cheek.

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