Page 30 of The Night Before Grumpmas
My mind spirals. I can picture him pushing me against the wall, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me close. I bet he’d kiss like a man on a mission, tongue sliding against mine, taking control. And then there’s the rest—God, what would it feel like to have him trail his mouth down my body? Maybe he’d pin my wrists above my head, making sure I can’t move while he spreads my legs apart, his mouth right there . . . And he wouldn’t stop until I was completely undone, would he?
As my mind takes a turn into the kind of daydreams that should come with a warning label, I can’t stop myself from imagining me and Jacob in a room with a full-length mirror. The thought of him undressing me slowly, teasingly, sends a shiver down my spine. In this little fantasy, he’s in full control, his hands roaming over my skin like he’s memorizing every inch. His voice is low, telling me to look at myself—at us—in the mirror, as he presses his body against mine.
I imagine the anticipation building as his fingers trace up my thighs, the heat between us growing unbearable. Then, with that same rough intensity he carries in everything he does, he’d guide me down onto him, slow at first, every inch of him filling me up so completely that I’d gasp.
The reflection shows every detail—his broad, strong chest behind me, his dark eyes locked on mine as he pushes deeper. My legs tremble, the pressure mounting as he takes me in long, measured strokes, making sure I feel every inch, every inch stretching me in ways I hadn’t even thought possible.
The sensations would be overwhelming: the burn of his slow, deliberate pace, the way his hands grip my hips firmly, keeping me steady as I rock against him. He’d make me describe it—how his thick cock feels inside me, how the friction drives me wild. I can almost hear myself trying to put the sensations into words, the breathless whimpers and moans that escape me as he picks up the pace. He’d make sure I see the moment my body completely gives in, trembling against him as he drives me to the edge and over, not stopping until every last ounce of control I thought I had shatters.
And then . . . the mirror would show it all. My face flushed, lips parted in pleasure, as he made sure I watch the way my body reacts to him—completely and utterly wrecked, undone by the sheer intensity of it all.
“Fuck, Noelle, focus,” I mumble to myself, shaking the fantasy from my head, my neck heating up.
“You okay there, Sis? You went quiet,” Val’s voice cuts through my daydream, oblivious to my mental spiral.
I clear my throat, trying to shake off the very detailed images racing through my mind. “I’m fine. And no, I’m not accepting any of his offers, Val.”
“At least consider it,” she teases. “Just a kiss. It’ll be like . . . an experiment. A very important experiment.”
“No kissing,” I mutter, pacing the tiny kitchen, hoping the movement will cool me off. “No nothing, okay?”
“By the way, you never mentioned he had a sexy voice,” she presses.
“Let it go,” I huff.
“How hot is he?” she continues, and knowing my sister, she’s not letting this one go until I either agree to fuck him or send her proof that we kissed.
I hesitate. “He’s, you know . . . decent-looking. In that infuriating, constantly-annoyed way.”
Val scoffs. “Decent-looking? Please. I bet he’s hot as fuck, and you’re just downplaying it.”
She knows me too well, damn it. So what if he’s good-looking? So what if I want him to eat me alive? That doesn’t mean it should be happening. At all. There are plenty of hot men out there, and you don’t see me begging them to lick me, do you? That’d be . . . weird, right?
To get her off my back, I throw out, “We made a deal, though.”
“Oh?” Her voice perks up instantly. “What kind of deal? A hot, dirty one where you let him fuck you for one night? No kissing. Very Pretty Woman, then.”
I groan, covering my face with my hand. What the hell have I gotten myself into? I never should have told her anything.
“Val,” I hiss, glancing around as if Jacob could somehow hear through the walls. “No, it’s not like that. I just . . . agreed to go apple picking with him.” I conveniently skip the part about the gala. Two reasons: first, I don’t need her nagging me about it, and second, I’m hoping he’ll back out when he realizes he has to find a dress.
I doubt he’ll have one. Where’s he even going to get it?
“Apple picking? Like, the most romantic, Hallmark-movie activity you could possibly do?” Val’s voice oozes sarcasm. “And you’re telling me there’s nothing going on between you two?”
I groan again, dragging a hand over my face. “It’s not romantic. It’s part of my plan to show him how people can actually enjoy the holidays.”
“There’s no holiday attached to apple picking,” she points out. “I know, because our entire family treats holidays like they’re sacred, and believe me, apple picking isn’t part of that tradition or our mother would’ve dressed us like apples and she’d have thousands of pictures of us looking ridiculous.”
I laugh, because she’s right she would have that. “You sound a bit bitter about it,” I say, leaning against the counter.
“I’m not bitter. Just . . . stating facts,” she replies, her voice laced with mock indignation.
“Well then, it’s not a holiday, and it’s definitely not a date,” I grumble.
“Sure,” Val says, and I can practically hear the smirk in her voice. “Keep telling yourself that, Sis. Just remember—don’t let him off too easy. Make him work for it.”
I roll my eyes, already imagining the look on Jacob’s face if he knew what Val was saying. The guy’s like a human storm cloud. He doesn’t do playful banter or flirty smiles. Well except for earlier when he believed he might get a kiss or the chance to . . . fuck me?
