by Skye Warren
I stayed. I stayed while he hooked his fingers into my panties and dragged them down my legs. He pulled them taut around my ankles, spreading my legs just far enough to hold them there.
He was silent, but I felt his gaze like a touch. On my pussy, on my legs. On my ass. He watched me with total patience—the kind of patience that came with possession. There was no hurry, because he knew he’d have me for as long as he wanted. Because he knew he’d have me for a long time.
The first touch between my legs wasn’t from his hands. He kissed me. He pushed his face between my thighs, shoving them apart until I bent my knees. He licked and sucked at my pussy, only reaching the outer lips. Every nip and suck made me push back harder against his face, aching for more.
“God, I can’t—” My fingers grasped at nothing, at air.
“You can,” he said, returning to his torment. When he finally added a finger, it only got worse. And so much better, the sweet stretch of him, the brutal rhythm.
I choked on my next refusal when he stood. A zipper running down. A rustle of clothing. A tear of foil. My whole body tensed, ready for him, waiting.
He notched his cock against my opening, hot and blunt where I was slick.
Then he was inside me, shoving all the way in before I’d had a chance to breathe, too fast for me to even cry out. He impaled me, and I shuddered in a kind of sensual shock, pinned down by him, laid bare. There was nothing to do but take it, nothing to hold on to, no gravity at all except the hard, implacable length of him pushing me down on the bed.
It was exactly what he’d threatened—what he’d promised—and exactly what I needed. I need to know that he would be there, keeping his word, hurting me and protecting me. I needed to know, when I was alone in the world, when it was Christmas Eve, that someone wanted me enough to take me.
“This.” His voice was choppy, breathing rough. I wasn’t the only one breaking apart. Wasn’t the only one crashing. “This is what I imagined doing. Fucking you until you couldn’t breathe. That’s what I want.”
And he’d gotten it, because God, I couldn’t. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. My body was a mass of burning sensation, like the sun. I was heated from the inside and melting on the surface. It hurt to look at anything, blinding, so I shut my eyes tight. But the light found me there, flares of red and electric white light. I couldn’t escape the burn. It consumed me, flames licking at my skin, molten deep in my core, the temperature rising until I came, calling his name, Gage, clenching around him, feeling his body tense behind me as he growled out his climax.
We remained like that, me bent over the bed, him collapsed on top of me, my muscles pulsing around him, his flexing inside me, our bodies communing while our breaths slowed down. When he finally moved and his cock slipped from inside me, I felt the loss acutely, the space he had filled now empty.
He found another way to fill it, with firm and gentle touches, moving my body onto the bed, settling me under the covers before he disappeared into the bathroom for a few minutes. When he came back, he had a warm washcloth that he used on me, soothing the secret places on my body, tender spots he had used roughly, bruises he had left.
My limbs were limp as he arranged me, moved my legs apart to give him access, and then slid them closed again. In all that we’d done, this was the first time I’d gotten a clear view of his body, the sinewy muscle and dark hair. Carefully banked power treating me gently.
And then he was behind me, pulling me against his chest. I was helpless against his warmth and so damn sated. And half-asleep when we heard the city clock chime twelve times.
“Merry Christmas, Angel,” he murmured.
“Merry Christmas,” I whispered back.
The rumors hadn’t lied. He was big and he was bad, but he was mine. And I was his.
THE END
THANK YOU
Thank you for reading His for Christmas! I hope you enjoyed Gage and Angel’s story.
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· His for Christmas is one of my sweet books—sexy and romantic and sometimes serious, but without any dark captivity. If you enjoyed this story, you may also enjoy my Beauty series. Turn the page to read an excerpt from that story…
BEAUTY TOUCHED THE BEAST
Erin cleans Mr. Morris's house twice a week, soaking up every moment with the reclusive ex-soldier she secretly loves. Blake Morris knows he's scarred both inside and out and is no good for the beautiful young woman who cleans his house to pay for college. But when Erin walks in on Blake touching himself and moaning her name, all bets are off.
“I love this "Beauty and the Beast" story that Skye Warren has crafted. She puts a twist to this classic tale that makes it different and deliciously erotic.”
- Nina’s Literary Escape
"I consider this series a Top Pick because their story is not only very memorable and extremely sexy, but I could read this series many times over and never tire of it. In fact, I already know I will revisit them again for years to come."
- Ms Romantic Reads
Excerpt from Beauty Touched the Beast:
Erin jogged up the steps of the farm-style house in good spirits.
She let herself in using her key and called out, “Mr. Morris! It’s Erin.”
Call me Blake, he always asked, but for some reason she resisted. She wasn’t usually a stickler for propriety, but with him it seemed like a good idea. Maybe his military roots made the formality more correct to her. Or more likely, it was the domesticity of cleaning his home while he loitered near her.
It would be so easy to slip, to let him see how she felt about him. Then she’d feel like an idiot—a dumb, little girl panting after a man old enough to be her father.
She pulled a book from her bag and went upstairs in search of her boss to return it to him. She could probably put it in his bookcase, always neat and organized so she’d know right where it belonged. In fact, his whole house sparkled from the knotted floorboards to the arched ceilings.
It was partly because he was so fastidious, but also because she did a full deep clean twice a week. It was one of the odd habits that made her reclusive employer so strange, and also endearing.
She could replace the book, but she wanted an excuse to talk to him. They’d had a lively debate on the merits of the U.N. in her political science class yesterday and she knew he’d appreciate it.
She poked her head in his bedroom and found him there. Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the sight. He lay spread out on the bed, his skin still damp from a bath, a towel in disarray around his waist.
And he was masturbating. Shit!
She ought to leave. This was clearly a private moment and she the intruder. She really should turn around, walk away and absolutely, positively not watch. Instead she stood there, her eyes riveted to his exposed cock standing up thick from his fisted hand.
“God, baby,” he moaned, his eyes closed, “Suck it, please.”
Her lips parted in surprise, as if she could obey him from across the room. Her clit throbbed to hear his rasping voice say those dirty words, to watch his fist fuck his cock.
“Yes. Yesss. So beautiful. God.” His other hand reached to cup his balls. “That’s right, baby. Lick them. Suck them.”
Her wide-eyed gaze flew to his face, mesmerized by the interplay of shiny, scar tissue and ruddy, healthy skin twisted in a grimace of pleasure. His burns and coarse features might make him repulsive to some, but when she looked at him she saw only Blake, with his brilliant ideas and gruff kindness.
“Touch yourself. Yeah, yeah. Take me deep in your mouth and stick your fingers in your cunt.”
Her thighs squeezed together where she sto
od, giving herself whatever relief she could. If she moved, either her legs or her hands, she’d have to acknowledge that what she was doing, that being a voyeur was wrong, so she stayed still instead.
Then, shockingly, he moaned her name, “Erin…”
Erin barely had time to process that, and then he came, spurting into his cupped hand.
More than a little turned on, she let out an involuntary sound—a whimper, almost. Heavy lids slid open as he turned to look at her. His eyes widening into a look of shock, even horror.
Mortified, she turned and ran down the stairs. The sound of her name hurtled down the steps after her, not in passion this time, but she couldn’t go back.
Pacing in the kitchen, she battled her embarrassment at being caught in a compromising position. Or rather, she’d caught him in a compromising position. But since it was his house, and she just cleaned it for him, she’d messed up big time. She’d have to face him and apologize, but she couldn’t look for him in his bedroom. Not right then and maybe not ever.
Her hands caught on the stone edge of the countertops, then flitted across the surface. Already clean, as usual. She’d never done anything quite this embarrassing. Watching the man’s private moment? That was low. And even worse, she respected him, so much. She liked him, and she might have ruined everything.
She pulled out the cleaning supplies, thinking that at least she could subvert her nervous energy into something useful. She’d come here to clean, not to moon after Blake and certainly not be a peeping Tom.
Blake bounded down the stairs soon after, wearing his customary sweats. She’d admired him before, the way the loose, comfortable clothing hung on his well-built shoulders and abs, but now all she could see was his naked, damp body. As if she hadn’t already proven herself enough of a coward, she turned away as if to flee.
“Erin,” he said in those low tones that always made her clench. “Wait, please.”
She paused and turned halfway back to him, willing the inappropriate, private, sexy images to subside. A reddened cock. Thick ropes of come. Dammit.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said. “Don’t … quit. It won’t happen again. Please,” he said.
She’d never expected to see him like this, practically begging—not for anything, and certainly not for his maid to continue cleaning for him. Did she really vacuum so well?
But no, if nothing else, today had shown that he at least thought about her in another way. Is that why he kept her around, why he increased her cleaning schedule and chatted with her about his work? Should she be offended?
But she wasn’t. She was flattered. And turned on as hell.
She stammered, “I don’t understand. Were you…was I…?”
He closed his eyes and lowered his head. “There’s no excuse,” he said, swallowing. “But I won’t—” He broke off and looked away. The part of his face turned toward her was the more scarred half. That gesture more than anything showed his distress since he usually took pains to hide it when possible.
“What can I do so that you will not leave?” he asked.
“I—honestly, I hadn’t even thought of that. Actually, I wanted to apologize. For intruding on your privacy. I’m not going to quit.”
“Thank you,” he said stiffly, either in acknowledgement of her apology or her agreement she didn’t know. He paused then repeated, “I’m sorry.” After a curt nod, he disappeared into his study.
She thought maybe she should have told him that he didn’t have anything to be sorry for, that he hadn’t done anything wrong, after all. But it would be too strange to correct him in his assumption. What could she say? Please, go ahead and use me in your fantasies. I don’t mind. That would hardly make this situation less awkward.
Besides, she needed time to think, to process what she had seen him do and her feelings. But she’d just committed not to quit, whatever came of her thoughts.
She cleaned his house as usual and he made himself scarce the rest of the time. She left his bedroom for last and resolutely ignored the way her panties grew damp as she made his bed.
Want to read more? You can start with Beauty Touched the Beast now. Or you can grab the Beauty series compilation for a lower price here.
Other Books by Skye Warren
Wanderlust
On the Way Home
Prisoner
Dark Erotica Series
Keep Me Safe
Trust in Me
Hear Me
Don’t Let Go
The Beauty Series
Beauty Touched the Beast
Beneath the Beauty
Broken Beauty
Beauty Becomes You
The Beauty Series Compilation
Standalone Erotic Romance
Sweetest Mistress
Below the Belt
Take the Heat: A Criminal Romance Anthology
Dystopia Series
Leashed
Caged
About Skye Warren
Skye Warren is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of dark romantic fiction. Her books are raw, sexual and perversely romantic.
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Acknowledgements
Thank you to Shari Slade, Annika Martin, Sharon Muha, and Leanne Schafer for your knowledge—and bottomless patience!
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. Except for use in a review, the reproduction or use of this work in any part is forbidden without the express written permission of the author.
His for Christmas © 2014 by Skye Warren
Cover design by Book Beautiful
ISBN: 9781940518213