Page 31 of The Night Before Grumpmas
No, I’m pretty sure he said he wanted me to fuck his face. How does that even work?
And who says that to a stranger? Is that a thing? Should I google it? Or should I just ask him? Now that would be entertaining.
Watching him get all flustered while he tries to explain that in his usual grumpy, no-nonsense way. I can already see him running a hand through his messy hair, his jaw clenched, probably muttering something along the lines of, “You know damn well what it means,” in that low, gravelly voice of his.
The thought makes my pulse spike, a dangerous mix of curiosity and something else—something I’m not ready to admit—flickering in my chest. Because, despite all his grumbling and his constant fuck this attitude, I can’t stop wondering what it would be like not to push his buttons, but let him deliver what he has promised.
But I can’t let myself go there. Not today. Not ever. Right?
Chapter Sixteen
Jacob
This week has been. . . weird. First, I find out Noelle is practically a virgin. Only had sex with one guy, and from the way she talks about him, he sounds like a total douchebag. Then, I almost lost a client because my ex tried to convince him she was better than me.
Lucky for me, a sex tape of her and one of her current clients got leaked, and now she’s under investigation. So, that little problem took care of itself, and I’ve added a few new athletes to my roster. Winning.
But the biggest thing? Noelle’s been avoiding me the way I try to avoid her holiday craziness. I haven’t seen her all week, and I’m pretty sure she’s dodging me. I’ve heard her a couple of times late at night, talking to herself or someone on the phone.
Normally, I would’ve interrupted her, reminded her that there’s such a thing as an inside voice. However, I was trying to catch the whole conversation—so I stayed quiet. Then there was that buzzing sound. Oh yeah, and the screaming at three in the morning last night. You would think someone was trying to kill her. I was getting dressed and about to call the police when I heard the panting and the “yes, fuck yes.”
Pretty damn sure she was getting off with a toy. Good for her, though, I wish she had let me be the one doing it for her. With me, she wouldn’t need any of that. I’ve got everything she could ever need, all integrated and ready. Hell, I wouldn’t even mind playing with her and that little toy—if she’s willing to share.
Did I jerk off in the shower thinking about what I’d do to her with that damn toy? Obviously. I could see it so clearly: her, sprawled out on the bed, that vibrator buzzing against her, and me there, watching, soaking in every second of it.
First, I’d make her use it on herself. Not just watch, but direct her. I’d tell her exactly how I want it—slow at first, long, teasing strokes, making her feel every inch. Then, I’d tell her to go harder, faster, just to see how far I can push her, right up until that moment when her breath hitches and she’s about to come.
And that’s when I’d stop her.
Watch her squirm, beg for it with her body, desperate to fall over the edge.
But I wouldn’t let her. Not yet.
I’d pull her legs apart, spreading her wide for me, taking my time as I kiss her thighs. Teasing her. My mouth barely grazing her skin, just enough to keep her on edge but not enough to give her what she needs. I’d stay there until she’s calm again, until that wild look in her eyes turns into something softer—then I’d keep going. I’d push the toy deeper inside her, watching as her body arches, trembling under the tension building up between us.
She’d gasp, maybe bite her lip, trying to stay in control, but we both know who’s really in charge here.
Then I’d lean down, my mouth trailing lower, closer to where she wants me. I’d lick her slowly at first, letting her feel every flick of my tongue, while the toy buzzes inside her, driving her insane. Her hips would buck, trying to take more, but I’d make her wait—just a little longer. Just until her body’s shaking with need.
And then I’d give it to her.
I’d thrust the toy deeper, syncing it with the rhythm of my tongue teasing her clit, pushing her further and further until she’s trembling, her moans filling the room, coming apart beneath me. Her whole body would surrender, helpless and wild, while I’d keep going, not stopping until she’s completely undone, her body writhing beneath me. I’d keep my tongue moving in time with the toy, driving her higher with every flick, every thrust, feeling her thighs tremble against my face. She’d be gasping, moaning my name, helpless to stop the wave building inside her.
And then, just when she thinks she can’t take any more, I’d push her further. My mouth would close around her clit, sucking gently, then harder, sending shockwaves through her body while I’d keep the toy moving inside her, deeper, faster. Her hips would jerk uncontrollably, her back arching off the bed as she finally falls apart, shuddering, coming hard against my mouth and the toy.
But I wouldn’t stop. Not until I’ve wrung out every last drop of pleasure from her, watching her lose control again and again, her moans turning into soft whimpers as her body surrenders, completely spent. Only then would I pull back, satisfied, leaving her breathless, limp, and thoroughly wrecked in the best possible way.
She’d be lying there, chest heaving, skin flushed, glowing, and I’d lean over her, wiping my mouth with a wicked grin. I’d tell her, “See, baby. You don’t need any toy when you’ve got me.”
Fuck. Just thinking about it makes me hard all over again. She has no idea what I’d do to her if she ever let me. But damn, I’d make sure she’d never forget. I need to make this happen—us—and not just some half-assed attempt. I’m talking pure, raw, unfiltered sex. The kind that leaves us both wrecked and wanting more.
Which is exactly why I have to go with her to this apple-picking thing and the damn gala. That’s where I’ll seal the deal. Or at least try my hardest to convince her that we could create magic together. And not the kind of magic she swears the holidays bring. No, I’m talking about real magic—the kind that’s hot, messy, and unforgettable.
The problem with the gala? I don’t have a fucking dress for her.
Yeah, I was way too cocky when I promised to handle it. Now I’m sitting here, staring at my laptop, realizing I have no clue what the hell I’m doing. Panic is creeping in slowly but surely. Why did I offer to do this again? Oh, right—because I like making things harder for myself. My siblings call it being a control freak. I call it trying not to fuck up. Clearly, I’m failing.
Maybe dealing with a few extra holiday decorations and Noelle’s relentless cheer for a few months isn’t the worst thing in the world, but if this is the first of many “exchanges,” I’m already screwing up spectacularly. Should I ask her if she’s sure she doesn’t have a dress stashed somewhere in her closet? Something vintage from her grandmother, maybe? Isn’t there some saying about fashion always coming back?
