Three Nights Before Christmas: A Holiday Romance Collection

by Kati Wilde

  But it isn’t over yet. Because when he lifts his head again, his eyes are dark and intense, the need still smoldering. And his voice has a rough, primitive edge when he says, “I’m sorry to tell you, angel—what you imagined isn’t anything close to what it’ll be like with me.”

  I go still. The erection straining against his zipper is obviously much thicker and longer than his fingers were, but something in his tone tells me that’s not exactly what he means. Suddenly trembling with uncertainty, I ask, “What will it be like, then?”

  He doesn’t tell me. Instead he pushes upright. Hard hands grip my hips. A surprised cry breaks from me when he suddenly swings my body around, so that I’m lying with my shoulders pressed up against the back of the sofa and my butt hanging over the edge of the cushions—with Cole kneeling in front of me.

  Without a word, he tears off his T-shirt, revealing all that glorious muscle, the chiseled pecs and sculpted abs flexing beneath golden skin dusted with dark hair. He reaches forward and strips my jeans and panties down my hips, before rocking back to yank them completely free of my legs. Instinctively I clench my thighs together, my hands flying down to cover that utterly vulnerable part of me that he’s already touched but never seen, because this is not the sweet and gentle Cole. This is Cole, ravenous and feral and unrestrained. And I know he won’t hurt me. But all that power and intensity is a little intimidating.

  Tossing aside my jeans, he glances at my hands before raising his burning eyes to mine. “You don’t want my mouth on your cunt?”

  “I do,” I whisper. “So much.”

  Hunger etches harsh lines beside his lips. “Then open up.”

  I try. I want to. But I’m so overwhelmed and so wet and so sensitive that, although I remove the shield of my hands, my legs won’t follow my brain’s order to unclench.

  “Offer up that sweet pussy, Mia.” His large palms cup my knees and his voice lowers dangerously. “Or I’ll take what you’re too shy to give.”

  Oh my god. Anchoring myself, I dig my shaking fingers into the edge of the cushions beside my hips. “Take it, then.”

  Primal need flares through his eyes. Roughly he shoves my knees apart, but he doesn’t have to force them. At the first push of his hands, the muscles holding my thighs locked together release their tension. A growl of approval rumbles from his chest as he spreads me wide.

  And takes. First with his eyes, taking a long, long look while I wait in the agonizing grip of erotic anticipation. Then he lowers his head.

  He claims my pussy in a long, hot lick from my entrance to clit that sends me reeling. Oh god. He was right. This is nothing like I imagined. Not just because the reality of his tongue is so, so much better than anything I dreamed. I knew it would be. And there’s nothing he does that I haven’t imagined. The way he kisses the sultry lips of my pussy, teasing that sensitive flesh with his teeth. The way he licks deeper, and the slow and sensual thrust of his tongue inside me. The way he pins my hips when he begins to suck on my clit, his forearm holding me in place when my body begins to writhe beneath the exquisite torment of his mouth.

  But I always imagined it would be for my enjoyment. That it would be similar to what he did before, slowly testing my level of comfort and discovering how my body responds, so that he can bring me to a shattering orgasm. Yet from that very first lick, this hasn’t been about giving me pleasure.

  This is about Cole taking his.

  And he told me. Told me that he’d take what I didn’t give. And he does, claiming my pussy as if it’s not mine but his to use as he pleases—and my pussy must please him, he must love it, because even after I come he doesn’t ease up, but takes possession of that orgasm, too, as if my clenching flesh and the rush of wetness and even my screams are simply his due. Yet they don’t satisfy his hunger, don’t please him enough, because he opens me wider and goes back for more, though I can’t take any more, or give any more. But he’s taken me over, and even as I sob in ecstasy when his lips close around my engorged clit and he sucks on that bundle of nerves while his tongue flicks and flicks, though I’m begging “I can’t again, I can’t,” he makes me come again, and again, my pussy and my pleasure under his command.

  I’m a shuddering, boneless mess when he finally has enough, lifting his head after a last, lingering lick. With smoldering satisfaction he looks down at me, at my legs spread wide and my knees pinned to the edge of the sofa by his hands, at the wetness glistening halfway down the length of my inner thighs. Yet he still isn’t done claiming. As Cole rises over me, he doesn’t allow any space between us, his hair-roughened chest gliding over all that wetness between my legs, then deliberately moves higher, allowing his abdomen to drag slowly over my over-sensitized pussy as if collecting every drop he’d wrung from me.

  I’d thought he’d taken off his shirt so I could have a little eye-candy while he went down on me. But that apparently was for his own pleasure, too. So that we could be skin to skin. So that he could cover himself in my arousal. I smell myself all over his face, then taste myself when he kisses me, taking my mouth with the same hunger that he took the rest of me.

  And I love the way he takes me.

  Instinctively I begin to wrap my legs around his waist, but freeze as I recall the last time I did. Cole raises his head—his eyes still burning. Because he’s not boneless and limp. He’s hard and big against me.

  “What about you?” My throat’s raw from screaming and begging. “Don’t you need to come?”

  “Better not.” But he doesn’t sound frustrated by that. Instead he sounds pleased as he slides his hands beneath my bare butt to raise me higher onto the cushion. He follows me up, lifting me and turning me before settling against him again—with Cole lying on the sofa with his head propped up on the cushy arm, me tucked against his right side with my head pillowed on his shoulder—and giving both of us a view of the Christmas tree.

  But I’ve also got a view of his long body stretched out on the sofa, and of the way his erect cock looks like a tree trunk trapped behind the denim of his jeans. “Not even with my hand?”

  “Not yet.” He presses a kiss to my hair. “I tried your mitten. It was the first time I’d jacked off since getting shot, and it was going pretty damn well until I was about to come. Then you know how your body just kind of tightens up and it’s like a little seizure hits?”

  “Yes.” That happened to me a few times today.

  “It felt like I ripped my dick off.”

  “Ow.” I cringe in sympathy. “Not good.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  I lift my head. “Do you know, I’ve actually seen—”

  “Nope.” Laughing, he stops me. “Let that story wait until we’re eating dinner or something. Not while you’re naked against me.”

  “Okay.” With a grin, I lay my cheek on his shoulder again, then slide my hand over his chest—which is still slightly wet. “This was really dirty, rubbing yourself all over me.”

  “Dirty? I was cleaning you up. Your pussy juice was everywhere.” He lifts his arm from around my waist and curves his hand down over my ass to slide between my legs from behind. I tremble as his callused fingers glide over my wet, swollen flesh. “I’ll probably have to do it again. Maybe after we decorate the tree. Are we doing that tonight?”

  “I don’t know.” I gaze at the tall pine. It’s just a tree, the branches bare, but it makes me so happy. “I’m still basking in the glow of our success in putting it up. Maybe we can just leave it like this tonight, and do decorations tomorrow. Have you done that before?”

  “Couple of times when I was a kid. You?”

  “No. My mother always hired decorators to put up our trees. I wasn’t allowed to touch them.” I bite my lip, then ask in a rush, “Do you want to sleep here tonight?”

  His arm tightens around me again. “Yeah.”

  Such a simple question and answer, yet my heart is knocking hard within my chest, relief rushing through me as if I just escaped some horrible fate. “Okay.
”

  “I’ll probably wake you up tomorrow morning with my face between your legs.” He pauses only a moment before adding, “No, there’s no ‘probably.’ It’ll happen.”

  “All right,” I agree, and my voice is strained—not because of screaming or begging but because of the sweet swelling pressure within me. This moment might be the happiest I’ve ever been—and lying here against him is somehow even better than what he just did to me with his mouth.

  But I know why. Just like the decorations will be beautiful, but the real joy of that tree is all the hope I have that everything will change, that the future will be so different from the past. Just like his fingers and tongue feel so amazing, but the real pleasure comes from the force of his need and hunger, and knowing how much he wants me.

  Lying here, it’s just skin against skin, and his strong arms holding me tight. That warmth and comfort aren’t the reason my heart is pounding, the reason tears are stinging my eyes. Because it can never be just skin on skin, not with Cole Matthews—and the real terror and hope and joy is that I’m falling in love with him.

  And maybe ‘falling’ is an accident. That doesn’t mean I’ll get hurt. People walk away from accidents all the time.

  But I couldn’t walk away from this, even if I tried.

  11

  Cole

  Taking it one day at a time is a hell of a lot easier than I expected. Maybe because I begin each day by eating an angel’s pussy. Then I end most days the same way, so all the hours in between are just sweet heaven.

  I’ve never lived with a woman before. And I can’t truly say that’s what I’m doing now. But except for the two nights after we painted her bedroom and moved over to my bed while waiting for the smell to dissipate, I sleep over at her place. My own apartment still gets plenty of use, though. When she’s not home, I do the same stuff I did before she came into my life. And even when she is home, sometimes she needs a few hours alone, or I need a few hours, or it just makes more sense for me to grab a shower at my place—such as those mornings when I spend a little too long between her legs and we have to hurry to get ready. I could happily spend every damn second with her, but we’re not rushing this thing, and I’m pretty sure we’re both being careful not to invade each other’s personal space. I hear of couples that don’t even bother closing the bathroom door when taking a piss. We aren’t anywhere near that stage yet.

  But even if I’m not living with her, my life feels wrapped up and tangled with hers. And it’s a damn good feeling. We fit together so fucking easy, but with just enough friction to make it interesting.

  My phone is full of the texts we send. Sometimes just asking about each other’s schedules, because she’s got her workshops, or meets up with Jason, and now and again she and some of her co-workers will go out for drinks. She sends links to articles she’s reading, sometimes just with a laughing smiley, other times with commentary, and every time I’m struck by how damn smart she is, and how fucking curious about the world, and how opinionated she is about the way it works…yet still always willing to listen if I have a different perspective.

  She doesn’t always agree, but she always thinks about it. And that’s a hell of a thing.

  Then there’s the times she’ll send a link to a do-it-yourself tutorial with a I want to do this, but I would need a little help. Would you be able to? But only if it’s no bother.

  The answer is always yes—and that it’s never a bother. But the next time, she’ll ask me the same way. Just like asking me if putting up the Christmas tree was a bother. Or asking me if I minded helping her move a chest of drawers she put together, though I told her that night I kissed her in the laundry room I’d be willing. Even the painting, after we went to the hardware store together and got everything we needed, before we put color down on a single wall she looked at me all hesitant and made sure I didn’t mind helping her. Maybe it’s just a polite reflex…or related to what Jason told me about her never being sure whether someone’s going to decide she’s not worth shit, or that doing anything for her is a burden or hurts them somehow. It didn’t take two years for her to trust me—maybe because she’s been healing like he said, and maybe because she has that near-spiritual connection to me like I do to her, thanks to Lowery’s bullets. But there’s still a part of her that’s unsure about seeking help from anyone.

  And seeking comfort? I don’t know if she can. Two days that I know of, she had a rough morning at work. Because she can detach, like she says, but there’s some shit you can’t completely detach from. I know how it is all too well. There’s been cases I’ve worked that will haunt me as long as I live. In December, we catch two separate cases like that. Since I’m still on light duty, I don’t work them up close. But it doesn’t make a difference. I still hear about it, see the photos, and that knowing hangs like a grim pall over the whole damn station, and on those days the cheery holiday music and decorations seem like an insult.

  So I know exactly what ended up in that morgue and how she must have hurt for them. But Mia’s not accustomed to turning to anyone when she’s hurting. Instead she withdraws, locks herself up tight where no one can get to her and maybe hurt her even worse. If it was me hurting, I have no doubt she’d be right there, holding me close. She just won’t let me do the same for her yet.

  Yet. Because we’re taking this one day at a time. And as the month passes, there’s a few small hurts between us—usually because I’m an asshole, and other times because being part of a couple is new for us both. But those hurts don’t send her running and hiding. Instead she calls me a jerk, and I’ll agree because she’s right. And we work though the other shit because it’s all easy fixes, like me promising not to lose my goddamn mind if one snowy night Mia arrives home a few hours later than usual, and her promising to remember to charge her fucking phone.

  One thing’s for sure, though—her hot little cunt gets even hotter when she’s yelling at me. And knowing she’s still mine afterward makes all those pussy juices taste even sweeter.

  Hell, she’s just sweet all over. And so fucking cute every day, watching holiday movies and coming up with those personalized gifts and decorating her apartment. She’s like a kid sometimes, but I can’t say a damn thing, because watching her embrace it all makes me feel like a kid, too. And I know too well where it all comes from.

  I don’t hear a thing from John Bennet’s direction. I know her parents call her sometimes, because I overhear her side of the conversation—her flat and abbreviated responses, almost always in the negative—and sometimes I see her sigh and text a short reply. Trying to convince her to stay at the mansion over Christmas, apparently. But Mia holds firm, and as the day approaches, those calls and texts come in more frequently. It’s hell holding my tongue and not telling her to block them, but in the end, I don’t need to. Without me saying a thing, she begins hitting Decline and ignoring them.

  The day she starts doing that is a damn good day.

  But then, every day is. The day before Christmas comes on a bright cold morning. I wake up with her snuggled against me and my dick hard as fuck, just like every morning. But I only have a few minutes to slowly wake her with my tongue before heading out alone.

  Every year on this day, volunteers from the police and fire departments spend most of the day delivering toys to kids in the local hospitals—so every year, I volunteer. It’s one of the few times a year I put on my uniform anymore. The kids might like the sound of a detective, but to most of them, you’re not a cop unless you’re dressed in blue and wearing a badge on your chest.

  We finish up late in the afternoon. I know Mia’s out with Jason, doing some charity thing connected to the Bennet’s foundation, so afterward I join the other cops when they head out for a drink. I don’t realize she’s already returned home until a text comes in.

  My do-it-yourself project for tonight.

  She includes a link to a woman’s magazine article. The site loads a picture of a banana and the headline, “Top Ten Tips to Blow Your M
an’s Mind During a Blow Job.”

  Holy fuck.

  I’m still not at a hundred percent. I won’t be until I get the okay to start running and adding some heavy weights to my leg exercises again. But the pain is down to the occasional twinge—not a long, agonizing twinge, but a brief, sharp twinge if I move too fast or stretch too far. Just my body telling me to slow down, but it’s no longer stopping me. I haven’t said as much to Mia, but she probably knows. I move around fairly easily, and I haven’t broken out the crutches for about three weeks.

  I’d planned to hold out until even the twinges were gone, though. Because I’ve jacked off in the shower a couple of times, and I’m pretty damn sure I can get through a round of sex without any real pain. But Mia is so damn worried about hurting anyone, I was afraid that even a mild flinch would make her too terrified to touch me again. But holding out for much longer might be beyond me.

  I read the headline again. Yeah. Holding out is a million miles beyond me.

  I’m already tossing money onto the table, getting ready to leave when the next message comes in.

  Look, they have tons of tutorials on this site! Should I learn to do this? I might need help, though. Can you? Pretty please?

  Not asking if it’s a bother. And not YouTube this time. YouPorn. A picture comes through next—a screenshot of an actress looking up at the camera, her mouth stuffed full of cock. And Mia is on her tablet at home, looking at that. Maybe imagining that’s my cock, with her pussy soaking wet.

  Only by some Christmas miracle, I don’t blow my load that second. I’m on my way, angel.

  You mean you’re—

  She sends a picture of David Caruso putting on his sunglasses.

  —COMING?