Page 12 of His to Unwrap
“Not exactly how I remember that kind of game being played when I was a kid,” she says, and I can’t help but chuckle.
“I don’t think they’re even trying to get the noses in the right spot,” I say, watching as Jane, a terrifying Domme dressed all in red leather, approaches and goes straight for the naked man’s crotch with her red circle.
“I think that’s kinda the point,” Noelle says, grinning. Then she gestures around the room. “In fact, I’m pretty sure all these party games are designed to encourage people to cop a feel.”
I look around the room and notice for the first time all the activities set up around the lounge. An oiled-up man in red latex briefs is walking around with a sprig of mistletoe on a stick, raising it above random people’s heads and cajoling them to kiss. There’s a very graphic game of Pictionary happening nearby, some people playing a filthy version of charades, and only a few yards away a man is lying naked and face down on a table while the people around him attempt to throw rings onto what appears to be a dildo sticking out of his?—
I turn back to Noelle and see she’s cracking up. “You should see your face right now. Did you seriously not notice all this stuff going on around you?”
No,I think, watching the way her eyes sparkle when she laughs.I was too busy staring at you.
“I guess this is Christmas Club Wyld style,” I say drily.
“You haven’t even seen the guy dressed as Santa handing out free spankings when you sit on his lap,” she adds, grinning.
The idea of Noelle stretched out on someone’s lap, her ass bare to the room while he spanks it red, has my dick hardening in my pants. Why the fuck don’t I own a Santa costume myself? Clearly an oversight on my part.
“You look good like that, you know,” she says softly, and I force myself to focus on the woman in front of me and not the dirty thoughts in my head.
“Like what?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Smiling. You don’t do it very often.”
“Hmm.”
Her expression goes tense. “Not that I’m complaining. That whole stoic thing can also look very nice, you know, and?—”
I put my hand on her shoulder to stop her from babbling, and she closes her eyes, seeming to melt into the touch, the tension draining from her face.
“I’m not offended,” I tell her, once she’s looking at me again. “I know I’m a grumpy bastard.”
She giggles. “I didn’t say grumpy. I said stoic.”
“Oh, I’m grumpy all right,” I mutter, and she laughs some more. I shake my head. If I’d known all I needed to do to make her giggle like that is to be self-deprecating, I would have been doing it from the start.
“Ooh,” she says, pointing down the bar to where some employees are setting up a table with a large punch bowl and glasses. “Eggnog. Let’s get some!”
“Seriously? That stuff is disgusting.”
But she grabs my hand—she willingly touches me—and starts to drag me to the table. I don’t even think about pulling away. “It’s not disgusting,” she says. “It’s creamy and sweet and delicious.”
I have to close my eyes as I follow her down the bar like a pathetic puppy dog. I doubt she has any idea what images she just inspired with that description, but now all I want to do is spread her out in front of the punch bowl and take my fill of her own creamy sweetness.
I don’t argue when she picks up two glasses, though there’s no way I’m going to actually drink the crap. And when she heads over to a table to get away from the crowd around the bar, I don’t argue with that either.
Danger,a feeble voice in my head protests. I tell it to shut the fuck up.
I sit across from her, even though all I want to do is pull my chair right up next to hers. Maybe pull her into my lap. She would feel so good cuddled up to me, all warm and soft and small in my arms. Even from here I can smell her perfume, something different than she usually wears, notes of cinnamon and vanilla that make me think of warm Christmas cookies and cozy evenings.
I bite back a laugh at that. When in my entire life have I enjoyed a warm cookie and a cozy evening? This girl does something to my brain.
I startle to attention when I realize she’s looking at me expectantly. “Sorry,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “I didn’t catch that.”
She leans across the table, like the problem is me not hearing her rather than me being lost in fantasies about her. Doing so makes her tits practically spill out of that damn green dress and Ihave to bite back a curse, forcing myself to focus on her question so she doesn’t have to ask again.
“I asked if you aren’t even going to try it.”
I blink at her for a second until she pushes the eggnog across the table. “Angel, I really don’t?—”
