Page 8 of Mountain Man's Christmas Star
I stood up on the riser and jumped down, then turned back to help her. My hands spanned her waist as I lifted her, and Icouldn’t resist pulling her against me for another kiss once her feet touched the ground.
“Come on,” I said, taking her hand. “I know a place.”
I led her around the back of the festival area, past the rows of vendor booths to where the organizers stored extra supplies and equipment. There were stacks of folding tables, extra decorations, and piles of hay bales that had been used for autumn displays but never cleared away.
It was darker here, more secluded, but still close enough that we could hear if anyone approached the festival grounds. Perfect for keeping watch. Perfect for other things too.
“Here,” I said, gesturing to the hay bales. “It’s not exactly romantic, but?—”
Ivy stepped closer, placing her hands on my chest. “It’s perfect.”
The way she looked at me—like I was everything she’d been waiting for—made my chest tight. I couldn’t speak, so I showed her instead, capturing her mouth with mine in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was a claiming, a promise, a raw need that had been building since I first saw her.
Her fingers scrambled at the buttons of my jacket, pushing it from my shoulders. I let it fall, my own hands sliding up her back, under the thick wool of her sweater. She was warm and soft, and I groaned into her mouth as my palms traveled the length of her spine. I found the delicate clasp of her bra, my fingers fumbling for a second before the hooks gave way.
I broke the kiss, my forehead resting against hers as my hands splayed over the newly bared skin of her back. “Ivy,” I breathed, the name a prayer.
Her answer was to step back, her eyes locked on mine. With a shrug, she let her own coat fall to the dusty floor. Then, without breaking eye contact, she gripped the hem of her sweater and pulled it and the loosened bra over her head in one fluid motion.
The air left my lungs. She stood before me, bathed in the sliver of moonlight filtering through a crack in the wall. Her skin was pale and luminous, her breasts full and perfect, tipped with rosy peaks that tightened in the chilly air.
“Jesus, Ivy. You’ll freeze,” I managed to say, my voice rough with want.
A small, brave smile touched her lips. “Then you’ll have to keep me warm.”
The invitation was all I needed. I closed the distance between us, my hands coming up to cup her face, my thumbs stroking her cheeks as I kissed her with a reverence I didn’t know I possessed. She melted against me, her bare skin searing through my flannel shirt.
She took my hand and led me to the hay bale. With a look of pure, potent desire that nearly brought me to my knees, she lay back, her dark hair fanning out against the rough material. She held out a hand.
“Gunnar.”
My name on her lips was my undoing. I stepped between her legs, bracing my hands on either side of her head as I lowered myself over her. The scent of hay and her perfume and pure, unadulterated woman filled my senses. I kissed her again, deep and slow, as my hand trailed down the delicious curve of her side, over the waistband of her jeans, to the button there.
My fingers were thick and clumsy with need. I fumbled with the fastening, a frustrated growl rumbling in my chest.
“Let me,” she whispered, her own fingers deft and sure. The button popped open, the zipper hissed down. Together, we pushed the denim over her hips, down her legs. She kicked off her shoes, and I pulled her jeans and the scrap of lace that was her underwear away, tossing them onto the growing pile of clothes.
She was completely bare to me now, open and trusting. I knelt between her legs, drinking in the sight of her. I placed a hand on each of her inner thighs, gently urging them wider. She trembled, but not from the cold.
“Look at you,” I said. “So beautiful.”
I lowered my head and tasted her.
Her gasp was sharp, her hips lifting off the hay bale. I held her firmly, my tongue finding her center, laving the sensitive nub with slow, deliberate strokes. She was sweet and musky, and her little cries were the most exquisite music I’d ever heard. I slid one finger inside her, feeling her hot, tight warmth clench around me.
“Gunnar…I…I can’t…” she panted, her hands tangling in my hair.
“You can,” I said against her, adding a second finger, curving them just so. “Let go, Ivy. Come for me.”
I increased the pressure of my tongue, the rhythm of my fingers, and felt the tension coiling deep within her. Her breaths came in ragged sobs, her thighs tightening around my head. With a broken cry that was my name, she shattered. Her body convulsed around my fingers, her release washing over her in powerful, pulsing waves.
I gentled my touch, drawing out her pleasure until her body went limp beneath me, spent and trembling. I pressed a soft kiss to her inner thigh before rising to my knees.
Her eyes were closed, a look of stunned, sated bliss on her beautiful face. I stood, my own body screaming for release. I made quick work of my belt, the button of my jeans, the zipper. I shoved them and my boxer briefs down just enough to free my aching erection.
Ivy’s eyes fluttered open. Her gaze dropped, and her lips parted in a soft ‘o’ of awe and desire. She looked from my length back to my face, her expression one of raw need.
I placed a hand on her knee, my thumb stroking her skin. My voice was low, guttural, strained with the effort of holding back.
