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)
“Mm,” I sigh, pushing his worn jeans past his hips. “You were just in the workshop, not across Copper County or anything.”
“It was too far,” he husks against my neck.
His hand fists in the waistband of my panties and pulls, the familiar ripping sound filling the space between us. “Soaked for me, little snowflake?”
He runs two cool fingers through my pussy, sending shudders of arousal through my veins. “Yesss.”
“Good girl.” He sinks two fingers inside me, fucking me with his hand for a few strokes before his fingers are replaced by the tip of his thick cock.
“Oh God…” I gasp as he leans me against the marble countertop and slides into me fully, clutching the breadth of his back as I hold on. His thrusts are slow and steady, angled with precision while he sucks my nipple in torturous strokes.
“Were you waiting for my hands, my tongue on your skin?”
I shake my head, gripping my stubborn bones. “No.”
“Bullshit. You were wet when I walked in. You were thinking about me, weren’t you, my sexy tinsel girl?”
I shake my head again, refusing to let him see how true his words are.
“You deserve a punishment for lying,” he mutters, spinning me and propping my hips in the air.
One soft smack lands on my right cheek.
Another. Then another. The sting of his palm gives way to a gentle, soothing stroke.
“Your ass looks beautiful with my handprint on it.”
I groan, wiggling my hips to show him I want more without speaking.
“Mm, you like it, pretty girl?” He smacks my other cheek, then grabs my hips and slides into me again in one smooth motion.
“Nash…” I moan, loving the new angle.
“Yeah, sweet girl? Tell me what’s on your mind.” One hand slips between my thighs, his fingers kneading my clit.
“I… I can’t. It’s too much.” I hum just as he draws an orgasm from my body. “Everything about you completely consumes me.”
“Good—that’s exactly how I want you. Ruined for all other men.” His thrusts falter, then intensify erratically, his rock-steady thighs trembling as an earth-shattering release rumbles through him. Caveman growls vibrate from his chest. Hearing him cum is the sexiest sound I can imagine, and knowing I’m the one to push him over the edge sends me higher than anything I’ve ever felt. Bringing this gorgeous, powerful man to his knees is almost spiritual.
His hands glide up the curve of my back, cupping my cheek and turning my face so he can catch my eyes. “You’re my life now, baby, you and this little one.”
And then he kisses me, palms splayed across my belly like he’s holding the future—his future—I know one thing with absolute, tinsel-tangled certainty.
I’ll never want a different kind of life.
Second Epilogue
Nash
Five Years Later
The baby’s eating snow again.
Not the fresh kind either—the weird gray slush clumped near the bait bucket. I think it’s mostly minnows and dirt. I make a mental note to Google “effects of river ice on toddler digestion” later.
“Mack, don’t lick the fishing pole,” I bark, not looking up from the tangled line I’m re-threading for our middle kid. “Hooks don’t taste like popsicles, bud.”
He giggles.
Which means he already licked it.
“Did you hear what your son just said?” Noel calls from behind me.
Your son.
She only ever says that when someone’s about to get grounded or end up in the ER.
I glance over my shoulder.
Our oldest, Jack—named after Noel’s father—is building what appears to be a snowwoman with boobs. Real shapely ones. Strategic icicles. A pinecone bikini top.
Noel raises her eyebrows. “I see your decorating style has rubbed off.”
I smirk. “Gotta teach ’em young.”
She trudges closer, heat-warmed boots crunching over the ice, cocoa thermos in one hand and our youngest balanced on her hip like it’s nothing.
Five years and three kids later, and I still get winded when I look at her.
Maybe it’s the snow-glow. The wild curls tucked under her knit beanie. The smear of red lipstick she insists on wearing even when we’re ice fishing.
Or maybe it’s the part where my brain short-circuits every time she bends over in those damn red leggings.
Either way—
I’d marry her all over again. Right here on the Phantom River. Shirtless. In minus-fifteen windchill.
“You’re staring,” she says, eyes narrowed.
“You’re bending.”
She grins. “Thinking dirty Christmas thoughts again, sugar daddy?”
“Always.”
Her lips part. She leans in. The wind howls. The kids scream. The dog leaps across the hole and lands in the bait bucket.
Chaos.
And it’s perfect.
Noel slides onto the cooler beside me, stealing half my lap and all of my warmth.
I don't mind.
Her body fits mine like a puzzle I didn’t know was missing a piece.
"How many fish we caught?" she asks, resting her chin on my shoulder.
"Three. One was suicidal. The others were too dumb to know better."
"Sounds like the beginning of a love story."
I snort. "You calling me a dumb fish?"
"I'm calling myself irresistible bait."