Christmas Comfort (Hot Holidays Series)

by Rachel Dunning

  Jeff took him outside for a one-on-one pow-wow.

  "My sister likes you," he said.

  For a moment, Mitchell was stunned. He'd never been one to discuss the sexual desires of a woman with her own brother. He put his hand up to wave Jeff's suggestion away. "Jeff, like I said—"

  "She lives her own life," Jeff interrupted. "I just want you to know that. She's a strong woman, and she doesn't fall for men. I'm just telling you in case you have worries about her being my sister and all. She's been...alone...for a while."

  "What, are you like her pimp or something?"

  Jeff laughed. "Far from it. I just want you to know that, if she goes for you, you have my blessing."

  Jeff and Mitchell had spent many a night at a bar. Jeff, being the married man, never picked up the ladies, but he knew of Mitchell's proclivity for female comfort on most nights.

  Jeff also knew that, as tough as Mitchell played himself to be, he was hurting inside about Number Three. She'd actually meant something to him, the bitch.

  "Are you secretly hoping I do hook up with your sister, Jeff?"

  "For a high-powered executive you're pretty fucking slow, you know that? Come, let's get back inside. My balls are climbing up into my stomach here. Christmas Eve is one of the few nights of the year when I get lucky so I need to make sure my bad-boys are in full operating order."

  Mitch couldn't help chuckle at the sight of a short and balding man talking about his "bad-boys."

  Inside, he sat on a one-seater and the notorious Jacqueline Conway sat across from him. She was dressed in a red dress that showed off her curvy hips and curvy breasts and curvy legs.

  Attractive. Exceedingly Attractive.

  He shifted once in his seat. He was not going to go down that road with his partner's sister.

  The rest of the family sat around on other couches and, for the most part, they spoke about how awful it was that his flight had been cancelled and how his family must be suffering. They told a number of jokes which Mitchell struggled to grasp because they used so much freaking British slang that he might as well be in Turkey listening to Greek spoken by an Egyptian.

  As the rest of the crowd got carried away in laughter and banter, Jacqueline Conway's eyes eased over his body, burning his skin, then settled on his face.

  He shifted again.

  "How long you staying?" she asked.

  "Well, as soon as there's a flight, I'll leave."

  There was a pause as she looked down at her wine glass with a smirk so deadly Mitchell actually felt his cock move, and a drop of pre-come hit his leg.

  "So..." she said, twirling her finger around the glass, "you're spending the night here?"

  "Well, Jeff said there's a guest room?"

  She still looked down at her glass. The rest of the crowd might as well be in another part of town. They were so deep into their conversation that it was as if the two of them were in a separate bubble.

  A log on the fire snapped.

  Jacqueline looked up at her family on her right, then back at him.

  The next thing she said shot to his manhood with such force that he was suddenly defenseless.

  Her eyes locked on his, stoic, and hot. Oh so hot.

  And what she said was this: "You can stay at my place, if you'd like."

  That was all she said. Nothing more. And then she watched him, like some experiment.

  He knew he could say no and she wouldn't care.

  He knew he could say yes and she wouldn't care.

  Confident. Terribly confident. That was one quality the women he'd been with before had seriously lacked. Every one of them.

  He admitted...it really turned him on.

  And? Why shouldn't he be with her? That's what he needed now, a direct woman. One who would tell him to his face she hated him or thought he was awful in bed or anything. None of his wives had ever been direct. They'd all gone behind his back. Pretended to love him when they didn't. Or at least pretended it after they'd stopped loving him. It's not that Mitchell had any particular beef about "needing love." He had a beef with dishonesty.

  He put all his strength into answering her question in as manly a form as possible. If he got that voice-cracking teenage thing going now he'd never live it down and would never be able to face this Jacqueline again.

  He managed. "Sure. Why not?"

  She smirked. Her gaze lit his shirt on fire. She sipped her wine, then said, "I'm looking forward to it."

  -6-

  Dinner could not pass quickly enough for Mitchell Langford. When Jacqueline here had announced to the "adults table"—the kids sat elsewhere because the adults table was "so boring!"—that he'd be spending the night at her place in the spare bedroom, not one of them batted an eyelid.

  In fact, he'd venture to say that they even seemed pleased. Especially her mother.

  He didn't pretend to understand it.

  The children had long since been playing in the lounge and screaming blue murder at each other.

  He confessed to himself that he liked the sound of their voices in the other room. It had a filling quality to it. Especially the little boy's voice—William. Red hair, blue eyes like his mom, a little small perhaps. But he seemed cocky for his size. Just like Mitchell had been when he was young.

  The boy was asleep by the time they left. Along with all the other kids.

  Jacquie drove.

  Her apartment was in a low-slung building of two floors. The space was modest but the furniture looked expensive. And professional.

  There was indeed a spare bedroom. He'd wondered about that.

  He'd made chit-chat with her in her car, spoken about all the polite things a person should talk about when meeting someone new. She was an elementary school teacher, he'd learned, which didn't explain all the dough she seemed to have. Unless she was knee-high in debt, or unless she'd gotten a good settlement.

  Not his business.

  She poured him a brandy. "It's not 1973 Vintage Madeira, but it's good," she said.

  He looked out the window at the unrelenting snow. It didn't look like it would let up any time soon. Not even tomorrow.

  "I'm just going to freshen up," he heard her say from behind him.

  She was gone a few minutes.

  When she returned, he first saw her as a reflection in the window. If it had been his house, he would've simply dropped the glass on the carpet and taken her.

  Stains be damned.

  But it wasn't.

  His heart raced like something out of NASCAR.

  He actually felt his cock twang.

  If it had ever been unclear that she'd intended to sleep with him tonight, it had suddenly become abundantly clear.

  She was behind him, silk robe, pink lace underwear that made him so horny all he could think of was ripping it off her with his teeth.

  But that's not how Mitchell liked to do things.

  He turned, slowly. And he took her in with his eyes. The spasm in his genitals were orgasms in themselves. Fists to his stomach each one.

  He swallowed in every inch of her, her bends, the gentle fur behind the lace covering her mound. Saliva broke out on his tongue and in his cheeks as he considered the taste of her.

  She was fifteen or twenty feet away, leaning confidently against a wall. Saying nothing, doing nothing. Just watching him watching her.

  He wanted her. And he could tell that she knew it. He suspected she'd known it since the moment he'd seen her sensuous figure lithely open the door for him earlier that night.

  They stared at each other, neither moving. Each one fucking the brains out of the other with their eyes.

  Best goddamn fuck he'd ever had. Eye candy, visual orgasms. And he was crack-deep into several of them all at once now. Whoever said men couldn't come multiple times had never seen this babe dressed as she was now.

  Jacqueline Conway looked real. She looked...like a woman. The arc of her thighs was real. The curve of her stomach was real. The gentle weight of her buxom br
easts was so real that he damn near felt their taut nipples scrape against his nose as they washed over his face while she rode him.

  No, that was him dreaming.

  But he was starting to need that reality more desperately now.

  He put his drink down on the nearest surface.

  She broke the silence first. "Do I intimidate you?"

  She did. Every ounce of her intimidated him. Her confidence intimidated him. Her appeal intimidated him. That she knew he wanted to fuck her brains out, and yet stood there waiting for it calmly, intimidated the bejanking hell out of him. But it also did something else: "I'm more...aroused...than intimidated."

  "I'll have you know..." She catwalked, slowly, boldly, toward him, "...that I haven't fucked a man in a year."

  Mitchell swallowed.

  She kept getting closer. "I'll have you know as well, that when I fuck a man, or when a man fucks me, I expect him to please. Are you up to the task, Mr....Mitchell...Langford?"

  That was the first time he'd ever felt someone fuck him simply by uttering his name...

  She'd extended the word Langford so much that it felt like her tongue riding his shaft bottom to top, and him unraveling at the end of it.

  She undid his tie.

  He wanted to burst into her.

  He wanted to take her and throw her on the couch and slam inside her.

  But these were boyish desires. Childish desires.

  He'd long since learned to control them. It was always more pleasing that way.

  He'd take it slow. He'd push his need to the very cusp. He'd fuck her all night. But he wouldn't give in just like that.

  She started undoing his buttons, licking his skin as she did it.

  He didn't bother with a kiss. This wasn't that kind of meeting. She'd made that clear.

  He went straight for her underwear, slid his fingers over her mound and squished into her swollen folds like grease on a piston.

  She was soaking, slick.

  Her whimper sent him howling in his mind. His cock was so hard he could feel it begging him to release it.

  She undid another button, kissed the fur on his chest. She smiled decadently as she saw his tribal tat, spiraling dangerously close around his nipple. "That must've hurt," she whispered, still kissing him.

  "Like a bitch."

  "Mmmmm," she murmured, forgetting what she'd been saying.

  He felt her tremble under his hand, felt her legs almost give way. She gave a quick giggle, then laid her ear on his chest. "Mitchell Langford, I'm afraid my tough-girl act must come to the end now. You've brought me—Mmmmmm! Stop, wait..." He stopped moving his fingers. "I'm afraid," she said with deep breaths, "that my act must come to an end, because your fingers have made me weak—and I need to sit down."

  He moved her over to the two-seater, sat her down. Her cheeks were flushed. He could feel his were, too. He eased her panties off and her shining moisture made his cock pulse so violently he almost exploded just by looking at her.

  The loudest groan at that moment was his, not hers.

  The tattoo of a rose, alarmingly close to her mound, turned his need into a frantic thirst.

  He wanted to drink of her completely. He wasted no second. His lips were to her nether ones so fast, his tongue all over her, in and out, and then above, that she went over almost instantly.

  Her crotch catapulted into his chin as she spasmed with pleasure. She growled wildly.

  Her hands clamped his head below to keep him pressed to her but there was no need to, because he wanted to taste and feel all of her anyway. He saw her butt squeeze, then she gave one final yelp.

  And she eased down, satisfied.

  -7-

  His black hair felt soft in her hands, thick and warm. The sounds of his tongue on her folds and inside her were still sending latent shocks throughout her body.

  He looked hungry. He felt hungry.

  She needed to satisfy him. And Hell knows she wanted to see the rest of him nude. It had been his chest that had thrown her so quickly over the top. Hard and firm. Athletic.

  And that ink...

  Thinking of it again, and his tongue still working her passionately below, she felt herself clench once more. Her stomach fell in on itself. She groaned. "Mitchell Langford, fuck me."

  Still between her legs, he said, "I thought you'd never ask."

  He stood, undid his slacks and let them drop. When his boxers came off, Jacquie couldn't help but lean forward and take a deep taste, caressing him once up and then down again with her lips, fondling him with her tongue all the way.

  She dared not pump him. She could see he was on the border. So was she again. She'd go over it quickly. And she wanted him to go over it with her, inside her.

  She lay down, lifted one leg onto the back of the couch, put her other foot on the floor. And she waited for him to enter her.

  But he didn't.

  He stood, a study in concrete, shaft gleaming and teasing.

  He smiled.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  He answered with actions. And the answer was that he'd been simply making her wait a little.

  He got on his knees and unclasped her bra so that her breasts splayed out. Now was the first time she'd felt slightly self-conscious about their lack of stiffness.

  Mitchell Langford's full mouth over the first one put that concern quickly to rest. Her eyes closed of their own will. He sucked her nipple and areola and bit down just enough to have her plead sounds of brilliant mercy.

  When his hand covered her mound again, she said, "Oh, baby, yes."

  He fingered her, plunged deep and rubbed down on her nub with the palm of his hand while his angelic tongue licked the bejeezus out of her hardened tits.

  She spoke without control, "Oh, bloody hell, yes!"

  He fingered her more, gently, rhythmically, rolling into her and then out, pressing. Brushing.

  Her body writhed. She rocked herself into his hand and cursed some more and then said, "Mmmmmmm."

  The orgasm was building once again. Slow, steady. Teeter-tottering. Hanging. Waiting...

  Blood filled her skull and she knew she was about to burst. She panted without wanting to. Her back chafed against the couched as she pushed and rocked and rode that motherfucker's hand until he gave an unmitigated thrust into her and pulled up so high that her back arched and, and, and—

  It was a locomotive. Chug, chug, chug, chug.

  Then the whistle, her body still in the air, hanging, his fingers so deep within her she felt he was a part of her. And the engine approaching.

  It—rocked—her—world.

  The train barraged past her, bell dinging, car after car after car after car, endless, nonstop, unyielding.

  When the blasts of crushing bliss came to an end—Mitchell's hand still high up inside her, massaging her, touching her—her palm curled around his neck. She found herself looking deep into his cobalt eyes, looking deep into him as if he were now suddenly more than what she thought he should have been—a good lay on what would have been an otherwise uncomfortably lonely night.

  But he suddenly felt like more.

  His face was taught. He was working to satisfy her, she could see, sweat beading on his brow, taking none for himself.

  She heard him growl, saw the veins on his bicep grow as he continued to pump her. A few more squeezes of pleasure ripped through her.

  She closed her eyes.

  It was impossible to keep the grin off her face.

  She heard what sounded like a condom paper. Good that he thought of it, because she'd been a little distracted by now.

  She felt him ease himself on top her. She was looser now below. That was probably good for him. He seemed like the type that wanted to make it last. And, two orgasms back-to-back, you couldn't tighten her up now even if Adam Levine himself had his cock dangling around in front of her mouth.

  Mitchell Langford covered her body with his heat. But when he filled her, the strangest thing occurred.


  She did clamp up.

  And she gasped.

  And, goddamnit, she started coming! Again!

  His roars were a sexual symphony. Long and lingering so that they warmed her more than any fire or radiator ever could.

  Or fortified wine.

  As his cock slammed inside her, pulsing and firing like an animal on a chain, she held him close.

  When he was done, he kept moving still, slowly, pushing up into her, not entirely soft, but not fully hard either.

  He kissed her neck, massaged her breast.

  "You have the most amazing breasts," he said, staring at one of them, then easing his mouth over it.

  A nerve tightened down her side as he did it.

  "Your tits are pretty damn sexy themselves," she replied.

  That was the kindest thing she'd ever said to a man after sex. She'd made it a rule not to compliment men after screwing them. It made her vulnerable.

  "Thank you."

  Mitchell kissed the other nipple, still riding her. The gentle friction in and out was throwing images into her mind of the last half hour. Images that were keeping her warm after the heat was spent.

  He lifted her breast, kissed underneath it. Licked it, lapped it, up through the cleavage, then onto the other one.

  And, still, he rode into her.

  She felt his girth widen slowly, his hardness increase.

  Soon it was as it had been before. He kept it gentle, but she knew he'd do it however he wanted. He didn't seem the man to be afraid of riding a woman hard if he really needed to.

  Besides, she felt she should let him do it how he wanted for this time round, seeing as he'd taken her over the edge three times already.

  His next orgasm was handsome. She saw it in his face and his clenched eyes, heard it in his pleading cry out to the world.

  She felt it in his cock, caroming and blazing.

  Their skins were drenched at the end.

  He kissed her neck.

  She let him.

  He kissed her skin by her chest, down to her stomach, finally reaching her crevice. He pecked it, then licked the inside of her thigh.

  She sighed.

  When he got back to her head, he kissed her lips.