Naughty or Nice: 6 Short & Sexy Holiday Reads

by Jessie Logan

  “I’ve missed this.” I angle down, moving the sensitive head against my lips, licking away the pearl of pre-cum from the tip. Salty-sweet and all mine. My tongue flickers along his shaft, and one of his big hands fists in my wet hair.

  “Missed me fucking your mouth?”

  “Yes.”

  He tilts my head back, and I open my mouth, breathing in the subtle scent of his body wash and the more masculine smell of turned-on-male. This time, it’s he who teases me, rubbing the bulbous head along my bottom lip. I catch a glimpse of white teeth bared in a grin beneath his beard.

  “Just a taste, then, sweetheart.”

  I take him into my mouth, sweeping my tongue around the sensitive ridge, allowing him to thrust his length into me with a rough groan. I grip the base of him with one hand and cup his heavy balls in the other, stroking them until they shift upward in arousal. He withdraws a little, and I take the opportunity to swipe my tongue over the head of his cock, running it down to the ridge and then along his shaft until my nose bumps the warm skin of his stomach. He sucks in another ragged breath, and beneath the warm, scented water, my cunt squeezes with anticipation.

  I lick and suck my way back up his shaft, but he won’t allow me another taste.

  “Later,” he says and releases my hair.

  He’s right. We’ve got all night.

  “Join me?” I ask.

  “I can’t make it slow this time. I need you.”

  Every line of every muscle in his body reaffirms his desire. He can’t wait, and truth be told, neither can I.

  He steps into the bath and sinks to his knees, pulling me into his arms. His skin on mine warms like a furnace. Even in the coldest winter nights, my man keeps me snug and warm under the covers. My breasts flatten against his chest, nipples tightening as they come in contact with his crisp, dark hair. My body throbs, and my head spins as he kisses me. He nips at my lips, sucks at and nearly devours my tongue in his urgency to get closer.

  His cock, sandwiched between us, is slick with fragrant bath water and wedges into my stomach like carved granite. Butterfly kisses rain down on my neck. He moves down my collarbone and with gentle sweeps of his tongue, laps away the moisture. Goosebumps rise on my breasts and then evaporate as his hands cradle them, thumbs circling inward toward sensitive tips. It’s sweet agony as he draws my nipple deep into his mouth. A savage pull that starts in my breast and floods downward to where I writhe for his touch.

  His hands move down my slippery back, his fingers gliding between my ass cheeks. Callused fingertips explore every fold then thrust deep inside me, making me arch harder into him. He rediscovers my clitoris with firm strokes, and strength deserts my legs.

  “The bed—” I gasp.

  “Later.” With a slosh of water he positions me on his lap, poised above his thick shaft. “Are you ready for me now?”

  I reach behind me, setting the weight of his heavy cock in my palm, tracing the line of veins throbbing from the base to the ridge of silky-smooth skin at the tip. I angle my hips down, and my cunt opens to the nudge of his cock head, sucking greedily at it, desperate for the hard length of him to make his coming home complete. His leans back against the bathtub, eyes speaking volumes and saying everything that needs to be said.

  “I’m ready for you,” I whisper. “Come home to me, baby.”

  The first slow thrust thrills me with its delicious friction, blotting out all those lonely nights with an overload of pleasure. His fingers dig into my hips, moving me, moving us both in a rhythm that although familiar, transcends the norm into something close to the first time we made love, all those years ago. Water splashes out of the tub and the candle fizzles, leaving us in darkness.

  The movement of our bodies is like being rocked in warm, wet molasses, but the sensation gathering deep inside me is anything but soothing. My climax, when it comes, is a wild thing, clawing at my insides. The muscles of my man’s back shudder under my fingernails, and his body plunges into mine one last time. He comes with a roar, spilling his hot seed deep inside me. For a moment, just a moment, I worry about the secret that’s also hidden deep inside me.

  Then I smile, turning my face toward his ear and whispering how happy I and our unborn baby are that he’s home for Christmas.

  The Mysteries of Faith

  Organ music drones quietly through the closed double doors leading into the church. Outside the lobby, snowflakes fall like frozen tears. I peek through the gap in the old oak doors. The church is packed with Faith’s and Rogan’s friends and family. It’s all so beautiful… the nave dressed up in poinsettia flowers and holly wreaths, and creamy-white candles flickering around the cavernous space. A Christmas wedding any bride would adore.

  The crimson bridesmaid’s dress itches, and I scratch my arm, waiting for Faith behind me to stop fussing with her veil. Closing my eyes, I wish I were anywhere but here. My sticky tongue darts along dry lips, yet my hands are strangely moist, and I wipe them against the stiff organza.

  Will she go through with it? I glance over my shoulder. Faith’s dad gives a thumbs up while Faith just looks at me, her eyes unfathomable under the sheer white veil.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “Lead on, MacDuff,” she replies.

  Turning back to face the double doors, I wonder if she remembers, like I do.

  Or perhaps she’s worried her fiancé, stiff and neatly packaged in his rented tuxedo, will realize on their wedding night that she’s no longer a virgin. And that it’s my fault. Faith Johnson has been my best friend since kindergarten, and I’m the one who helped her lose her virginity…in a manner of speaking.

  I wince as the first notes of the bridal march chime out. An usher throws open the double doors, and there he is. By the linen-covered altar, Faith’s groom is every inch the prince who has found his princess. In that moment, I hate Rogan McIntyre with blinding pureness. He’s so calm and confident, while I stand in front of his future wife in an ugly meringue of a dress, fretting that our friendship will never be the same.

  We glide down the red-carpeted aisle. My teeth ache as I smile at Faith’s friends and relatives. People I’ve known most of my life. People who’d be shocked if they knew what Faith and I did last week.

  The last organ notes die away as we reach Rogan and his best man.

  “Dearly beloved,” the minister begins.

  My mind darts away on its own tangent because I don’t want to listen to Faith vowing to love and honor Rogan until death parts them.

  I remember how Faith and I first met in the kindergarten sandbox, she was so blonde and delicate. Even then, I succumbed to the urge to protect her. It took two teachers to pull me off the little shit who’d kicked sand in her eyes and made her cry.

  I remember during out elementary school years, staying over at her house and playing with her dolls. Faith always gave me the one with the long hair, while she generously took the one with a ragged bowl cut and one arm—courtesy of her younger brother.

  Then as teenagers. Holding her hand while she got her ears pierced, my frown daring the shop assistant to poke fun at Faith’s tears. Losing my virginity to Chase Brown at sixteen and rolling on her bed afterward, laughing as I recalled in gruesome detail how I had expected such great, renting pain, and then the disappointment at Chase’s tampon-sized dick. Later, when Chase dumped me, I cried in her arms. That was the day she announced she planned to remain a virgin until marriage. She’d startled me out of my melancholy.

  “But, Faith, you don’t want to marry someone only to find out later he’s hopeless in bed, do you?”

  She’d shrugged and smiled that mysterious, trademark-Faith smile. “If he’s hopeless in bed, I’ll have to find some other means of satisfaction, won’t I?”

  And as far as I knew, Faith had never let a boyfriend get beyond a quick fumble in her panties. She’d smile indulgently at any attempt I made to break her resolve with detailed descriptions of my bedroom and backseat pursuits.

  “There are other
ways of achieving sexual satisfaction besides fucking your brains out, Nina,” she’d say.

  I bought her some strawberry-flavored, edible panties for her twenty-first birthday. I wonder now if she ever used them…and if she did, with whom.

  Faith’s nephew passes in front of me, bearing a heart-shaped ivory cushion. Two rings are tied on it with Christmas-red-and-gold ribbon. A chuckle sweeps though the congregation as Rogan struggles to free the rings, and then again as Faith tries to force the gold band over his knobbly finger joint.

  “Do you, Faith Maria Johnson, take Rogan James McIntyre, to be your lawful wedded husband…” the minister’s voice intones.

  I bury my nose in the poinsettia-and-rose bouquet I’m holding and drift back in time again.

  It was no surprise after our long years of friendship that Faith asked me to be her maid of honor. I accepted happily. She and Rogan were a perfect couple, and I knew he was devastatingly in love with her. Things would have continued on just fine, if it hadn’t been for her bachelorette party last weekend.

  After an evening downing numerous tequila shots, Faith crashed at my place for the night. Arms around each other’s shoulders, we staggered the short distance from the bar to my apartment and collapsed in a giggling tangle on the living room carpet. We lay side by side, staring at the ceiling, listening to Stevie Nicks sing about Sara.

  “I always wondered if she was gay,” Faith said with a muffled burp.

  I grunted noncommittally and concentrated on the ebb and sway of the walls.

  Then the sweep of her blonde hair tickled my collarbone. She leaned over me and whispered, “And I’ve always wondered what sex would be like with a woman. Have you?”

  That snapped me halfway sober. I rolled my cheek off the carpet pile and looked her in the eye.

  “I thought you were keeping yourself virgin-ised for your wedding night.” Evading the question was easier than admitting the truth.

  “I am. You don’t have a penis, do you?” One of her hands ran lightly down my body from breastbone to crotch. “Nope, no penis there. Guess my innocence is safe.”

  My heart rate sped up from a drunken plod to a frantic thrum. When her lips touched mine, my blood nearly sizzled right out of my veins. Soft, her lips were so damn soft—and juicy, like summer fruit that made you laugh as wetness trickled down your chin. Possibly juicy wetness wasn’t the best metaphor to be thinking of as Faith’s lips teased and tormented mine. The familiar, thrilling buzz of arousal centered in my womb gained momentum, and suddenly, it wasn’t just Faith kissing me; it was my tongue exploring her mouth, my hands cupping her face, my body squirming to get closer to hers.

  Faith tugged up my shirt. Her tongue grazed over my nipple jutting through the lace bra, then she sucked it hard into her mouth. A whimper shot out of me, and she giggled, pulling down my bra cups and nuzzling at my breasts with hot, wet strokes of her tongue. Shivers wracked through me, and I squeezed my eyes shut tight.

  “Does that feel nice, Neens?” She toyed with my nipples with tiny flicks of her fingertips. “Do you like me touching you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What about this?”

  Her hand skimmed down my body and cupped my pussy through my jeans. She giggled again. “Yeah, I think you do, ‘cause your jeans are damp. Better get them off. I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”

  I could’ve stopped her then if I’d really wanted to—if I’d wanted to continue pretending Faith kissing me and sucking on my tits was only a drunken, Tequila mistake. I could’ve stopped her, but I didn’t. Instead, I lifted my ass and let her peel off my jeans and panties.

  “Oh. Neens. You’re so pretty.” She ran a single finger over my smooth mons—thanks to the Brazilian waxing she’d talked us into having last week. “So am I.”

  With quick, economical movements, Faith stripped off her clothes. She caught me staring at her—rose-pink folds that looked just as wet as mine—and she slid a hand down her body, parting her pussy to expose the distended nub of her clit. She rubbed herself and moaned, adding another spurt of moisture to the slickness already between my thighs.

  “I want a closer look,” I said.

  Which translated to: I want to eat your cunt, over and over. And I wanted to. God, help me. I wanted to lick and suck her sweet clit. I wanted her to ride my face until I suffocated in her juices. I wanted my fingers inside her cunt, feeling her slick tightness contract, her body quiver, as I drove her to orgasm.

  Faith shook her head. “Me first,” she said and wriggled between my legs, pushing my thighs open.

  She was small but a force of nature. I’d never been able to resist Faith’s demands.

  I went to argue—truly, I did—but then her warm breath puffed against me, and the pad of her finger swiped through the wetness running down the edge of my cleft. I shivered, watching the dreamy look cross her face as she lifted her hand and slid her finger into her mouth. She moaned, thrusting the digit in and out a few times. My cunt clenched, needing that finger inside it.

  “You taste so good.” She bent, and tongue spread wide, she licked my entire slit with one firm swipe. Her blue eyes danced as her head popped up from between my thighs, a huge smile on her face. “Better than fairy floss, but let me double check.”

  She ducked again, using her lips to gently suck my throbbing clit. I arched, letting out a wail that was probably heard two floors down.

  “Good?” she asked, innocence personified. Or not so innocent as she thrust a finger into my cunt, hooking it forward and stroking my G-spot.

  “Faith!” I gasped. “God!”

  “Being a virgin,” she said, adding another finger to the mix and using them to fuck me so sweetly I nearly came then and there, “means I’ve had a lot of time to figure out what feels really, fucking, good.” She rubbed her thumb on my clit. “And now I’m going to show you everything I’ve been thinking about.”

  She darted her tongue in and out of my pussy like a cat enjoying a bowl of milk, grazing my clitoris with feathery flicks before slipping down to meet her fingers buried deep inside me. I arched beneath her, writhing helplessly as she devoured me. She demanded everything, and I couldn’t hold back. And when she shifted lithely over my body, positioning her dripping cunt over my mouth, so we could pleasure each other at the same time? I did what any good friend would do. I yanked her down and gave her sweet pussy the attention it deserved until we both came in a wet, hot, gloriously throbbing mass of tangled bodies.

  The next morning, my head pounded with the aftereffects of guilt and tequila. I was alone in my bed, but I wanted her again. I stumbled into the kitchen to put on the coffee. The front door opened as I carried a cup to the table, and Faith walked in, two paper bags in her hand, her striped, knitted scarf still sprinkled with snowflakes. She tugged it down from her nose—her little, pink-with-cold, cute nose—and grinned at me. My brain struggled to process my-cute-friend-Faith with my-hot-three-orgasm-giving Faith.

  “I bought us breakfast,” she said. “Fresh croissants, yum.”

  Relief swept through me. At least she hadn’t gone home. But memories of the night felt like bricks tumbling in my gut as we sat opposite each other and buttered the pastries.

  “Faith?” I said finally. “About last night?”

  She looked up from her croissant, and a smear of butter glistened on her lips. Her tongue darted out and licked it off. My gaze slid away to her shoulder. Damn it. All I could think about was those lips sucking, the waves upon waves of pleasure as she sucked my clit into her mouth…

  Then she was beside me, cupping my face in her hands.

  “Last night was wonderful, hmmm?”

  She stroked my hair and kissed me until I remembered exactly how wonderful last night had been. Until I had forgotten any lingering inhibitions about dining on my best friend for breakfast.

  “Man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

  The last of the minister’s words are received with cheers and whistles from the back
row of the church.

  Rogan’s asshole drinking buddies.

  I sigh; bitchy thoughts are pointless. Gaze averted from the lip-locking Mr. and Mrs. McIntyre, I stare at my sensibly heeled shoes. Tall women like me don’t want to look like a giantess next to the groomsmen. The cheers and claps die down, and Faith walks back down the aisle a married woman. It’s done now.

  Outside, the snow falls harder. A great powdery dump that has guests hurrying for their cars. The multi-colored lights from the town’s OTT seasonal decorations sparkle and twinkle pretty patterns on the built-up banks surrounding the gigantic Christmas tree in the Square. They’re so fucking merry, I want to hurl. I grimace a smile at the wedding photographer with the rest of the wedding party, then we’re ushered toward the small fleet of charcoal-colored BMWs.

  I’m squeezed between Faith’s cousin—bridesmaid number two—and Faith’s ancient grandmother in the back seat. Faith’s cousin snaps gum and pulls out her phone from somewhere in her cavernous cleavage. The lights outside flash, flash, flash, and I blink, blink, blink back the sting of tears gathering in the corners of my eyes.

  “Don’t look so sad, Nina,” Faith’s granny whispers.

  The scent of lavender and talcum powder emanating from her makes me want to sneeze. I paste another of my fake smiles across my lips. “I’m not sad, Mrs. Atkinson.”

  She pats my hand. “Of course you are, dear. I know how close you and Faith are…”

  I sincerely hope not.

  “And it’s natural for friends to drift apart a little when one gets married. But there’s no need to be upset. Things will settle down once Faith returns from her honeymoon, and you’ll be back to bosom buddies again.”

  Bosom buddies. Oh. Dear. God.

  I smile weakly at her, counting down the minutes until finally, we arrive at the reception venue and pose for the obligatory Wedding Party Having Fun in a Winter Wonderland photos.

  By the time the last photo is taken, with me on autopilot for each excruciating second, my mouth aches from keeping my smile locked in place. I slink to the long wedding table, where lavish platters of caviar and bottles of expensive French champagne chill in ice buckets. I choke down a few forkfuls of the main course before excusing myself.