Page 33 of Unholy Night
I roll, settling between her thighs, bracing my weight on my forearms so I don’t crush her. The head of my cock nudges against her, slick and hot, and it takes everything I have not to just push in and lose my mind.
“Look at me,” I murmur.
Her eyes meet mine, wide and beautiful and sure.
Her fingers slide up my back, nails lightly scratching my skin as she pulls me closer. “I’m not going to tell you to stop,” she whispers, knowing exactly the question playing in my head.
I guide myself to her entrance and start to push forward, inch by inch. Heat and tightness close around me, and my vision whites out at the edges. I have to clamp my jaw shut to keep from swearing loud enough to shake the roof.
She gasps and grips my shoulders as I slide deeper. When I’m buried in her completely, I stay still, just feeling. “Holy shit,” I breathe, closing my eyes. "You feel—"
Like the thing I’ve been starving for my whole life.
I don’t say that part out loud.
Her body gradually relaxes around me, the tension in her shoulders melting, her hands sliding to the back of my neck. Her breasts press against my chest, and I can feel her heart hammering in counterpoint to mine.
I pull out a fraction and push back in, slow and careful. The sensation is…obliterating. Heat, pressure, the tight clench of her body trying to memorize me the same way I’m memorizing her.
We find a rhythm, small at first, testing. The mattress creaks softly beneath us. The Christmas lights above the headboard blink lazily, casting shifting reds and greens across her flushed skin. Her breath stutters every time I sink deep, like she’s surprised all over again.
“Fuck,” she pants, fingers tangling in my hair.
Her words break off into a moan as I rock my hips, angle changing just enough to drag along that sensitive spot inside her.
“Tell me,” I murmur against her mouth, not stopping. “Tell me how it feels.”
“Full,” she gasps, head tipping back, throat exposed. “So full of you. I— Nick, I—”
A broken sound tears out of her as I thrust a little harder, finding the pace her body begs for. Her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my lower back, dragging me deeper. Every time I sink into her it feels like crossing a line I can never come back from, and I don’t want to.
“You’re killing me,” I groan into her neck. “You know that?”
Her nails scrape down my shoulders, sending sparks through my nerves. “You stole me,” she breathes, the words almost a challenge. “You don’t get to complain now.”
I huff out something that might be a laugh if I wasn’t coming apart. “Not complaining,” I grit. “I’d do it all over again if it meant this.”
I sink my teeth lightly into the curve of her shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to mark. Her inner muscles flutter around me, and I feel her clamp down, body starting to shake beneath mine.
“You were made for this,” I growl, feeling her squeeze me from below. “Made to take my cock.”
Her breath fractures. The muscles in her stomach tighten. She clings to me like she’s going to drown and I’m the only thing keeping her above water.
And then she breaks.
She comes apart around me with a strangled cry, my name torn from her like it hurts to say it and she’s saying it anyway. Her body clamps down, pulsing around my dick, dragging me that last inch over the edge. My spine locks, and I spill into her, burying my face in her neck as I empty myself inside her, her name breaking loose from my mouth like a confession, like a curse, like a promise I’ve been holding onto for a decade.
The world narrows to heat and breath and the frantic thud of our hearts. For a moment, I don’t know where I end and she begins.
Eventually, the sharp edges of it fade, leaving us tangled and shaking, still joined, skin damp with sweat. I shift just enough so I’m not crushing her, but I refuse to pull out, not yet. Not when everything in me is screaming to stay exactly where I am.
“Are you okay?” I murmur into her hair, pressing slow, soft kisses along her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth.
She lets out a breathy little laugh, the sound low and disbelieving. “Better than okay,” she whispers, tightening her arms around me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear.
I roll to my side, taking her with me, wrapping her in my arms. She tucks herself against me, one leg thrown over my hip, head on my chest. I yank the blanket up over us, and the Christmas lights cast lazy, colorful patterns across the bed.
Through the window I can see that snow begins to fall, drifting down in thick, silent flakes that blanket the woods around the cabin.
I press my cheek to the top of her head and draw slow circles on her back. After a long moment she lifts one hand to trace the scars across my chest with a fingertip. I close my eyes, something warm and painful and stupidly hopeful cracking open in my chest and I pull her closer.
For the first time in ten years, I don’t feel like I’m on the outside of my own life, watching it happen without me.
If this is all I ever get—one stolen Christmas and the feel of her still wrapped around me—it’ll ruin everything that comes after. But I don't care, nothing else will touch this.
Merry Christmas to me.
