Page 20 of Decking the Halls
The combination of Wren’s thumb on my clit, her fingers hitting deep, and the sheer savagery of the situation pushes me over the edge. I come hard, my inner walls clenching around her as pleasure takes me higher than any drug has made me in my life.
Maybethisis the only drug I need. Specifically, this woman destroying every sense of self I’ve ever had. In the best way. In the life-affirming way.
“That's it, angel,” she rasps against my skin as I cling to her and moan. “Come for me.”
Wren doesn’t stop. Her fingers curl inside me, pressing against a spot that sends aftershocks radiating through my entire body. Her thumb is a relentless pressure on my clit, dragging out the orgasm until I’m a boneless, trembling mess draped over the sink.
“So perfect,” she murmurs, watching me in the mirror. A raw, primal satisfaction glows in her eyes, a fierce possessiveness that sends another fresh wave of heat through my already oversensitive core. She isn’t just watching me come undone—she’s drinking it in, absorbing my pleasure as her own. Her own breathing is ragged now, her hips pressing forward against my thigh in a motion that tells me she loved every moment of that.
“Shit,” she pants against my skin. “Never felt anything like that.”
“Me neither.”
We stay frozen for a moment, her fingers still inside me, both of us breathing hard. I don’t want her to move.
“No regrets?” she asks, pulling back to look at me.
I think I’ll be a gurgling mess when I respond, but my voice is firm with resolve. “No.”
She kisses me softly, then carefully pulls out her fingers. We both watch in the mirror as she fixes my underwear back in place and takes a moment to wash her hands right beside me.
“You’ll be thinking about me all dinner,” she promises. “Want you to sit there knowing that I did that to you while we eat dessert with my family.”
“You’re a filthy brat,” I tease.
“It’s hot.” She pulls her shirt over her head. That dragon tattoo disappears back under her waistband, and I make a mental note to explore it properly later.
We attempt to make ourselves presentable, though anyone looking will know exactly what happened. When Wren unlocks the door, Nick is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, face red with fury.
“You're both disgusting. Like… heathens.”
“We're both adults,” Wren counters, taking my hand. “Deal with it, Salem.”
We walk back to the dining room hand in hand. Everyone stares—some shocked, some disappointed, some trying not to laugh.
“Sit!” Heather snaps. "We're going to finish dinner like civilized people.”
The rest of the meal is excruciating and thrilling in equal measure. I can feel Wren’s touch all over me, making me hyperaware of my body. Her hand stays on my thigh, possessive.
“We're leaving after dessert,” my mother stops to hiss at me when Heather gets the pie.
“That's fine,” I say. “I have plans after, anyway.”
“Plans?” Nick spits from across the table. “Let me guess—going to her place?”
“Yes.”
“You're making a mistake,” Nick says. “She'll get bored with you. She always does.”
“The only mistake was wasting a year with someone who wanted to change me,” I reply. “Maybe Wren wants me exactly as I am.”
“Wren wants whatIhad,” Nick counters. “That’s how she is!”
“No,” Wren dissents. “I want what you were too stupid to keep. There’s a difference.”
After the longest dessert of my life, during which Nick makes a snide comment about me, “really enjoying that pie, careful with your figure,” which makes Wren’s hand tighten dangerously on my thigh, my mother stands abruptly.
“We should all be going,” she says pointedly, looking at me.
