Page 76 of Santa's Girl
No more second-guessing.
I’m his.
And tonight, he’s going to know it.
I don’t askwhen he climbs back into the truck, the door thudding shut like a heartbeat echoing my own frantic pulse. He doesn't utter a word—just guns the engine, tires spitting gravel as we tear away from the neon haze of town, plunging into the dark veins of the mountain road. Snowflakes whip against the windshield, but inside, the air is molten, charged with the unspoken vow hanging between us. We both know the destination: his cabin, isolated amid the pines, where the world falls away and it's just us—stripped bare, bodies entwined in a night of raw, unfiltered surrender.
My skin prickles with every curve of the road, anticipation coiling tighter in my core like a spring ready to snap. He's a shadow at the wheel, jaw set, that massive hand gripping the gearshift with a control that makes me imagine it on me—claiming, guiding. I've never felt this before: this aching void that only he can fill, this magnetic pull that drowns out every cautious whisper in my mind.
The cabin looms like a secret lover, logs glistening under a fresh dusting of snow, the faint glow from within promising warmth and wickedness. He cuts the engine, turns to me with eyes like embers—hungry, possessive. "Get inside before I take you right here," he rumbles, voice a low thunder that vibrates straight to my clit. I shiver, nodding, my legs unsteady as I step into the crisp night. But he's on me in a flash, his arm snaking around my waist, hauling me against the hard planes of his body. His heat sears through our clothes, his scent—leather, smoke, man—invading my senses, making my mouth water.
He shoulders open the door, and the interior envelops us: crackling fire already roaring in the hearth (did he call ahead? The thought of him planning this makes me throb), the air rich with pine resin and the faint musk of him. Before I can catch my breath, he's kneeling at the fireplace, striking flint with those strong, callused hands. Flames erupt, licking up the logs, casting dancing shadows that play over his kutte like lovers' fingers. He rises, pours my favorite wine—deep, velvety Cabernet that he somehow knows I crave—handing me the glass with a wicked grin. "Drink slow," he murmurs, clinking his against mine. "Gonna savor every drop of you tonight."
His fingers brush mine, sparking electricity up my arm. Then his hand cups my jaw, tilting my face to his, and he kisses me—oh, the kiss. Slow, deliberate, like he's mapping my soul with his tongue. It's seduction in motion: lips parting mine gently at first, then delving deeper, tasting, teasing, his beard a delicious rasp against my soft skin. I moan into his mouth, the wine's tang mingling with his flavor—whiskey and want. My body ignites, nipples hardening against my bra as his free hand slides down my spine, pressing me closer. I feel his arousal, that massive bulge straining against my belly, and a flood of wetness soaks my panties. No one's ever kissed me like this—like I'm oxygen and he's been drowning.
He pulls back just enough to nip my lower lip, eyes dark with promise. "Taste so fucking sweet," he growls, bawdy and unfiltered, his hand dipping under my shirt to trace the curve of my breast. Thumb flicking my nipple through lace, he circles it mercilessly, sending jolts straight to my core. I gasp, arching, but he chuckles low, teasing—kisses trailing to my neck, sucking marks that bloom like fire on my skin, his other hand skirting my thigh, inching up my skirt but stopping short, making me whimper with need. "Patience, baby. Gonna worship this body till you're begging." Huntley? Past lovers? They were shadows—mechanical touches, predictable thrusts that left me wanting. This is ecstasy, electric; his fingers know secrets my body didn't even know it held.
I beg, a breathless "Please, Bear," that makes him groan, primal. He scoops me up effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me upstairs, our mouths fused in a messy, desperate kiss. Clothes scatter like fallen leaves: my dress yanked over my head, his shirt ripped open to reveal a chest inked with stories, muscles rippling under my greedy palms. Naked, we crash onto the bed, sheets cool against my heated skin, his weight a delicious cage above me.
He's insatiable—mouth devouring my breasts, tongue swirling around one nipple while his fingers pinch the other, pleasure shooting through me like lightning. I've never been touched like this: not clinical pinches, but reverent, ravenous sucks that make my back bow, ecstasy building in waves I've only read about. His hand ventures lower, parting my thighs, fingers sliding through my slick folds. “Baby, you're drenched," he murmurs appreciatively, circling my clit with a pressure that's perfect, maddening. He dips inside me— one finger, then two—curling just right, stroking that hidden spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes. I cry out, hips bucking; no one's ever found it so effortlessly, played me like an instrument tuned only to his hands.
His mouth follows, tongue lapping at me with slow, languid strokes that build to fervent flicks. He savors me like fine wine—sucking my clit, thrusting his tongue deep, his beard scratching my inner thighs in a burn that's pure bliss. The pleasure crests, overwhelming: my first orgasm rips through me without warning, a tidal wave of heat and light, my walls clenching around nothing as I scream his name, body shuddering in ecstasy I've never known. It's not just release—it's shattering, soul-baring; tears prick my eyes from the intensity.
He rises, shedding his jeans, and there it is: his cock, huge and throbbing, veined and thick like it was forged for sin. My mouth goes dry, then waters—he's going to ruin me, and I want it. He rolls on protection (thoughtful even in the haze), positions himself at my entrance, eyes locked on mine. "Look at me," he commands, voice romantic-rough, and thrusts in slow. The stretch is exquisite agony—filling me inch by girthy inch, deeper than anyone's ever reached. He angles perfectly, that broad head hitting my G-spot on the first stroke, sparking fireworks in my core.
He moves—deep, measured thrusts that grind against it relentlessly, building friction that's sensual poetry. "Fuck, you take me so good," he grunts, bawdy praise laced with awe, his hands roaming my body like he can't get enough. The second climax builds fast, coiling tighter; his pace quickens, hips snapping, sweat-slick skin slapping in rhythm. I come undone again, harder this time—waves crashing, my nails raking his back, vision blurring as pleasure borders on pain, ecstasy so profound it feels like flying. No man's ever fucked me like this: not just pounding, but claiming every nerve, every secret spot, making my body sing in ways I didn't know possible.
He flips me effortlessly, onto all fours, entering from behind with a growl that vibrates through me. Deeper now, that angle hitting my G-spot like a bullseye, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me back onto him. "Come for me again, sweetheart," he demands, one hand snaking around to rub my clit in tight circles. The third hits like a storm—blinding, all-consuming, my body convulsing around his cock, milking him as I sob into the pillows, lost in a rapture that's spiritual, filthy, everything. I've never been fucked like this—touched like I'm a goddess and a whore in one, pleasure layered so deep it rewires my soul.
As the tremors fade, he pulls me on top, letting me ride the aftershocks, his thumb still teasing until I'm boneless. Hefollows soon after, thrusting up with a roar, filling the condom as his arms crush me to him. In the quiet aftermath, his lips brush my temple, whispers of "Beautiful... mine" wrapping around my heart. I've fallen—utterly, madly in love with this man who unraveled me, body and heart, in one unforgettable night. No going back. This is us now.
18
BEAR
The bed was still warm beside me when I reached over.
But she wasn’t there.
For half a second, panic gripped my chest — some old reflex from a life full of people who leave. My hand landed on cold sheets, and I blinked into the soft gray of morning, heart ready to go full warpath.
And then I heard it.
Sizzling.
Humming.
That voice. Soft and low, carrying the edges of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” through the floorboards like a spell.
I sat up slow, swung my legs over the side of the bed, rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
The woodstove downstairs was ticking — heating the cabin the way it always did in winter, slow and steady. But this morning, it felt warmer than usual.
I padded down barefoot, half-dressed, quiet like I was stalking something rare — and I was.
She was in my kitchen.
Barefoot, hair messy from sleep, standing at the stove like she’d been doing it for years.
