Page 39 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
My hand drags down his stomach, fingertips skating over the tense lines of muscle until I cup him through the joggers. He strains against my palm, twitching as I squeeze once before pulling away, teasing. His frustrated whimper vibrates against my mouth.
I trail my hand back up, bunching his shirt as I go, until we’re both tugging at fabric, stripping away the clothes we only just put on. His skin is fire under my palms, soft and hot, and I press kisses down the column of his throat, sucking at the sharp point of his Adam’s apple before moving lower.
Eli fists his hands in my hair, holding me to him as though he can’t risk letting me go. My tongue circles one nipple, then the other, and he gasps, back arching, hips canting up in search of friction. His body responds to every lick, every scrape of my teeth, and the helpless sounds spilling from him make my chest ache with want.
His fingers tighten in my hair, tugging just enough to make me groan against his chest. Every sound he gives me goesstraight down my spine to my balls, igniting something hot and primal. But this time I don’t rush. I want to feel every inch of him, drag this out until we’re both shaking with it.
I let my mouth wander—across his chest, over the sharp ridge of his ribs, down to the curve of his stomach. His skin tastes faintly of salt and sugar, and when my teeth graze the dip of his hip, he lets out a broken laugh that melts into a moan.
“Max,” he breathes as he arches into my touch.
I glance up, and the sight nearly undoes me, his lips parted, his cheeks flushed, his eyes dark and steady on mine. Like he’s not just giving me permission, but begging me not to stop.
I peel the joggers lower, inch by inch, my fingertips following, stroking the newly exposed skin with a reverence I don’t dare name. He lifts his hips in a silent offering, and soon the joggers are tangled at his knees, forgotten.
I bow my head and press a kiss to the crown of his cock, soft and lingering, testing the weight of him against my lips. His breath stutters, his thighs lift instinctively off the bed.
“Jesus, Max—” His voice cracks, desperate already, and I can’t help the smug curl at the corner of my mouth.
I do it again. Another kiss, wetter this time, the tip of my tongue flicking against him before I pull back far enough to watch him tremble. His hands clutch at the sheets, his hips twitching upward in small, helpless movements.
“You like that?” I murmur, low against his skin, my breath hot enough to make him gasp.
“Don’t—” He tries to glare, tries to bite back his reaction, but then I flatten my tongue and drag it slowly up his length, from root to tip, and the sound that tears from him is pure surrender.
I take my time. Mapping him with my mouth, slow pulls and softer grazes, each pass deliberate until he’s a wreck beneath me. Every twitch, every gasp, every choked-off moan feeds something inside me.
By the time I wrap my hand around the base of him and sink my mouth deeper, his back arches clean off the mattress. He fists the blanket with one hand, the other buried in my hair, not guiding so much as holding on for dear life.
“Max, please—” It’s broken, shaking. The kind of plea that goes straight to my gut and twists hard.
I hum around him, giving him what he wants, but not nearly fast enough. Drawing it out until his thighs quiver, until his whole body shakes with the effort of holding back. Until he’s nothing but ragged breaths and my name torn from his throat over and over again.
It’s perfect.
I ease off him, lips slipping wetly from his cock, and drag the back of my hand across my mouth. His eyes snap open at the loss, wild and dark, and I can’t resist twisting the knife just a little.
“Impatient, aren’t you, Princess?” The nickname washes over him exactly the way I mean it to—his pupils blow wide, his whole body jerks up toward me, as if I’ve touched him without laying a single hand on him.
Before he can fire back, I drop my head again and swallow him down in one smooth motion. Swallowing his head as my throat relaxes around him.
He cries out, high and raw, hips lifting off the bed again. My hands pin him back down, fingers digging into his thighs as I hollow my cheeks and take every inch. His taste floods my tongue, his pulse thrumming hot against the back of my throat, and I can feel him unraveling under me.
“Fuuuck—Max—” His voice breaks, and then he’s gone, shaking apart as I hold him down and drink everything he gives me.
I take it all. Every last drop. Not pulling back, not letting him hide, just taking every bit of him down my throat until he’sboneless beneath me, his chest heaving as if he just ran miles through the snow.
When I finally lift my head, his lashes are wet, his lips parted in a dazed, crooked smile. He looks destroyed. Beautiful.Mine.
That’s a dangerous thought I shouldn’t be having. But I don’t stop it. No, I embrace it. For now.
I crawl up over him, dragging my mouth across the flat of his stomach, over his chest, until I’m braced above him. His cheeks are flushed, eyes tracking mine, and his lips swollen as if he’s sunk his teeth into them. He looks undone—and he still manages to hook a hand behind my neck and pull me down for a kiss.
It’s messy, hungry, and I know he can taste himself on my tongue. He doesn’t shy away from it. If anything, he moans into my mouth and clings tighter, like it makes him even more fevered.
When I finally break for air, I press my forehead to his. His breathing is ragged, his body trembling under mine, but his eyes are steady—bright, burning, alive.
“Fuck me,” he whispers, voice husky and bliss-drunk. “Now, Max. I need to feel every inch of your dick deep inside of me.”
