Page 54 of Mistletoe and Mayday
“No.” She shifts beneath me, but her gaze stays locked on mine, clear and direct despite her desire. “But you look like you’re about to regret it.”
Fuck. No. I focus on her face—the slight furrow between her brows, the way she bites her lower lip.
“No regrets.” I brush my thumb across her cheek, feeling its warmth, its softness. “You’re so beautiful. Perfect.”
Her smile spreads slow and real, crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Not perfect.”
I trail kisses along her jaw, tasting her skin, breathing her in. “For me, you are.”
Her nipple hardens against my tongue as I suck gently, drawing a gasp from her lips. The sound drives me wild, making me pull her closer. Her back arches off the bed, pressing more of her breast into my mouth.
I graze my teeth across the sensitive peak, and her fingers tighten in my hair. The slight sting only heightens everything.
My other hand cups her neglected breast, thumb circling the nipple in time with my tongue. She tastes like everything I didn’t know I needed—everything I’d been missing. The sound she makes—a half-gasp, half-moan—sends blood rushing south so fast I feel dizzy with it.
Bailey arches up. “Oh God, that thing you just did with your tongue...”
She rambles when she’s turned on, I realize. Of course she does.
“Do it again? Please? I mean, if you want to, you don’t have to, but?—”
I silence her with another swirl of my tongue, rewarded with another broken moan. The sounds she makes drive me wild in a way I’ve never experienced.
“Too many clothes still,” she mutters against my mouth. “Why are there so many clothes? Who invented clothes, anyway? That person was clearly a sadist who never experienced good sex or?—”
I catch her hands, pin them above her head with one hand while the other traces down her body. “Patience.”
“Patience is overrated,” she huffs, arching against me. “We nearly died today. Multiple times. We could die tomorrow. Or in five minutes if those wolves come back. Life is short, and my patience is shorter.”
Her words hit a nerve. She’s right. We nearly died. Could still die out here, miles from help, injured and exposed to the elements. Every heartbeat counts, every touch precious.
“Touch me,” she demands, writhing beneath me. “Now, Sebastian.”
My restraint shatters. I release her hands, recapturing her mouth in a bruising kiss as my fingers slide between her thighs. She’s soaking wet, her arousal coating my fingers. The evidence of her desire sends a fresh surge of blood to my already-aching erection.
Her moan vibrates against my lips as I circle her clit, feeling the small bundle of nerves swell further under my touch. Her hips buck, seeking more pressure, more friction. Themovement is uncoordinated, imperfect—and all the more arousing for it.
“Yes,” she gasps, breaking the kiss. “There. Don’t stop.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
“Inside,” she demands, her hand finding mine, pushing my fingers lower. “Please.”
I slide one finger into her heat, then another. Her body welcomes me, grips me. She’s tight, wet. The thought of burying myself in that heat makes my cock pulse against my boxers, a drop of pre-come dampening the fabric.
Her eyes fly open as I curl my fingers, finding that spot inside her that makes her whole body jerk. Her gaze locks with mine, pupils blown wide with desire. She doesn’t look away, doesn’t close her eyes, or tilt her head for a more flattering angle. She just watches me, lips parted, cheeks flushed, present in her pleasure.
“Sebastian.” My name never sounded so perfect. “I’m close.”
“I know.” I press my thumb against her clit, watching her face as she comes apart. Her orgasm transforms her. Head thrown back, thighs trembling around my hand, inner muscles clenching around my fingers, honest pleasure washing through her. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever witnessed.
I keep touching her through the aftershocks, gentling my movements as she becomes sensitive. Her body gradually relaxes beneath me, the tremors subsiding as her breathing slows. For a moment, we’re perfectly still, the only sounds our breathing and the crackling fire.
Her eyes flutter open, pupils still dilated, cheeks flushed. A smile spreads across her face. She reaches up, traces her fingertips along my jawline with surprisingtenderness.
“That was...” she whispers, then shakes her head, as if words are suddenly inadequate.
I lean down, press my lips to her forehead.
