Page 43 of Santa's Girl
I was trying to be good. But no one ever warned me how impossible that becomes when the woman you’ve craved for what feels like forever is tangled in your sheets, half-naked, sleepy, giggling, and pressing into you as if gravity itself conspired to bring her closer. This was new—uncharted territory. I’d never had a woman in my bed like this. Not her. Becca.
My hands roamed her back, fingertips grazing the edge of her bra, igniting a fire under my skin. Her thigh draped over mine, and my breath caught, every sense honed to her—the soft sighs escaping her lips, the silken warmth beneath my palms, the heat radiating from her like a furnace in the dead of winter. She felt exquisite beneath me, her softness a perfect counterpoint to my restraint, as if she’d been designed for this closeness.
Instinct took over. My hand slid down the curve of her spine, deftly unclasping her bra with a familiarity that surprised me. Her hand found me, stroking my cock with a rhythm that sent a moan tearing from my throat as pre-cum slicked her palm. My mouth sought her skin—trailing from the slope of her shoulder to the hollow of her collarbone, then lower. When my tongue found her warm nipple, she shivered, arching closer, her breath hitching. We were lost in a frantic dance now, dry humping through the thin silk of her panties, a flimsy barrier that did little to stop my cock from seeking her. I pressed in, the tip dipping half an inch into her heat and wetness, drawing another hiss from me as my hands fisted the sheets on either side of her head. Her breasts pressed against my chest, nipples hardening against the coarse hair, craving the friction.
“Baby, I want you so bad…” I groaned, the words rough with need. “Damn, girl, you feel so good already, and I’m not even inside you… but we can’t.”
“Shush,” she murmured, silencing me with a press of her body, her hand still working my shaft, a whimper escaping her lips as she urged me closer, desperate for more.
Every fiber of me screamed yes, a primal urge pulsing through my veins. But a deeper instinct whispered: not like this. That quiet voice held me back, teetering on the edge, just barely.
Then, because I’m a fool, I whispered, “Baby… all I want for Christmas is you.”
The words hung heavy in the air. I blinked, realizing what I’d said. She looked up at me, her eyes wide—and then she laughed. A full, breathless sound that lit up her face like the most beautiful, ridiculous Christmas tree I’d ever seen.
I groaned and dropped my head to the pillow. “Shit, I can’t believe I said that out loud.”
She kept laughing, and I couldn’t help it—I started laughing too. The heat between us broke just enough to let something else in. Something lighter. Easier.
We rolled around a little, tangled in sheets and each other, grinning like idiots. She buried her face in my chest. I kissed her hair. And for a second, I forgot how complicated everything was supposed to be.
Then I kissed her lips—slow, deep, and just enough to remind her I wasn’t pulling away because I didn’t want her.
I pulled back. “We’re not doing this. Not like this.”
Her fingers curled into my side. “Come back here,” she whispered, eyes half-lidded, smile lazy.
“Nope.” I was already swinging my legs off the bed. “Not happening, sugar plum.”
She groaned like I’d just ruined her life.
I grabbed a T-shirt off the floor, threw it on, and headed for the kitchen. “Coffee and bacon. Then we talk.”
Behind me, she flopped back onto the pillows with a dramatic sigh.
And me?
I was grinning like a fool.
The smell of bacon filled the cabin fast. I didn’t bother being quiet with the pan. If she was going to sneak into my bed and nearly break my brain, she could deal with a little clatter.
I stood there barefoot, shirt half-wrinkled, flipping bacon while my brain replayedevery single secondof the last half hour on a loop.
Her skin. Her laugh. The way she said my name like it meant something.
I blew out a breath, leaned on the counter, and stared at the wall like it might offer answers. What the hell was I doing? I’d told myself not to let it get here. But now itwashere. And it wastoo late to pretend I didn’t want her. I wanted her more than I wanted my next breath.
Footsteps. Slow. Bare.
I didn’t turn around. Just kept flipping bacon like it was life or death.
“You’re mad at me,” she said softly.
I shook my head. “Not mad.”
She stepped in closer. I could feel the heat of her behind me.
“Embarrassed you?” she asked, voice teasing now.
