Page 12 of Baby, it's Cold Outside
He loosens the knot in his tie and stretches out above me. “I like that. I like everything about you, Harlow North.”
“Even though I’m clueless about Christmas trees?”
“If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be here.” He grabs my tank and lifts it over my head, revealing a red lace bra that is more decorative than anything else. His bright sapphire eyes pop. “And I’mreallyfucking glad to be here right now.”
I smile as I wrap my legs around him. “Good.”
We make out just like that for a good long while, and I can’t believe how hot it is—the material of his dress shirt against my chest, the way his cock rubs against me through layers of clothing, the way I’m nearly naked but he’s still wearing a fucking tie.
He moves his body over mine in a way that lets me know exactly how good it would feel if we got rid of all the barriers between us. I’m not exactly sure how far we’re going to take this, but it’s not long before he’s got me panting and writhing beneath the weight of his body, frustrated by the need to get closer to him.
How bad would it be to have sex with a stranger? I mean, is he still a stranger? I know his last name, right? And I know where—roughly—he lives. We’re practically neighbors! And I know he’s the kind of guy to rescue a damsel with a tree in distress on a snowy December night…
Good enough for me.
Apparently he’s feeling the same way, because just as I’m about to swallow my pride and reach for his belt, he picks up his head and says, “Hey, before this goes any farther, I just want you to know, you can tell me to stop at any time.”
“Okay.”
“So,” he says, kissing his way down my chest, “do you want me to stop?”
“Not even one little bit.”
He looks up at me, his mouth hooking into a smoldering crooked grin. “Good.”
He takes his time.
I don’t know whether he’s worried he’ll never see me again or really does just want to lavish every inch of my skin with attention, but he undresses me with an agonizing lack of haste—first my shorts, then the bra, then finally the matching panties, which make him groan when he sees them.
“Did you know what you were doing?” he demands, moving down so his head was between my legs. “Did you put these on knowing they’d drive me crazy?”
“Maybe,” I tease.
“You are definitely on the naughty list,” he tells me, and then his hands are pushing my thighs apart and his mouth is on me and I can feel his lips and tongue making me wet right through the lace. Eventually he drags them down my legs and tosses them aside, circling his tongue right over my clit until I’m so close to orgasm I could weep. He drives me to the brink of insanity, taking me right to the edge of a climax I’m desperate for, and then backs off again.
“Please,” I whisper, clawing at my comforter.
“Please what? You have to ask for it.”
“Please let me come.”
“Do you think a naughty girl like you deserves it?” he asks, sliding two fingers inside me.
“Yes!” I cry out, both in pleasure and in answer to his question.
He laughs and gives me what I want with his mouth and his hand and tongue and I’m rocking my hips beneath him, shameless and needy and moaning so loud I’m positive the neighbors can hear me.
But I don’t care—it’s the best orgasm I’ve ever had.
When my body stops its rapturous pulsing, I push his head away and scoot back. “Stop, stop,” I say, totally out of breath. “I can’t take any more.”
“Oh, but you will.” Michael stands up and removes his cufflinks, and it’s so fucking hot watching him, my toes curl. When he pulls out the knot in his tie, I bite my lip. He’s just starting to unbutton his shirt when I hear a voice in the living room.
“Harlow? Where are you?”
Michael and I exchange a surprised look.
“Expecting company?” he asks, his hands paused.
