Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 26056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
“I want to hear you, pretty girl. Cum on my thick cock and let me hear it.”
Those words spark the final blaze of my orgasm. It floods me, short-circuiting my insides and loosening every muscle with each pounding heartbeat. We become a tangle of reckless sensation, violent passion, frantic connection cresting in a tidal wave that drags me under.
“Jesus, you’re like a tight fist squeezing my cock.” He slips his tongue past my lips, swallowing my ragged moans. His hands clamp on my hips as he steadies himself, head thrown back, rasped grunts escaping him. “God, yes, Noel.”
I gulp for air, driven by the sound of our bodies slapping together and the heady scent of sex, cum, him fueling my arousal.
“I fucking love being inside you.” His teeth trail along my ear. I smile, body still trembling. He runs his fingers through my wild hair and nuzzles my neck, breathing deep. “You smell like me.”
I sigh, roll against him, wrapping my arms around his body. I open my eyes and find him watching me, a thoughtful smile curving his lips.
“What?” I whisper.
“You.” He grins.
“What about me?”
He traces my ear with his thumb. “Watching you cum is fucking beautiful.” I feel heat rise in my cheeks. “And seeing you blush…” His fingertips drift across my collarbone. “Is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I’ll never get enough of you.”
He slides a hand between my thighs, massaging me tenderly. When he pulls away, his eyes narrow for a moment—and I spot the blood on his fingertips.
“Jesus, Noel. You were a virgin?” He runs a hand through his rumpled hair.
I go still, shame flushing me. I want to flee, run out of this room, out of his cabin, never look back.
But can I?
“Noel.” He hauls me into his lap, our chests heaving, limbs tangled until I can’t tell where I end and he begins. A deep peace settles in my bones. I trust him—more than I’ve ever trusted any man but my daddy. Until now. Until Nash.
“If I’d known you were a virgin, I would’ve been different…more…” He searches for the right words, regret clouding his eyes. I feel tears prick mine.
“I don’t want you any different, Nash. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want tenderness. I wanted to feel you. I wanted to know I turn you on so much you nearly lose your mind,” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.
He exhales, nudging his nose along my neck, caring for me. “I didn’t want to take it from you like that.”
“You didn’t, Nash.” I cup his face, forcing his gaze to meet mine. “I gave it to you.”
His eyes glisten before he wraps me in his arms, lips claiming mine in slow, decadent strokes that feel like soul-fucking.
Nash Hollis owns me.
Chapter 16
Noel
Iwake up warm.
Wrapped in thick wool blankets, my body humming from the steam, the heat, the weight of last night. My skin still tingles where his hands were, lips remembering every stolen kiss.
The fireplace crackles softly across the room, the fire down to embers, still glowing. Everything smells like pine, cedar, smoke, and him.
I stretch, a lazy smile tugging at my lips, bones aching in that delicious, slow way that only happens when you fall asleep wrapped in more than just flannel and fleece.
And then I notice.
He’s gone.
I sit up. The couch is empty. His boots are missing by the door. No coat on the hook.
No note on the counter.
No grumpy mutter from the kitchen. No scent of coffee or burned bacon.
Just silence.
Cold, creeping silence.
“Nash?” I call, voice raw.
No answer.
I toss off the blanket and pad to the door, snow still drifting outside, but no fresh footprints on the porch. It must’ve happened hours ago.
My stomach knots.
Maybe it was just sex.
Maybe he changed his mind.
Maybe I pushed too hard.
My pulse starts racing. My mind launches into overdrive, grabbing at every stupid thing I said last night, every dumb joke, every inch I leaned too far in the hot tub.
God, what if he regrets it?
What if I misread everything?
I whirl back inside, grab my phone from the mantel, and scroll for a signal. Still nothing. The tower must be snowed in. No messages. No missed calls. No anything.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until I catch my reflection in the mirror near the fireplace. Puffy eyes. Red cheeks. Mascara smudged.
“Get it together,” I mutter, dragging in a breath.
I start packing.
Shove my scarves and boots back into my suitcase. Pull the Santa mugs off the windowsill and toss the decorations into a bin. The photo I put by the fire—the one with Mom and Dad—gets wrapped in a blanket of tissue and tucked away like it never happened.
Like this never happened.
This whole thing was supposed to be fun. A stunt. A viral moment for my interior design brand. A fake bride gimmick for a holiday show.