by Cassie James
I’m not entirely sure which god of Christmas orgasms is looking out for me, but they do me a solid. I don’t even think about crying when Jean-Luc drops his lips against the front of my sheer panties and blazes a trail of scorching heat against the outside of my aching pussy.
I don’t bother trying to roll my hips, knowing the action will get me nowhere fast. All I can hope for instead—as my head lolls to the side and his hot breath tickles against my core—is that Jean-Luc will give me what I so desperately need if I just stop resisting.
Stars explode in a brilliant show of white and gold behind my eyes when he pulls one of his arms free and reaches for my panties instead. He slips a finger in my panties, and then another, and then a violent shudder overwhelms me when he yanks the scrap of sheer gold lace to the side.
Yes, fucking finally.
I guess I can get on board with the whole patience is a virtue thing when he finally, finally, finally runs his tongue against my sex. My toes curl with the second pass of his tongue, and by the third, breathy moans are falling through my lips as I tug against the restraints.
“I told you patience is a good thing, non?” he asks the question straight into my pussy. The vibrations hit me just the right way, and I buck against his mouth.
I don’t answer right away, too lost in the sensation of Jean-Luc’s effort to completely devour me. I roll my hips the best I can, desperate to find relief for the ache he’s been letting build up for far too long.
I cry out in protest when he pulls away from me tutting. “Patience, love,” he admonishes, and I do my very best to glare down at him through my lust-addled haze.
“I don’t want to be patient,” I pant out while twisting against the restraints. He smirks up at me from between my legs, and I wish I had it in me to be even a little bit annoyed at him.
All I feel is an intense, burning need and something else a little deeper in my gut that I’m too afraid to put to words just yet.
“Gemma—” he starts, but I cut him off with an angry grunt. (Full disclosure, pretty sure it was actually another one of my stupid breathy moans.)
“I don’t want to be patient, Jean-Luc. I want to cum.”
“You want the little death?” he asks, and my head jerks up in surprise.
“The wha—” I start to ask, but the devilish smile on his face right before he pushes two fingers inside of me is enough to distract me. I throw my head back as my back arches from the bed.
“You want la petite mort, mon amour?” he asks before descending on my center with renewed fervor. And I swear he must be some intuitive god of eating me out just the right way because I’m cresting on the peak of damn-near debilitating pleasure within minutes.
When I do finally crest that hill and crash into the valley below, it’s with strangled moans and seizing muscles. All of Jean-Luc’s insistence on patience, waiting, and the build up? Yeah, I totally get that now because I’ve never had someone make me cum so hard just by going down on me.
And the little death thing?
Yeah, the French totally nailed it.
I’m pretty sure I’ve died and gone to heaven.
Thirty
Anthony
December 14
“Stop fucking calling me, dude. Figure it out.” The line clicks dead.
I pull the phone away from my ear and stare down at it as if that will somehow summon Cyrus back to help me. I am freaking the fuck out—I’m man enough to admit that. I’ve already fucked up my one shot to make a good first impression.
Well… not a first impression.
But it is a first first date impression.
I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking inviting her to come over to watch Christmas movies. I should have said I would take her out to dinner or something. I just panicked when she asked me what the plan was and blurted out the first thing I could think of.
Why hadn’t I actually planned something? At the time it felt spontaneous, but now it just feels stupid.
This is Gemma. The least I could have done was take her out to a nice dinner or something. Shit, I didn’t even offer to pick her up.
With three solid strides, I reach the wall so I can bang my fucking head on it. The sound is loud enough—and similar enough—that it takes me an unfortunately long time to realize someone’s knocking.
Not someone, but Gemma.
I’m a fucking idiot.
Before I open the door to her, I stop and take a deep breath. Hopefully she won’t hate me when she realizes the reality of this date was definitely not what she was expecting.
I swing the door wide, an apology already on my lips, but my mouth goes dry when I see her.
She’s dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Her hair’s up in one of those messy buns that makes it look like she doesn’t care about where she is or who she’s with. That kind of thing has never struck me as hot before, but all of a sudden my dick has some serious feelings about it.
A woman doesn’t dress down for a date unless she’s really comfortable with the man she’s seeing, right? At least that’s what I tell myself as I swallow the lump in my throat.
Gemma gives me an apologetic smile.
“I’m a little worn out. I hope it’s okay that I didn’t get all fancy for a night in.” A flicker of disappointment crosses her face that’s at odds with her words.
“We can go out if you’d rather,” I force myself to offer. I hold my breath waiting for her response, hoping like hell I don’t have to come up with something different on the spot. I’m clearly no fucking good at this.
“No.” She wrinkles her nose. “A movie is good.”
Fuck.
Her body brushes mine as she steps past me and into the apartment. I trail her into the living room, rubbing my hand across the back of my neck as I try to muster up an explanation for what I know she’s about to realize.
“Uh, I think you’ve been robbed.” Her voice sounds flat.
I look at the blank wall where she’s currently staring. “I haven’t been robbed.”
She glances over at me, seriously confused I imagine based on the way her forehead pinches with concern.
“Where’s your TV then?”
“Yeah, can’t watch a movie without one of those, huh?” I cough out a half-laugh.
She twists her body so she can openly stare at me for a few agonizingly long seconds. The way she looks at me makes me feel like she’s reading me too well. Like she can see every insecurity I’ve felt since joining the team.
It’s hard being the only new kid. With a team that’s only two years old, I was the only recruit last season. A year behind all the other guys. So even though there’s not much of an age gap, there’s still a bit of disconnect between me and everyone else.
I’d honestly worried they might try to push me out of this whole thing when Cyrus first brought it up. The other guys had spent a whole year longer than me pining after Gemma.
Now, even though they’d included me, I’m managing to fucking squander my chance at the real deal.
And that’s exactly what Gemma is.
The realest person I’ve ever met.
I was a little shit in college with jersey chasers at my beck and call. I got really good at playing the field in every possible way. Meeting Gemma, though, it changed everything.
It’s the way she gets a genuine smile when she asks me about my parents—who might just be the team’s biggest supporters, or at least the fans with the most merchandise hanging in their closets. My mom owns so much blue people probably worry she’s joined a gang or something.
It’s also the way she takes care of us. Part of it’s her job, I know that, but she has this way of giving each of us exactly the kind of attention we need. It’s easy for people working with a team to play favorites, but Gemma never has.
Not even with me when I joined and was the obvious odd man out for months.
In fact, I’m pretty sure Gemma’s acceptance of me was the only reason the guys let me in
to the fold as quickly as they did. I’ve still got old teammates from college that send group texts bitching about being iced out by their pro teams.
“Anthony?”
God, it’s sexy when she says my name.
“Yeah?”
“Do you not own a TV?”
Moment of truth. “I… don’t. No.”
“Then why on earth did you invite me over to watch Christmas movies?” She doesn’t seem upset yet, just genuinely confused.
I shrug sheepishly. I really don’t know what I was thinking.
“I panicked and blurted out the first thing I could think of. I can go buy a TV,” I offer.
She chuckles, then seems to realize I’m serious.
“Anthony, you not owning a TV is best damn news I’ve heard all day.”
“It is?”
She nods aggressively. “I’ve already had my fair share of Christmas movies. I just didn’t want to tell you I was dreading watching even one more of them because you were so hyped up when you told me that’s what we were doing.”
“Yeah… That might have been more panic than excitement.”
She takes a step closer to me and raises her eyebrows. “Since movie night is off the table, what do you say we skip the cheesy date activities and go straight to your bedroom.”
I blink at her several times before her words sink in. I wasn’t expecting her to be so forward—it’s not her usual M.O.
“Here’s the thing, I’m so damn tired. And for tonight, I would really, really appreciate skipping straight to the part where you alleviate this ache that’s been building all damn day.”
This time I’m the one raising my eyebrows.
She explains for me, “It turns out my body has gotten kind of used to the royal orgasm treatment. I hope you’re up for the challenge.”
Damn, this woman is something else.
I clutch at my chest dramatically. “It would be my honor to add to your orgasm count, your majesty.” I give her a mocking bow, too, really committing to the roleplay here. It’s really stupid, so I appreciate it when she laughs—even if it does sound a little forced.
A pity laugh is better than no laugh at all.
Silence falls between us for a long moment. Gemma catches my eye and her expression is all soft and warm and gooey. The kind of thing I used to hate when it was coming from other girls, but coming from Gemma… the sight makes me feel all kinds of messy emotions.
It’s hard to believe there was ever a time when I thought the most fun way to live was by never getting serious with anyone.
“Take me to bed, Anthony.”
Her words stir something akin to a caveman deep inside of me. Without a word, I wrap my arms around her and hoist her over my shoulder. She puts her hands on my back to help steady herself as I move speedily down the hall towards the bedroom.
I carry Gemma to the master bedroom and put her down only a couple steps away from my bed. I considered tossing her into the center of it, but I’m not a fucking animal.
I keep a hand on Gemma’s waist until she manages to find her balance. Her eyes are wide as they take in every detail of the room. I spent a lot of time cleaning the place up to impress her. I’m messy as hell, usually, but I didn’t want her seeing my place and thinking I was the kind of guy who needed a maid more than a girlfriend.
Gemma definitely isn’t that kind of woman. I would never expect her to be.
“Oh my god, what size bed is this?” She leans forward to run her hand over the thick duvet I may or may not have just bought yesterday for this very occasion. (I did. I definitely did.)
I take a step closer, trapping her between me and the bed. She shoots a coy smile over her shoulder at me before tucking her shoulder, dropping to the bed, and then immediately rolling over to look up at me.
“It’s an Alaskan King,” I explain in a hoarse voice. “It can fit up to four people.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“Not that I’ve ever tried it,” I add hastily.
She pats the spot next to her on the bed. “This bed is far too big for one person.” She raises an eyebrow, her intentions clear. I can’t help but wonder if she was always this confident in bed or if that’s come from these last couple weeks.
I sort of like the idea that maybe the team could be responsible for bringing Gemma out of her shell.
The talk between the guys was always that she had less than zero sexual chemistry with that ex of hers. The guy was always like a cold fish towards her. It’s definitely obvious the guy was the problem—because Gemma is fucking perfect.
In the bed and out of it.
Before I join Gemma in the bed, I walk over to my dresser and pull open the top drawer. I stored something there earlier, not completely sure if I should even bother, but…
It seems like it should be up to Gemma to make the choice.
I hold up the rubber and leather combination for her to see. A ball gag. I’ve had mixed feelings about it ever since I opened day fourteen and found this thing tucked away. It’s hard to picture Gemma with a ball gag in.
“Uhm.” She doesn’t look all that excited by the prospect.
“I won’t mind if you don’t want to use this thing, I swear.” I’ve never put a gag on a woman before. I’ve seen this kind of thing in porn but I’ve never been all that interested myself. The only thing I really want to put in Gemma’s mouth is my dick—though I’ve got a feeling now isn’t the right time to mention that.
Her nose wrinkles up in the cutest way as she thinks about it. “I really wasn’t expecting this much… bondage? But hey, I’m all in at this point. I’m willing to give it a go if you are.”
“Yeah, of course.”
I would agree to literally anything that ends with this woman in my bed.
I climb next to her on the bed and proceed to spend several long minute fumbling with the strap of the gag before I finally manage to slide it into place around her head the right way. It was a lot harder than I expected, and I can’t help but feel like we’re wasted precious moments together on the stupid thing.
She tries to say something, but it comes out mumbled. I guess she finds that amusing because she ends up snorting out a laugh over it.
Gemma runs a hand down my chest until she reaches the hem of my shirt. I tug it off over my head, giving her access to my bare upper body. She takes her time running her hands over the ridged planes of my abs.
She nods approvingly as her eyelids start to dip, making her look as if she’s been drugged with pleasure. I really, really hope that’s the case, too.
Not sure how long I’ll actually make it once things fully heat up, I strip myself down in record time. When I start to undress, Gemma, though, I do the opposite. I pull away pieces of clothing and take my time cherishing each part of her that I manage to reveal to myself.
By the time she’s naked on my bed, I’m pretty sure she’d been panting if the ball gag wasn’t in the way.
I realize with a hell of a lot of regret that I haven’t even gotten to kiss her properly. But when Gemma takes the condom from me and rolls it down my length—I forget altogether about how out-of-order we’re doing all of this.
I’m going to kiss the hell out of this woman for the rest of the night. But I’m going to fuck her real good first.
The moment I sink into her is pure ecstasy. She digs her nails into my back as she whimpers around her gag. And then I’m just totally lost to her.
Her body is quite reactive. She moves around so much I idly wonder at one point if we’re in danger of breaking my bed frame. She’s got a body made for fucking. I dig my fingers into those perfect hips of hers as I try to keep a steady pace.
I used to perfect the art of orgasming at the same time as my woman, and I’m curious to see if that’s a possibility with Gemma now. If not the first time, I’m more than happy to keep practicing until we get the timing just right.
She suddenly wiggles under me, her face full of exasperation, but I can’t tell if
she’s trying to readjust or if she’s trying to spur me on. Right now, I fucking live to please her. I want to learn exactly how to give her what she needs. She’s not going to walk away from me feeling unsatisfied, that’s for damn sure.
“Tell me what you need. Do you want it harder?”
The only response I hear is a slight moan. I look up, wanting more, and then I remember oh yeah. She can’t fucking talk through the ball gag.
“Let me just take this—” I start to reach for the clasp but she turns her head, so it’s out of reach. “You want to leave it in?” My leg starts to shake with nervous energy, the whole bed swaying slightly from the motion.
I really, really like feedback. I want to hear her tell me she likes things. I want to hear her call out my name. I really didn’t think this through. I should have asked to trade with someone or something.
I’m a talker. I can’t help it. But it’s weird if I’m talking and she can’t answer me. Right?
My inner dialogue is freaking loud—it’s the only excuse I have for why it takes so long for me to realize she’s tapping my arm insistently. Noticing she’s gotten my attention now, she turns her head back again and points at the clasp.
She points until I start to carefully take the strap off of her.
“You could leave it in,” I offer, even as I carefully slip the red ball out of her mouth, her lips making an audible popping sound as she releases the gag.
“I’ve had a fun time trying things—but it’s not fun if it makes you second-guess yourself. I’m not here to be gagged, I’m just here for you.”
I breathe a huge sigh of relief.
“You alright?” she asks.
“I am now.” Because now I know when I get her off I’m going to hear every glorious goddamn sound. Merry fucking Christmas to me.
Thirty-One
Gemma