by Jessie Logan
Snow crusted the windshield, alternately turning various shades of the rainbow from the multi-colored lights covering houses and trees as she drove slowly down the Jones’s street. Outside the two-story house she remembered from her childhood, the front lawn was dominated by a giant Santa sculpture and a nativity scene. Lights were on upstairs, and a decorated tree filled the family room window.
Candace pulled into the freshly shoveled driveway and parked. She hauled her suitcase from the trunk and dragged it over the new dusting of snow to the front door. The doorbell echoed inside the house, and she found herself cocking her head, listening for Patricia’s shout of “Doorbell, darling!” that Candace remembered hearing on the nights she’d babysat the Jones’s two kids.
The door swung open. Not to Patricia, with her endlessly cheerful smile, or to Harry, dressed in one of his dreadful holiday sweaters, but to a man with only a towel slung around his hips. A bare chested, female-wet-dream of a man.
Holy-fucking-Christmas-crackers. There were muscles. Lots and lots of muscles. And skin. Lots and lots of tanned, smooth skin with a tease of hair leading under the towel to what Candace bet was the happiest trail of them all.
She peeled her tongue from the roof of her mouth and swallowed. Hard. “Um. Sorry. Do Patricia and Harry Jones still live here?”
“Yeah. But they’re on a South Pacific cruise for the holidays.”
She shifted uncomfortably, her heeled boots crunching the smattering of snow blown onto the Jones’s porch, trying desperately not to stare at the bulge behind the thin white towel.
“Oh. And you are…?” she asked.
“Dylan Jones. Their son.” He raised his chin, and the inside lights sparked off eyes the color of a sinkhole in the Bahamas—the deepest of blues that led to dangerous depths.
Ah…recognition ploughed into her.
Dylan, Pat and Harry’s youngest child. The chubby-cheeked baby she’d held when she was fifteen. The cute pre-schooler she’d minded along with his kindergarten-aged sister when Candace had been in high school. The sandy-haired eight year old who’d shyly hugged her goodbye when she’d left her parents’ house to move into her apartment to pursue her own life in Fort Collins.
Christmas cards duly arrived each year, containing updates of Dylan and his sister Sandra’s escapades. Three years back, the Jones’s annual card boasted their baby had been accepted into Berkley as a freshman. Candace remembered shaking her head, trying to imagine that chipmunk-cheeked, eight-year-old boy grown into a man.
The smile Dylan shot her now displayed straight white teeth and not a chipmunk’s anything in sight. Just a stubble-roughened jaw and sleepy blue eyes that said he knew exactly what she’d been staring at for the last five, long, beats. He leaned nonchalantly in the doorway, as if the temperature wasn’t at least eight below outside.
“And you are?”
Candace’s tailored business suit suddenly felt a size too small, the slim-fitting pants pinching at the crotch, her nipples stabbing tiny darts into her white cotton shirt. She shifted from foot to foot, grateful that her long, woolen coat hid a multitude of I’m getting turned on signs. “An old family friend.”
When he arched an eyebrow in a silent question, she added in a mutter, “Candace Kain. I used to live next door.” And I’d sit on the floor and play with you and your toy cars. Back when I thought it cute that you called me Candy.
Dylan chuckled, and her womb gave a hot flutter at the sound. “You used to be my babysitter.”
He swiped a hand down his chest, catching a fast-moving drip of water and wiping it on his towel. Candace’s gaze dropped. This time there wasn’t just a vague bulge. This time the outline of his thick cock pushed against the fluffy fabric and, oh God, she was fifteen years older than he was.
Happy Holidays, Candace. You’re a bona fide cougar.
“Yeah.” She backed up a step, reached for the suitcase handle. “I should get going.”
Dylan’s nose crinkled as he angled his head, looking past her shoulder. “It’s really coming down out there. The twenty-five is probably closed by now.”
“Probably.”
“Baby, it’s cold outside.” He sang the line in a surprisingly beautiful baritone. “You should stay the night. Drive home in the morning.”
He swung the door open wider, and her gaze locked with his, spilling every secret thought out of her head and into the open. His hand dropped, an absent brush of his palm over the crotch area of his towel, but once again she was helpless not to stare.
Her skin grew hot enough to melt marshmallows and her heart pounded like the Little Drummer Boy. She knew he was offering more than a place to sleep while the storm raged outside. And she could just take her chances on the roads. But…
Candace tugged her suitcase forward.
“Thanks,” she said. “I think I’ll take you up on your offer.”
Both of them.
Because she’d been good this year, right Santa? Didn’t she deserve a holiday treat?
Dylan grabbed her suitcase and lifted it inside. Warm, soap-scented skin came close enough to her mouth that Candace could’ve dipped her head and bitten one deliciously hard biceps.
“I’ll get that for you, Candy.”
Her mouth parted, an automatic name correction about to roll off her tongue. Don’t you want him to satisfy your craving for some sugar? She could be Candy for just one night.
“Aren’t you sweet,” she said instead.
“You’ve no idea.”
She followed him inside, kicking the door shut behind her. Committed now, no turning back. Her pussy gave a slow, luxurious squeeze at the thought.
She paused at a row of family photos mounted on the hallway wall, stomach giving a little lurch. Fifteen years older.
“You’re not quite how I remember you,” she said.
Dylan positioned her suitcase in front of a door that, unless his parents had redesigned their house, was their spare guestroom. Maybe she’d read the situation completely wrong. Her bad.
Then he turned, and, hello, he was still hard as hell, tenting the front of his towel. “You’re not how I remember you as a kid, either. When I was in high school before your parents died”—his expression and his voice softened—“I used to go over to their place sometimes with my mom. They’d show off their latest photos of you. This is Candace at her new job. This is Candace on a beach in Hawaii. This is Candace and her boyfriend the doctor.” He screwed up his nose. “I hated that one. But the shot of you in a bikini? I sneaked a photo with my phone. You were fucking hot.”
And what, she wondered, did Dylan do with that photo? Candy forced down a smile and peeled off her coat, draping it over her arm. “Were being the correct tense. That Hawaii photo was taken ten years ago.”
“You’re still fucking hot.” And maybe she could be dense about some things in her doddering old age of thirty-eight, but the lust and conviction in Dylan’s voice was unmistakable.
He tilted his head. “And I’m being a shitty host. You’re obviously cold.”
His chin dipped down, but Candace didn’t need to follow the line of his gaze to where her nipples pressed rock-hard against her shirt.
“Have a shower. There’s plenty of hot water left,” he added.
“Thank you. I do need to warm up.” With your cock. Rammed into my wet pussy. Creating some red-hot friction.
“Bathroom’s still in the same place,” he said. His lips created polite words, but his eyes spoke pure, filthy fantasies.
Since Candace’s brain now operated on instinct, and she couldn’t create a witty reply if her life depended on it, she dumped her coat over the bannister and hurried into the bathroom. Telling sign that she’d let her slut-goddess out to play? She didn’t lock the door.
The Jones’s had upgraded since the last time she’d been in their house. Instead of the tiny shower stall she remembered, a gigantic wet space of blinding-white tiles filled half the room. Steam still fogged up the mirrors, and the
masculine scent of Dylan’s shower products curled around her. Damn, he’d smelled good.
Candace stripped, gaze locked on the door handle. She moved into the shower, tingling in all the right places, and she twisted on the mixer. Warm then hot water blasted out, a buckshot of sensation hitting her bare breasts, her pebbled nipples.
“I brought you a towel.”
She turned at the sound of his voice. Dylan stood in the doorway, and he’d indeed played the good host, by bringing her a neatly folded towel. He was also naked. And she could categorically state that the muscles below his beltline were as impressive as the carved expanse of his chest above it. Especially the one muscle standing thick and hard and angled toward his ripped six-pack.
“You seemed to have lost yours.” Her cunt clenched, knowing exactly who it needed. And that someone tucked the towel over the heated rail then strode into the wet space.
Words floated out of her head, meaningless and inconsequential, as Dylan’s fingers entwined in her hair, angling her face up to his.
“Consent is the big thing on campus,” he said. “So tell me yes or no to my holiday wish list. I want to lick your sweet pussy. Then I want to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk straight until New Years. Is that okay?”
The head of his cock nudged her upper stomach, and she swayed toward him, pulling his head closer, so close she smelled the sweet tang of peppermint on his breath.
“Yes.” She hoped it’d be the last word she consciously formed other than OhGodOhGodOhGod.
He kissed her, his lips teasing and cajoling. One moment hard and demanding entrance, the next shadowy soft as he explored her mouth. Hands slicked up her ribcage, cupping the fullness of her breasts. She trembled, gripping his biceps as he toyed with her nipples, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger until she groaned helplessly.
Breaking the kiss, he traced a line of kisses down her throat, the stubble around his mouth rasping against her wet skin. He swirled his tongue around her nipple then drew it into his mouth. He tugged harder, deeper, flicking the sensitive tip until her pussy flooded, and her breath came in short, harsh pants.
Dylan released her breast, his gaze once again laser- focused on her. “I used to fantasize about fucking your breasts when I was a teenager.”
His cock once again bumped her hip, so Candace wrapped her fingers around it. Silky-smooth skin burned against her palm. She ran a thumb over the maze of ridged veins, up his rigid length to circle the engorged head. He moaned, thrusting his hips forward, so she stroked him, slow and firm.
“We’ve got plenty of time for that,” she said.
He hissed out a breath between clenched teeth and pulled back, tugging her away from the shower jets and sinking to his knees in front of her. Every nerve in Candace’s body sang soprano as Dylan pressed her to the wall.
Chills sped up and down her spine from the cool tiles, but the warmth of his lips as he licked water droplets from her inner thigh was a fan-fucking-tastic distraction. Parting her folds, he exposed the swollen nub of her clit.
Candace thought her heart would stop when his dark head bent forward, and he ran his tongue up the length of her slit. Then his wicked blue eyes met hers, a smile on his beautiful mouth.
He added two fingers to her cunt, twisting them until she clamped down with her inner muscles. Then he licked her again, rubbing his lips over her clit and sucking gently. He continued to stroke his fingers inside her in a rhythm designed to having her coming in minutes. Her insides turning to Jell-O, Candace threaded her fingers through his hair and held on for the ride.
But holy-fucking-gift-giving, the man knew how to give a woman’s pussy one hell of a workout. The first deep throbs of an impending climax centered in her core, and her cunt clenched the fingers that pounded her so relentlessly. She screamed, swore, and came with such pleasurable intensity she saw red and green holiday lights exploding behind her eyelids.
Dylan stood and kissed her again, the musky taste of her juices on his tongue.
“Merry Christmas,” he said. “That’s your first gift.”
She grabbed hold of his biceps with both hands and wrapped a leg around his ass. Balanced on tiptoe, Candace angled her hips until his cock nudged an inch inside. “I’m greedy. I want my second.”
The delicious stretching sensation, the need for him to take control and fill the hollowness churning low in her belly, loosened her tongue. She’d beg for his beautiful, hard cock if she had to.
“Please.”
He rocked up with a rough sound, his thickness filling her. Balls-deep inside her, Dylan ground his hips, thrusting into her again—a jolt against her womb that made her yelp. He withdrew, and she tensed, waiting for the next delicious stroke.
“Turn around, Candy,” he said. “You need to be fucked hard, and I don’t intend to spend Christmas Eve in the ER because of slippery tiles.”
She spun around, and he pinned her to the wall, squeezing her ass in his big hands. He spread her cheeks, slid his fingers through her slit to manipulate her clit in tiny circles until her knees started to buckle. Then he fitted his heavy cock to her opening and teased her with a few half thrusts until her cunt seeped more juices, and he slid home.
Long, tortuously slow strokes at first. He stretched her flesh to accommodate his size, and the pounding she knew would come. And she couldn’t wait. She needed him to fuck her senseless, so she angled her hips up and back, meeting him stroke for stroke.
Her urgent motions destroyed the last of his control, and he slammed home over and over, coaxing a surrender to the sensations kindling in her womb. Candace slid a hand down to rub the stiffened, slippery nub of her clit, fast-forwarding her arousal tenfold. The orgasm, more powerful than the first, slammed into her and her cries echoed off the walls. Her moans fed his, and he pounded hard once, twice more, then came with a guttural growl.
For a long, wonderful minute, he rested against her, his cock still buried deep inside her as she continued to quake around it. He brushed aside her wet hair and kissed her neck, tracing his hand down her stomach to her center. Her clit still pulsed, swollen from all the attention—but she wasn’t complaining when he started to dance his fingers around it again. Goosepimples popped up over her skin, and she shivered.
His magical fingers gently pinched her clit then stilled. “Want me to continue?” he asked. “Or should I leave, so you can get back to your shower?”
“Baby, it’s cold outside.” Candace half groaned, half laughed. “I think you should stay and keep me wet and warm.”
So Dylan did.
Home for
Christmas
Steam, like wisps of silk, spin across my nakedness as the key turns in the front door. Next comes the dull thud of my husband’s boots hitting the mat, a special one decorated with holly motifs for the holiday season.
My eyes remain shut as his footsteps head into the living room. I know what he’ll find. An evergreen tree, sprinkled with glittery decorations—one from each of the forty-seven states that steal him away from our home in Kansas City—and filling the little room with the scent of Christmas.
There are gifts, too, under the heavy boughs. Not many, because we’ve been saving for a rainy day. But gifts I know will make his green eyes shine like polished sea glass. A bottle of his favorite Scotch. A winter cap I knitted myself out of the softest yarn I could find. A framed picture of us, laughing while at his sister’s wedding, more in love than the newlyweds on the dance floor.
Everything changed while he was away being master of the road in his eighteen wheeler. Since he kissed me, see-you-later-sweetheart, his mouth hot and demanding on mine. We hate goodbyes, therefore, we never say them. But the minutes dragged into hours then stretched into days, and the loneliness lingered for three weeks.
I missed him. But now he’s home for Christmas.
My imagination is potent, as it has to be. When he goes to work, dreams and sensual fantasies are vital survival tools, night after aching night.
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So, tonight, I imagine I’m my husband.
He walks into our bedroom, lit only with perfumed candles. Glass flutes sit on the nightstand, and champagne nestled in ice. He smiles and thinks, My woman, the endless romantic.
He strips off his t-shirt. Smooth, tanned skin, one arm a darker bronze than the other from constant exposure out of the cab window. The belt slides from the loops in his jeans, and the zip hisses down. He’s hard already, pressed taut against the rough cotton, eager. He shucks off his jeans and tosses his other clothes aside. Stroking the length of his cock, he walks down the hallway to the bathroom, where he knows his woman is waiting.
There’s a lit candle on the corner of the vanity. The bath is a silent pool, broken only by two smooth mounds shimmering from the depths, reddened nipples like precious gems. Rose-scented steam fills the tiled space, a sultry mist that clings and caresses with invisible fingers.
But he wants her touch, not a phantom’s. It’s a fundamental, ruthless need.
I slip back into myself as his harsh, ragged breaths sound louder than the drip-drip-drip of a leaking tap. The evidence of his fragile control shatters mine. I open my eyes. Soak in the vision of his rugged face, his jaw, which was covered in thick stubble three weeks ago, now heavy with a short, brown beard. His throat works, Adam’s apple jerking as his gaze skims over my breasts. His chest is bare, like I imagined, and the swirls of dark hair surrounding his pec muscles seem to ripple as his breath rasps out. Then down to his cut abs and his proud cock, jutting thick and angled high in a thatch of his pubic hair. My hairy beast, I’ve called him teasingly, and now, I can’t wait to feel the delicious prickle of that hair on my face.
Sitting upright, I beckon him over. He stands beside the bath, and I slip and slide until I’m on my knees before him. I wrap a dripping fist around his cock.