Page 53 of Mistletoe and Mayday
She rolls her eyes, then flips us, pushing me onto my back with surprising strength. She straddles me, thighs clamping around my hips, the heat of her core pressed against my erection.
Pain flashes across her face for a split second before she masks it, settling more firmly against me. The friction tears a groan from my throat.
“Bailey—”
“Shh.” She presses a finger to my lips. “I survived wolves and a plane crash. I think I can handle a little enthusiastic sex.”
My hands find her waist, steadying her. “Enthusiastic, huh?”
“Well, I was hoping for enthusiastic.” Her fingers walk up my chest. “But if you prefer boring, missionary, lights-off sex, I suppose?—”
I surge upward, capturing her mouth mid-sentence. Her surprised gasp vibrates against my lips before she melts against me, her tongue meeting mine stroke for stroke. My hands slideup her bare back, over the delicate ridge of her spine, the subtle shift of muscle beneath smooth skin. Her nipples harden against my chest through the thin fabric of her bra, the sensation making my cock pulse beneath her.
“Better,” she gasps when I release her mouth to drag my lips down her throat. “Much better.”
My teeth graze her collarbone, and she hisses, arching into me. “More of that,” she demands, rolling her hips against mine. The friction makes me groan.
“Bossy,” I mutter against her skin.
“You like it,” she counters, grinding down again. My hands tighten on her hips involuntarily.
“Maybe I do.” I suck a mark into the soft skin where her neck meets her shoulder. She gasps my name. The most perfect sound I’ve ever heard.
Her bra strap slips off her shoulder. I trace it with my tongue, reaching behind her to unclasp the garment. It falls away, and I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can only look at her, golden in the firelight, wild and unafraid.
“Sebastian?” Uncertainty creeps into her voice as my silence stretches. “You’re staring.”
“Can’t help it. You’re fucking perfect.”
A blush spreads down her chest. “Says the man who literally looks photoshopped.” Her fingers trace my abs. “Seriously, do you have individual ab workouts scheduled in your calendar? Monday: upper right ab. Tuesday: lower left ab. Wednesday?—”
I flip us again, pinning her beneath me, careful of her injured leg. My erection presses against her core through the thin barrier of our remaining clothes. The pressure is exquisite torture. “You talk too much.”
“Make me stop.” Challenge flares in her eyes, lips curved in a dare.
I take the dare, lowering my mouth to hers. Her lips part, eager and demanding. My tongue slides against hers as my hand palms her breast, thumb circling her nipple. It tightens further under my touch, and she moans into my mouth. I swallow the sound, greedy for every unfiltered noise she makes.
Her nails score my back, leaving what I know will be red welts. The sharp sting only heightens everything, adding a perfect counterpoint to the pleasure. Unlike the careful, manicured nails that never left a mark on me before, Bailey’s blunt fingernails brand me, claim me.
“These. Off. Now.” She tugs at my pants, impatient, demanding.
I comply, kicking them away, then hook my fingers in her underwear. “These, too?”
“God, yes,” she breathes. “Unless you want me to beg, which, not gonna lie, might be hot, but also might drive me insane, and I’d probably say something weird about?—”
I silence her with a kiss, dragging the cotton down her legs. Her skin burns beneath my touch, a restless energy barely contained.
“I need you,” she whispers against my lips. “Please, Sebastian.”
My mouth traces over every curve, every dip of her body. She shivers under my touch, gasps when I find sensitive spots. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, my hair, anywhere she can reach, never still, always moving, always reaching.
“Sebastian, please...” Her voice breaks on my name, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my groin.
She’s beautiful in the moonlight, all soft curves and shadow.No posed seduction, no calculated moves. Just pure, honest desire. For me. Not Sebastian Lockhart, CEO. Just Sebastian, the man who fought wolves and carried her through the snow.
Bailey’s hand touches my cheek, drawing me back to the present. “What’s wrong?” Her eyes search mine, seeing too much as always, missing nothing. “Do you want to stop?”
I pause, letting my forehead rest against hers, breathing her in. “No.” My fingers trace the curve of her hip, reassuring us both. “Do you?”
