by Amanda Rose
“Take your shirt off,” I tell him and he complies with an annoyingly smug little grin. Fucker. But oh. Oh. It's worth it.
Frost tears his top off and tosses it over the shower door, his chest a tattooed paradise that matches the stories on his arm, a tale of ice and snow, of predators in the white-white of an arctic forest. All of that color blanketed over his muscles … it excites me to the point where I'm wiggling, waiting for him to grab me by the hips and enter me again.
I know I'm not screwing him to banish the bad memories or the pain of … Okay, I can't even bring myself to think about it right now, but … it's making me feel better. The moment is hot and immediate, a burst of physical pleasure to brighten up the shit week I've had.
Frost moves up close enough that his cock is teasing between my butt cheeks, using my natural lube to slide around and ignite every nerve ending between my legs.
“Mm,” I murmur, biting my lower lip, long brown hair hanging over my shoulders and into the sink. I'm still wearing the white knit beanie my dad sent me, the one with the matching gold star on the brim. But no makeup, messy brows, cracked and dry lips from the cold. I should feel ugly, but right now, with Frost looking at me the way he is, I couldn't possibly let myself go down that route. And like, I know I don't need a fucking dude to validate me, but … it's always nice to see yourself from someone else's perspective.
Frost thinks I'm annoying as shit … but hot as hell.
“Take your other tit out,” he says, and even though his domineering voice rankles me, he did what I asked so I guess I can at least do the same. I reach up with my left hand and free the round, pale curve of my other breast, my pink nipples pebbled and hard.
“Oh, fuck yes,” Frost says, sliding his cock between my folds, stretching my tight body with his thick shaft. He's so much bigger than the guys I've been with recently. And his stamina? He can come as many times as he wants if he can keep getting it up like that.
And I thought his guitar playing was impressive.
Holy shitting snowflakes.
Frost wraps one hand around my hip for balance and leans forward, covering my body with his, so he can fondle my bare breasts. They swing with his motions, the entire show available for me to watch in the mirror.
Christmas lights twinkle around us, the tacky garland catching the light. I guess, looking at them like this, they're not quite so ugly as I first thought.
“Oh, that's good,” I whisper as his balls slap my clit, and his shaft finds the very end of me, taking up all the available space inside my body, completing me. It's that feeling of completion that really gets me, that turns my entire body to flame.
His name might be Frost, but this man … he's hot as hell.
“So you admit it?” he growls into my ear, filling me up and then teasing me by pulling all the way out, leaving me wanting and aching.
“We can be equals,” I say as he shoves forward and fills me up again. A groan escapes my lips and I reach out and smack the faucet, turning the water on for an extra sound barrier. Somewhere outside the door, someone turns on a ridiculously loud rendition of Blue Christmas.
Frosty fucking Christmas fudge.
Someone out there can hear us.
“Equals, puh-lease,” Frost says, screwing me so hard that I'm finding it almost impossible to respond. “I've got you, babe. It's pretty obvious who's the one in charge here.”
Biting my lower lip, I push back into Frost's crotch and squeeze my muscles as hard as I can. All those Kegel exercises are coming in handy … My pussy clamps on Frost's thick, velvety shaft and a wild, ragged groan escapes his lips.
His hand comes out and grabs my hair, twisting it around his fist and pulling.
Our eyes meet in the mirror and our hate-fuck just amps all the way up. I push back into him, squeezing my muscles, and he thrusts his pelvis as hard as he can. Our bodies clash again and again and again …
We fuck through several different Christmas songs—I'm too far-gone to even recognize what they are. Sweat drips down the sides of my face, over the rounded curves of my breasts. My muscles tense, but I refuse to give in. This is a game now, between me and Frost Manderach.
But when he reaches around and puts his fingers to my clit?
All bets are off.
With a violent groan, I curl my fingers around the edges of the counter, my body shuddering as my skin ripples with pleasure, and I come with a wild sound that I'm sure everyone else on the bus can hear.
When the white-hot stars fade from my vision and I can actually see Frost's expression in the mirror, I can tell I'm the only one who just climaxed.
“Truce?” he whispers, voice ragged.
Our eyes meet in the mirror again, and it takes me three separate tries to swallow past the lump in my throat to answer him.
“Truce.”
CHAPTER THREE
The rest of the ride to my parents' house is slow-going, the wind picking up speed, gusting against the metal side of the tour bus with violent, wild howls. The snow is thick and heavy with snowflakes half the size of my fucking hand. The whole world looks white, just one endless plain of powder, the whole world asleep beneath its blanket.
My body feels wired and I'm having a really hard time sitting still—especially with Frost's eyes flicking my way every few minutes.
God.
Not much longer, I tell myself, a second mug of cocoa clutched in my hands. Both times, Crispin made it for me. He's really too fucking cute. And yet you wasted your have-fun-with-rockstars-free-fuck on the jerk of the group?
Now that Aspen's eyes are feeling better and he's sitting up, he doesn't seem quite as rude as I'd originally thought.
“Have any Christmas plans?” he asks, his sapphire eyes pretty, even with the white parts still red from the pepper spray. He's a little teary, but he looks better.
“Me?” I reply with a small chuckle. “Oh Lord, yes. Heaps. My dad is a holiday fanatic, and he's very particular about the way it goes down. You won't see any … uh …” I clear my throat and rephrase what I was about to say. Looking around at the ceramic reindeer, glued to the countertops with hot glue, the plastic wreath on the bathroom door, and the multi-colored Christmas blankets on all the bunks, I figure somebody in the band likes this kitschy style. Calling it tacky like my dad does … probably not the best idea. “He likes classic Christmas,” I say, trying to figure out the best way to describe my dad's decorating style. “White and gold, a lot of glitter, designer decorations, holiday work from local artists.”
“And your mom?” Aspen asks, sniffling and touching a wad of tissues to his still-running nose. Poor guy. I mean, it was an accident that I ended up spraying him in the face, and it was sort of his fault for crawling under the stall, but … The sex with Frost had calmed me down quite a bit.
I glance over at him, meet his eyes, and find myself swallowing hard.
He looks away first and crosses his arms over his chest, like he doesn't give a fuck. But even from here, I can see his pulse thundering in his throat like a live thing.
“She's a busy lawyer,” I say, waving my hand dismissively in his direction, trying not to let my hormone addled body notice how gorgeous he is with his thick head of rich brown hair, dyed with a green and red stripe on one side—part of that charity thing again—but his expression interestingly severe. “She could give a crap less about decorating and holidays although she does like all the schmoozing and connection making that goes on at my dad's infamous parties.”
“Sounds fun,” Frost grumbles dryly, tapping tattooed fingers on his equally inked bicep.
“Yeah, uh, we watch the Saint Paul Christmas Concert every year. I mean, it's on during my dad's party anyway. So … as thanks for the ride, I'll take a break from the spiked eggnog to watch you guys perform.” I make myself smile, but all I can really think about is how I can't wait to get off this fucking bus and into my childhood bedroom.
I need a minute to process that ridiculously sexy rendezvous with Fro
st, a nice hot—or in this case, maybe cold—shower. Change of clothes. Moment to brace myself for the onslaught of … shudder … family.
“Well, it'll be a pleasure to know you're out there watching, Cherry Pie.”
“Cherry Pie?” I ask with a raised brow and Crispin gives me this adorable little good old boy smile.
“Too forward?” he asks, chuckling and ruffling up his hair with a big sun-kissed hand. “Yeah, you're right. My mama would slap the manners back into me if she heard that one. So, Cyan Fallon it was, right?”
“Cherry Pie is fine …” I say, because the man is wearing a gray wife beater and jeans with gray leather boots, and fuck, he really does look like Chris Hemsworth. Why did I just tell a complete stranger he could cal me Cherry Pie? I pause for a moment and squint down into my cocoa. And why did I just let a complete stranger screw me not once, but twice in the bathroom?
“Well, you're as sweet as cherry pie, so it fits,” Crispin says and I seriously can't tell if he's full of shit or if he's actually a nice guy.
At least he's not as confusing as Vale Kesselring. The beautiful blonde is enigmatic, like slouching there in the corner with his heavy-lidded eyes is a trick to make people more interested in him, in all the secrets he's hiding. His blonde hair hangs over his forehead, streaked with pale blue and silver.
So fucking cute. And sexy. God, he's that horribly irresistible combo, like a sugar cookie with my dad's pretty-but-inedible glaze. Sweet underneath .. a hard, impenetrable layer on the top …
Heh.
Hot men and holiday metaphors.
Yep, as soon as I get home I'm pouring myself a heaping glass of eggnog. Well, half-rum/half-cognac with a splash of eggnog.
“So what you do for a livin', Cherry Pie?” Crispin asks, looking down at me with those big brown eyes of his, the colors a glorious striation of espresso brown, auburn, and chestnut.
“I …” The words start to come out of my mouth, but I snap them off and take a quick sip of my cocoa to gather my thoughts. I don't really feel like mentioning the bookstore because then I have to mention why I no longer work at the bookstore, why I'm now … irrevocably unemployed. “Between jobs right now,” I whisper, and I swear to fuck if one of these guys makes a joke about me being unemployed, I really will take that mental threat and throw the hot cocoa in his face.
“Been there, done that,” Aspen says with a long sigh, standing up and blinking squinted eyes at me. “I was at this twenty-four mall in my hometown,” he continues, moving over to the cabinet and digging around inside. I notice he has a pair of angel wings on the back of his neck, right underneath that gorgeous auburn hair of his. “Sleeping there on a bench. I'd just been told to get up and go by one of the security guards when I saw the audition table.”
He pulls out a box of candy canes and tears the plastic away, offering them up to the rest of us. Vale takes one, but I just shake my head. I haven't heard this story on any online gossip blog before and I'm curious as fuck.
“I walked up to the table, signed my name, and stood there and sang my ass off in front of those judges. They sat there and scowled at me … for about thirty seconds. And then a crowd started gathering and they had no choice but to look at the smelly kid in the ratty clothes a little differently.”
Aspen's nostrils flare, his hair shimmering red-brown under the sea of Christmas lights tacked near the ceiling.
“What I'm trying to say,” he continues, his sapphire eyes focused on my face as I change my mind and reach out to grab a candy cane, “is that it gets better. There's nothing a human being can't come back from.”
“All true,” Vale purrs, sitting quiet and stoic on his corner of the couch, just sucking and sucking and sucking on that candy cane. He smiles at me when I look at him, and my skin prickles with goose bumps.
Frost sniffles and looks at me again, our eyes meeting across the room with an almost tangible flicker of power in the air. Wow. I've never felt this level of instant attraction before in my life. Great. The first man I ever meet that really gets me purring and growling like a beast and he's completely and utterly unavailable. Not that I think Frost Manderach is good boyfriend material or anything, but as an occasional lover … okay, frequent lover … he'd be quite nice. The perfect fuck buddy.
The bus slows to a crawl and then … stops.
“Looks like we're here, sugar pea,” Crispin says, sounding disappointed.
I realize after a moment … that I am, too. Aww. I was actually starting to enjoy my time hanging out with these boys.
“Don't let the door hit you on the way out,” Donner says, and I jump, sloshing red hot cocoa all over my leggings. Oh, fuck my life. I'd forgotten the butch bodyguard was even there.
“Good luck with the job hunt,” Aspen says, nodding his head at me, still squinting and sniffling but no longer glaring at me. He grabs a roll of paper towels off the counter, rips a few off the end and wets them, handing them over so I can dab off my ruined white leggings.
Dad is going to be thrilled to see me in this disheveled state in his perfect house. How fun.
“Thanks,” I say, as I clean off as best I can and hand the paper towels back. Aspen throws them in the trash as I set my hot cocoa mug aside and sling my purse over my shoulder. “Nice to meet you all and thank you for the ride.”
Crispin stands up and engulfs me in this massive bear hug that feels so damn good, I can barely breathe—and not just because he's squeezing me so hard. No, he's just warm and hard in all the right places—except one since he seems to be a gentleman—and he smells like gingerbread and fucking sunshine.
What is it with these guys, smelling like Christmas and sexy things both? It's totally throwing me off.
“Take care o' yourself, Cherry Pie,” Crispin says as I give Vale a little wave and he winks at me, flicking his tongue against the curved end of the candy again. Yet again, I'm reminded of pussy. Er, pussy cats. Cats, I'm reminded of cats.
“See you later,” Frost says, standing up and holding a pinched napkin between two fingers. I take it from him and see that he's scribbled his fucking number on it in pen. His number. Holy fucking snowballs, I just got a pop rocker's number?!
Told ya I was good in bed.
Before I can figure out what to say to Frost, he's moving down the hall toward the bathroom and closing himself inside.
Huh.
Donner opens the door for me and cold air literally blasts me in the face, chilling my lips and the wet spot of spilled cocoa on my crotch, and oh my fuck, it is cold. I decide to slip into my coat when I hear the bathroom door open.
“Forgot that your assistant clogged the shitter,” Frost says and I cringe. Wow. What a crude asshole.
“She didn't clog it,” Vale says, his voice a calm, soothing melody that just drips sex. It's like listening to Christmas Canon Rock punctuated with wild orgasmic groans. It's just that suggestive. “That was you, Frost.”
“Oh, please, fuck off,” Frost says, pausing and looking at me with a very meaningful expression. “Mind if we come in and use the bathroom real quick? It's a couple hour drive to Saint Paul from here and I gotta piss.”
“God, such propriety,” I say as I shrug into my Saint Laurent winter jacket and prep myself to make the hundred foot slog up to the front door. Usually, my father is meticulous about keeping the driveway and the walkway free of snow—and if he can, the street in front of the house—but it's coming down in such a thick and violent sheet out there that I can't even make out the walk or the artfully placed hand carved by local artisans life-size wooden reindeer statues.
Yeah, it's a mouthful.
“But sure, come on in and … use the restroom.”
I can already feel my nipples pebbling, my sex throbbing with need. I hope Frost is implying what I think he's implying. Or else I'm going to look really stupid when I follow him into the bathroom …
Climbing down the stairs, it's obvious how bad the storm has gotten—and how fast. I mean, I knew there was a possi
bility of winter storms over the holidays, but I grew up in this town. Eighteen years I lived here and I never saw a storm like this. Not once.
The wind howls and yanks at my beanie, trying to drag it off my head as I clamp my palm over the knitted cap and literally step into four inches of snow on the bottom step, and then knee-high and dense as fuck icy snow on the ground.
Wow.
It looks soft and fluffy, but it's really the frozen solid shit, like a rock. I can barely move through it, my slight frame struggling to claw a path through the storm.
“Okay, Cherry Pie, can I help ya out there?” Crispin asks, raising his voice to be heard above the storm. When I glance back, I see that the snow hits him at a much more manageable spot. Six foot four fucker.
“Help me?” I ask, but it's so loud out there, the breeze gusting against my face and making me squint. He must think I said help me with no question mark at the end of it.
“Be my pleasure,” he says, scooping me up out of the snow and holding me in his arms like a fairytale princess. Oh. I'm not so much into the damsel in distress thing, but … this is nice. Really nice.
I put my arms around Crispin's neck as he carries me the rest of the way across the yard and onto the front porch. It's already starting to get dark, so my dad's famous outdoor white Christmas display is up and on, soft white twinkle bulbs pinned in strategic swags, wrapped around the three red brick chimneys, illuminating the matching wreaths on the double front doors of the house.
It opens before I can even think to have Crispin put me down, and there's Dad, dressed in a white Christmas sweater with very subtle gold stars, khakis, and a frown. He pushes his gold glasses up and he looks at me in the arms of a strange man, his expression darkening.
“What happened to your leggings?” is the first thing he asks me, and I glance down to see the red stain on my crotch.
Fuck.
I have no idea what my dad's making of that, but it can't be anything good.
“Dad, this is Crispin Fox,” I say, and Crispin nods his head, flashing a big grin.