Page 46 of Hashtag Holidate
“I never understood the lumberjack fantasy before, but fuck,” Adrian said, his voice rougher than usual as he pushed the fabric from my shoulders. “I get it now.”
“Yeah?” I asked, enjoying the strength of his reaction. “Something about this doing it for you?”
His fingers traced the contours of my chest, skimming over my nipples in a way that made my breath catch. “Yes,” he said simply, and something in his tone cut through the haze of desire.
The word hit me strangely. Gave me an unexpected sense of pride or something. I quickly shook off the thought, not wanting this to be anything but physical. Nothing complicated. Nothing with expectations. That shit would only lead to disappointment when he was gone.
So instead of responding, I grabbed the hem of his ridiculous designer henley and yanked it upward with a grunted “Off.”
Adrian complied with surprising eagerness, lifting his arms soI could pull the shirt over his head. The firelight threw golden shadows across the planes of his chest and abdomen, highlighting muscles that were more defined than anyone had a right to have during cookie season.
“Like what you see?” he asked, turning it back around on me. There was a note of genuine curiosity in his voice, as if he truly cared what I thought of him.
I answered by lowering my head to his collarbone, tasting salt and expensive shower products. He gasped, hands moving to my shoulders, fingers digging in as I trailed my mouth down his chest. I scraped my teeth over his nipple, and the wobbly sound he made sent a surge of heat straight to my groin.
“Maddox,” he breathed, fingers moving to grip my hair in a silent demand.
The sofa was too small, too constraining for what I wanted to do to him. I broke away, standing abruptly. Before he could protest, I grabbed his hand and pulled him up with me.
“Where—?” he started, but I cut him off with another kiss, walking him backward toward the hall.
We stumbled to his bedroom, unwilling to break contact, bumping into walls and doorframes. My hands found the button of his jeans, popping it open with more coordination than I expected in my current state. Adrian moaned into my mouth when my fingers brushed against his hard shaft through his boxer-briefs.
“These feel good. Maybe they’re Nordique after all,” I teased against his lips. “You wearing fancy pants for me, city boy?”
“I’ve thought about this, you know,” he said, surprising me. “About your hands on me.”
“Just my hands?” I asked gruffly before backing him against the wall and dropping to my knees.
The sound of my knees hitting the wooden floor echoed in the room despite the storm raging outside. Adrian stared down at me, eyes wide, lips parted in shock. This wasn’t in our script. This wasn’t sarcastic disapproval, and it sure as hell wasn’t any kind of attempt at professionalism. This was me, on my knees, choosing vulnerability in a way I rarely allowed myself.
“Maddox,” he whispered again, reverence and uncertainty mingling in his voice.
For a second, he looked breakable. Not fragile, but human in a way his curated persona never allowed.
I held his gaze as I hooked my fingers in the waistband of his jeans, tugging them down along with the black boxer-briefs. His cock sprang free, already hard and leaking, the tip glistening in the dim light filtering from the living room.
“You sure, Sullivan?” The roughness of his voice was something straight out of a dirty movie, the kind of sultry hero shit I’d secretly fantasized about when I was younger. His moment of insecurity turned teasing. “’Cause if you’re not…”
“Shut the fuck up,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended. “Unless you want me to stop.”
And it was true. I wanted to take him apart piece by piece, to make him forget about cameras and content and curated perfection. I wanted to be the reason Adrian Hayes lost control.
And I wanted to see it happen in real time.
I wrapped my hand around the base of his cock, feeling it twitch in my grasp. Adrian’s breath hitched, his head falling back against the wall with a soft thud. I took a moment to just look at him—flushed and wanting, coming undone before I’d even gotten my mouth on his cock.
I leaned forward and took him into my mouth.
“Fuck,” he groaned, fingers sliding into my hair again. Not pushing or pulling, just holding on like he needed an anchor.
I worked him slowly at first, learning what made his breath catch, what made his thighs tremble. When I hollowed my cheeks and took him deeper, Adrian cursed.
His fingers tightened in my hair, the slight pain sending a jolt of pleasure down my spine. I hummed around him, and his hips jerked forward involuntarily.
“Fuck,” he gasped, trying to hold still. “Sorry?—”
I pulled off just long enough to look up at him. “I can take it,” I said, my voice a challenge.
