Page 92 of Daddies' Holiday Toy
Jack sits in the armchair during those times, one knee propped casually, forearms resting on the armrests as he watches.
He doesn’t say much, but his gaze is always steady, dark, and unreadable while he watches me enjoy myself with his friends.
Every now and then, our eyes meet and my body reacts before I can stop it.
It makes me want him just as badly.
Other times, it’s Jack and me, the whole cabin reduced to the rhythm of his breathing against mine, the weight of him pinning me as the rest of the world dissolves until all I know is the feel of his hands bracketing my hips, the solid weight of his hands pressing me down, his mouth at my ear murmuring things I could never repeat without blushing.
Those moments are quieter, but they burn in a way that leaves me shaking afterward.
Reece and Liam are always somewhere else in the cabin those times, or sprawled nearby in the aftermath, lazy and satisfied, watching us with half-lidded eyes that make my skin flush all over again.
It’s a lot.
Actually, it’s more than a lot.
My body aches in a way I’ve never felt before.
Every muscle is aware of itself, sore and satisfied, and hypersensitive from being touched so often and in so many different ways.
Meals become afterthoughts, stolen bites between kisses, coffee gone cold on the nightstand.
Sleep happens in short, sweaty stretches before someone’s hands are on me again, pulling me back under.
By Monday morning, I’m drunk on it, on them.
On the constant hum of attention, on the feeling of being wanted in a way that’s almost greedy.
Which is probably why the end of our time together hits harder than I’m ready for.
We pack up slowly.
There’s no rush to strip the beds or zip the bags filled with our dirty and leftover clothes.
Reece hums under his breath while folding his things into his bag, Liam takes his time making one last round of coffee, and Jack lingers by the door, watching the snow melt into slush outside.
The air feels heavier, like we’re all pretending we don’t hear the ticking clock.
Eventually, the guys load their bags into their trucks while I take one last look around the cabin.
The scuffed wood floors, the soot-filled fireplace, the way the couch cushions are still dented from where we’d been tangled up on them for hours.
I stand there for an extra beat, trying to etch the sight into my memory before it’s gone.
Out in the cold, our breaths puff into the air as we linger by the tailgates.
Both vehicles have been brushed clean, courtesy of Reece this morning.
The goodbyes stretch out, none of us quite willing to make the final move.
Numbers are exchanged, casual promises tossed around about “next time,” but the tone is different.
There’s an undercurrent there that makes all of this heavier somehow.
After climbing in the car, I follow them the entire way down the mountain.
We take the freshly plowed road slow.
