Page 107 of Daddies' Holiday Toy
His fingers stroke the edge of my underwear, teasing, drawing circles that make my knees weak.
“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs against my lips.
I don’t hesitate. “I want this.”
That’s all he needs to hear.
He slides the fabric aside and his fingers find me, slick and ready for him.
My head falls back against his shoulder as he works me slowly, his other hand gripping my hip to hold me steady.
“God, Holly,” he breathes out.
I grip his forearm, both to steady myself and because I need something to hold on to.
Then he draws his fingers away, leaving me aching. Before I can protest, he’s turning me, guiding me backward until my hips bump the edge of the counter.
“Up,” he says, and I hop onto it, the cool surface a shock against the backs of my thighs.
He steps between my knees, sliding my coat completely off my shoulders and tossing it aside.
His hands are warm as they trail up my bare legs, thumbs brushing the inside of my thighs until they reach the edge of my underwear again.
“Reece…” I start, but my voice falters when his fingers hook the fabric and tug it down in one smooth motion. He doesn’t break eye contact as he lets it fall to the floor.
The way he looks at me, like I’m something he’s been hungry for all night, makes my stomach flip.
“You have any idea what you do to me?” he murmurs, hands braced on either side of my hips now, caging me in.
I swallow hard. “I think I’m getting the picture.”
He smirks, then he’s kissing me again.
His hand slides back between us, fingers finding me easily and drawing a gasp from my throat.
The angle has me rocking toward him without thinking, needing more.
His other hand comes up to cradle the back of my neck, holding me steady as the kiss turns hotter and more desperate.
“Lie back,” he says, and I do, the overhead lights bright against my closed eyes for a second before I open them again and see him standing over me.
Then he’s leaning forward, one hand sliding under my thigh to lift it, the other guiding himself to my entrance.
The first push inside steals my breath.
His cock fills me in a way that has me clutching at the counter edges. He watches my face as he sinks in the rest of the way, memorizing every flicker of expression.
“God, you feel good,” he groans, head tipping forward for a second before he pulls back and drives into me again.
The rhythm builds slowly, steady and deep.
Each thrust pulls a soft sound from me.
My hands find his shoulders, nails dragging lightly over the fabric of his shirt.
It’s intoxicating—the heat of him, the way the scent of sugar and his cologne mix in the air around me, the faint creak of the counter beneath us.
He leans down, swallowing the noises I make as his pace quickens. His hand slides between us, finding my clit and rubbing it until I cry out against his mouth.
