Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Her eyes widen like I’ve given her a Christmas gift. “Yes, sir.”
A minute later, she’s fucking my face till I can barely breathe, and I’m all too happy to be smothered in her pleasure. She comes hard, loud and beautifully, and I’m certain I’m already addicted to her.
So much that when I gently ease her off me and set her down next to me on the bed, I whisper, “Now give me one more, honey. I know you can.”
She blinks woozily. “What?”
“You can do it,” I say, then I stretch an arm to the nightstand and slide open the drawer.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her tone dripping with intrigue.
Well, I suppose the truth is—I gave in to all this desire for her before I even got in the car to drive up here. I just didn’t admit it till now. I came prepared, after all. “I got you a toy. For Christmas,” I say, then take out a brand-new bullet vibrator. With a red nose and two antlers.
Her jaw falls open in wild delight. “Is that a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer vibrator?”
“Yes. Should we see if it makes you glow?”
She tosses her head back and lets out a throaty, “Won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?”
I turn it on then give her another order. “Spread those pretty thighs,” I tell her.
She obeys beautifully, parting for me.
I glide it over her eager clit till she’s arching, gasping, and moaning. Then, my wild, wonderful woman pushes up to her elbows and grabs my face, yanking me closer, her hungry lips devouring mine as I pick up the pace, finding just the perfect rhythm. In a few seconds, our kisses turn sloppy, and she’s clawing at my hair then falling back onto the pillow as she shouts out with something much naughtier than glee.
I sigh happily. A very contented man. Even more so when Fable curls up next to me and says, “Those are the real reindeer games.”
“Yes, they are,” I say.
After, we straighten up, then we both return to the bed with the fleece I retrieved a little while ago at the foot of it.
This time, I don’t set any new rules like we can’t do that anymore. I don’t erect any guidelines to ensure it won’t happen again. I’ve broken them all already. So I simply slide back under the covers with her and embrace the moment.
“Turn the other way,” I say. She does, then I shift closer, wrap an arm around her, and press a soft kiss to the back of her neck. She still smells faintly like strawberries and champagne from her shower earlier. I want to hold her and keep her in my arms this morning and tonight and all the nights.
Instead, I try to stay in the moment since all this practice is going to end far too soon. “It’s good practice,” I murmur, trying to let go of the racing thoughts of the future.
“Cuddling?”
“Yes.”
“It is,” she says with a sigh.
I close my eyes and breathe her in. If she were mine, I’d never want her to leave.
Later, I wake to the sun streaming through the window, Fable clutching my arm to her chest, and the two of us together under the covers.
33
HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT
Fable
I’m not what you’d call a morning person, but I am a maple syrup person. Trouble is, I’m this close to missing it since I woke up late. I guess two orgasms take a lot out of a girl. Who knew? Not me.
But I also woke alone. Wilder was nowhere to be seen at nine a.m., but that didn’t surprise me. He’s an early riser, out conquering more worlds. (Or maybe acquiring more toys? Possibly a candy cane cock ring? Some happy holidays handcuffs? A set of ribbon restraints?)
I, however, like pillows too much so I fell back asleep. Then I finally got my butt out of bed at ten. Now I’ve showered and dried my hair, and my nose is leading me to the kitchen, following the homey scent.
Only I stop short several feet away, hanging back in the hallway to spy on the scene unfolding in front of me. Wilder and his daughter are at the stove, wearing aprons, their backs to me as they make pancakes.
“Can you hand me the other spatula? It’s better for flipping,” Mac says to her dad as she sets down a red spatula on the counter.
“But that one is the best one,” he says, pointing to the red one she’s relinquished.
“Nope. The black one is. It’s bigger and has more surface area for ideal flippability. I’ll show you.” She’s so much like her father that it makes my chest flutter.
She moves around him to grab the wider black spatula, then returns to the griddle, scooping up a pancake and sending it soaring, up and over.