Page 9 of Mountain Man's Christmas Gift
5
CAMILLA
Astrange sound escaped my mouth at his words. I never thought I’d be so affected by dirty talk, but that was exactly what I was. Affected.
Actually, the term for it was turned on. From head to toe, I felt alive. It wasn’t just the experience of my first orgasm, either. It was the way he looked at me. And touched me. And everything about him.
He didn’t give me time to overthink it. In one smooth, shockingly strong motion, he lifted me and settled me back on the table, facing him. The cold laminate was a stark contrast to the feverish heat of my skin. His eyes held mine, a silent question in their dark depths, and all I could do was nod, a breathless surrender.
His hands slid up my thighs, pushing my skirt up around my hips. The air in the humid room kissed my bare skin, and then his fingers hooked into the lace of my underwear, slowly drawing them down my legs. He dropped them to the floor, then stepped between my legs, leaving no doubt what was about to happen.
He was still devastatingly half-dressed, his crisp shirt a contrast to the raw intimacy of the moment, his pants andboxer briefs bunched around his powerful thighs. My doing. The memory of his taste, the feel of him on my tongue, the control I’d had for those brief, shining moments, sent a fresh wave of desire crashing through me.
He stepped closer, into the space between my legs, and his thumb found my center again. A low, ragged moan escaped me as he rubbed slow, torturous circles over my still-sensitive clit. I was already teetering on the edge again, my body singing for him.
“So responsive,” he breathed, his voice thick with awe. “So perfect for me.”
I was already teetering on the edge again, my body a live wire buzzing only for him. My hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk against his hand, seeking more pressure, more friction, more him.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice gravel-rough with need.
My eyes, which had fluttered shut in a desperate attempt to hold onto the feeling, flew open. I watched his face, the intense concentration, the barely leashed hunger tightening the line of his jaw, as he positioned himself. The broad, silken head of his erection pressed against my entrance, a question and an answer all at once.
And then he was pushing inside.
A sharp, burning stretch made me gasp, my fingers flying to his shoulders, digging into the solid, reassuring muscle beneath the fine fabric of his shirt. I held on as if he were my anchor in a storm, my breath catching in my chest, trusting him completely to guide me through this. Through the startling newness and into the pleasure I knew was waiting just on the other side.
He stilled, fully sheathed within me, his forehead dropping to mine. Our breath mingled, his warm and ragged against my lips.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he whispered, his own breath coming in harsh gusts. “Just breathe for me. You feel…God, you feel incredible.”
I did as he asked, dragging a shaky gulp of air into my lungs, and as I exhaled—a long, trembling sigh—the initial tension eased. The sharpness melted, transforming into a deep, filling fullness that stretched me in the most exquisite way. He started to move, slow and deliberate, each roll of his hips wiping out the last of my thoughts. The friction was sharp and perfect, the heat of him building inside me until the pressure felt like it might split me open.
A broken whimper slipped out of me with every thrust. My head tipped back, a plea caught on my lips. He found my throat, lips dragging over the frantic beat there, and the jolt made me shudder. His hips drove hard against mine, the old table beneath us groaning in time with our breathing and the raw, slick sounds of us together.
It was overwhelming. I was coming apart, every nerve locked on the place where we joined. I dragged my eyes open, needing to see him, to hold onto something real in the flood.
And he was watching me. His eyes were locked on mine, dark and fierce, catching every tremor, every breath, every unguarded flicker across my face. That look—part claim, part wonder—was what finally unraveled me.
“That’s it,” he groaned, his voice strained. “Let go. Come for me again.”
The coil inside me, wound so tight, snapped. Pleasure, white-hot and blinding, ripped through me, ruthless and absolute. A broken cry was torn from my throat, a sound I desperately tried to stifle by biting my lip, as my body convulsed around his, clutching him, milking him as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over me.
Through the hazy, golden aftermath, I felt his rhythm stutter, then fracture completely. A guttural, choked groan was torn from his chest, muffled against my neck, as he drove into me one last, deep, claiming time, his own release pulsing into me as he held me impossibly close, his entire body shuddering.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing struggling to find a normal rhythm, the frantic, syncopated hammering of our hearts, and the faint, steady drip-drip from a leaky pipe somewhere.
He stayed inside me, his body slumped over mine, a comforting, heavy weight, his face buried in the curve of my neck. I clung to him, my fingers tracing the damp fabric of his shirt where it covered his shoulders, my legs still wrapped around his waist, unwilling to let even an inch of space separate us.
Reality crawled back in—the steady thrum of the industrial dryer, a clean sting of bleach and softener, the cold edge of the folding table against my thighs. Then it hit me where we were.
I blinked, taking in the neat stacks of towels, the mop bucket in the corner, the fluorescent lights that made everything look too bright and shockingly real. The inn’s employee laundry room. During the Christmas festival wrap party, one floor below.
I laughed—half giddy, half frantic. “Oh my God,” I breathed, my throat thick. “Someone could have—we could have?—”
He lifted his head, grin slow and wicked across that roughened jaw. His eyes were heavy with satisfaction. He brushed a damp curl from my cheek like he’d been doing it forever.
“Let them try,” he said, voice a low rasp.
