The Wedding Night Before Christmas Page 11

  Abruptly he stops, staring at my nude form kneeling on the bed. “God help me. You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he groans as if that’s a terrible thing, then spears his hands into his hair and pulls at the short strands in frustration. “Waiting is going to kill me.”

  “Waiting for what?” I grab his belt and tug him forward. He makes that tortured sound again but sways closer, his hands catching my face and his head lowering.

  He rasps against my parted lips, “Waiting until we’re married before I fuck you.”

  A giggle ripples through me. My mouth curves beneath his…but he’s not laughing. Was it not a joke, then?

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.” His thumbs stroke my cheeks, and his voice deepens. “It’s traditional to wait until the wedding night before consummating a relationship.”

  I scoff. “It’s an old-fashioned tradition.”

  “I’m an old-fashioned guy.”

  “Really?” I pull back, narrowing my eyes at him. “So does that mean you’re a virgin, too?”

  “No. But I didn’t intend to marry any of them, so there was no need to wait for a wedding.” Even as I snort derisively at that answer, he goes utterly still. “Hold up. Did you mean ‘too’ as in ‘Are you old-fashioned and also a virgin, Caleb?’—or did you mean ‘too’ as in ‘Are you a virgin like me, Caleb?’”

  I give him my coldest stare.

  “Holy fuck.” His disbelieving gaze searches mine. “But you’re not old-fashioned—or religious.”

  “No.” And not shy or prudish, either. “But I don’t like people touching me. And I don’t like touching them.”

  Tension abruptly whitens his jaw. “You don’t?” Gaze stricken, he jerks his hands away from my face. “I’m so sorry, baby—”

  “Except for you, Caleb.” I catch his hands and guide them back, until he’s cupping my cheeks again. “I like it when you touch me. I like it very, very much.”

  He exhales a relieved breath, then pulls me closer, resting his forehead against mine. “Then I’m going to touch you so damn good. So you tell me what you like and what you don’t.”

  I will. But I don’t get the words out before he kisses me, deep and hot and hungry. And I do like this, so much, as he eases me onto my back, his mouth ravishing mine all the way down. His tongue slicks past my lips in rhythmic strokes, drawing a low moan from my throat as my hands roam up over his strong arms, his broad shoulders. I want to touch him everywhere, the wondrous pleasure of his warm skin under my palms blending with the ecstasy of his kiss.

  His weight settles between my thighs, and the burning need becomes a wildfire. I break the kiss, gasping, “Your jeans. Take them off. Let me feel you.”

  Laughing and groaning at once, he buries his face against my throat. “If I feel your wet pussy against my bare cock, I sure as hell won’t last until the wedding. So they aren’t coming off until we’re married.”

  I hiss with frustration, then he’s kissing me again—but this time my neck, trailing his lips downward and finding a spot so sensitive that a single lick seems to swipe over every nerve within my skin, making me tighten and shiver all over.

  “I won’t leave you aching, baby,” he promises on a soft growl before moving lower, cupping my breasts in his big hands and pressing them together, giving me more cleavage than I’ve ever had. His thumbs sweep across my hardened nipples before he lowers his head to my right breast. He teases me with a swirl of his tongue, then moves to the left and teases again.

  “I like this, Caleb,” I tell him on panting breaths. My nipples had been tight but now they throb with restless heat. “I like this so much—”

  Lightning snaps through my veins as he draws hard upon one taut peak. A strangled cry breaks from me, my back arching.

  “Oh god, and this. This, too.”

  Caleb groans his agreement, as if his pleasure is as sharp and electric as mine. And now it’s clear why he pushed my breasts together, so that he could suck hard upon one nipple before hungrily feasting on the other, back and forth, back and forth, while my fingers dig into his shoulders and my hips writhe beneath him. Between my legs, I’m so slippery that there shouldn’t be any friction. But there is, rough and just as good as it was in his truck but here it’s adding a layer of sheer frustration.

  “I’m getting your jeans damp,” I point out breathlessly, hoping that’ll change his mind and he’ll take them off.

  “I know it, baby. I hope your pussy juices soak them through,” he says gruffly. “It’ll be like wearing a badge of honor, because I made you this hot for me.”

  “So hot.” My skin on fire, my pussy all molten heat. I rock up beneath him, seeking the hard ridge of his erection where the friction is best and worst and so good. “And so wet. You make me so wet, too.”

  A tortured groan rumbles through him. “You make it so hard to hold out.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “I have to. But I’ll take care of all these pussy juices for you—and I’d rather have that badge of honor all over my face,” he says gruffly and moves lower, his tongue tracing down my stomach, but I catch his hair and bring him up again.

  I guide his lips to my left breast. “It wasn’t equal. You started on the right side and ended there, and this one didn’t get a final turn.”

  “Not equal?” He chuckles against the bottom swell of my breast before latching on to my nipple, his heavily-lidded gaze holding mine as his cheeks hollow. And as incredible as it feels, the way he looks at me with his dark eyes gleaming with hunger and amusement and challenge—as if he’s daring me to find fault with what his mouth is doing now—deepens every sensation, not just touching my skin but also the sensitive, ephemeral parts buried inside me, those feelings that have nothing to do with nerve endings.

  With a gentle tug of his teeth, he releases my nipple and rasps, “Better?”

  “Yes,” I tell him huskily. “And I like watching you.”

  “Then you keep those gorgeous eyes fixed on what my mouth’s about to do.”

  I do, coming up onto my elbows. My stiffened nipples are a bright rosy pink when he leaves them behind. On a trail of licks and kisses, his dark head slowly moves down over my stomach, my skin tightening with every inch he gains. His hands go more quickly, coasting down my sides and gripping my thighs.

  My breath catches when he pushes my legs up, settling my feet on his shoulders. He looks up at me, gaze dark with hunger.

  “All right?”

  Dizzy with anticipation, I nod.

  His hands slide downward again, palming the underside of my legs, thumbs sweeping inward through the wetness glistening on my inner thighs. His gaze drops from mine and his body goes utterly still as he takes in the sight of my most intimate flesh, open and waiting for his kiss.

  “I like this,” I tell him, my breath coming in erratic gasps. “I like this.”

  A groaning laugh escapes him. “I’m not even touching you yet.”

  He is. His hands are still gripping my thighs and his shoulders are bracing my feet, and that’s good, too, but that’s not what I like best now. “You’re looking at me as if you want this more than anything.”

  “Because I do,” he says in a voice thick with hunger. His thumbs slide upward and part the lips of my pussy. A ravenous growl rumbles from him. “Just look at you. So fucking beautiful, and so goddamn wet, and all I want to do is to make you come on my tongue. Now you hold onto something.”

  Obediently my hands fist in the bedspread as he lowers his head. Tension quivers through my thighs, then my breath leaves my lungs in explosive rush when his tongue drags up through my center and flicks over my clit. His eyes close in ecstasy, as if that long hot lick was even better for him than it was for me, but it couldn’t be, nothing could be better.

  Until it is, when he does it again. And again. Slowly, as if savoring the taste of me, as if my pleasure is only his secondary goal—because if my pleasure was first, then he’d just focus on my clit, but he’s licking me all ov
er. I tell him what I like, and it becomes a chant that I can’t stop because I like it all, from the way his tongue slicks through my folds to the way his teeth graze my clit before he licks it again, to the way he groans and orders me to fuck his face when I can’t stop myself from rocking against him, to the way he pins my thrashing hips when he focuses on my clit again, sucking and teasing.

  And he told me to hold on but I can’t support my weight anymore, my elbows giving out and my hands letting go of the bedspread. So I hold on to his hair instead, fisting my fingers in the thick strands and sobbing with frustration and pleasure as he abandons my clit, lifts my hips and thrusts his tongue past my sensitive entrance again and again, fucking into me with each deep lick.

  Then his gaze meets mine, and with a long slide of his tongue he slicks his way back up, his mouth and chin glistening with my juices as his lips close over my throbbing clit. And I can’t see what he does, only feel it—the teasing licks, and the sweet suction that makes my legs begin to shake. Then his tongue glides over my engorged clit from side-to-side, with pleasure and arousal ratcheting painfully tighter with every sideways swipe.

  “That.” I can’t get any more words out, can’t tell him that I like it so much, that it’s so good. Instead I sob “that” again and Caleb does it, rougher and harder and faster, his eyes like hot coals locked onto mine as the ecstasy twists higher and higher, his fingers digging into my thighs to hold me in place as my spine arches up with it, his harsh groans vibrating through my aroused flesh and urging me to come.

  The orgasms uncoils suddenly, violently, an earth-shattering quake beneath my skin. I scream as it unleashes inside me, my pussy muscles clenching and my body shaking through its release. As my climax subsides, Caleb’s mouth gentles, his eyes burning with satisfaction and pleasure. Then I can’t hold his gaze anymore, falling back against the bed again. Aftershocks tremble through me as he slowly licks the full length of my pussy, as if gathering up all the wetness of my orgasm.

  And I like it, like it so much, but can’t bear it now. “It’s too much,” I gasp and he begins working his way up my belly instead. My feet slip from his shoulders and I don’t have the strength to do anything but let them fall, lying beneath him with my legs splayed and my lungs still trying to catch up with what my body just did.

  “I think we’re both about to take up a new hobby,” he says gruffly against my breast. “Because that was a whole lot of fun.”

  I laugh breathlessly, nodding. And I like what he does now, too—kissing me again with the flavor of my arousal on his lips, then rolling us onto our sides and pillowing my cheek on his biceps. With his head tilted down and me looking up, we’re nearly face to face, and somehow I feel closer to him now than when we were kissing. His fingers trace the curve of my jaw, then glide down over my neck. His gaze follows his hand, but I watch him, my chest swelling at the expression that settles over his features, a mixture of desire and wonder and contentment, as if simply being close enough to touch is as pleasurable for him as it is for me.

  Until his fingers slip down my upper arm and a frown draws his eyebrows together. “What happened here?”

  “Surgery,” I whisper. “I fell out of a tree and broke my arm.”

  “Must have been a bad break.”

  It wasn’t. Not really. Not at first. And the memory halts the swelling warmth in my chest, makes me tense as his fingers pass my elbow and find the scar on my forearm. Then the next.

  His head comes up and he lifts my arm to get a better look. His face slowly darkens. “And these scars here?”

  Pain constricts my heart and I shake my head.

  A dangerous light enters his eyes as he examines the scars again. They’re old, a little paler and shinier than the surrounding skin, and not very noticeable except for the difference in texture. But no one else ever touches me. “They look kind of like the burn marks you get after brushing up against a hot exhaust pipe.”

  I yank my arm away and sit up. He lets me go but I can still feel his gaze on me.

  His voice is sharpened steel. “Were those from an accident or did someone do that to you?”

  I can’t lie. And I can’t give him my usual stare because I can’t even meet his eyes.

  His tone softens. “Who did this to you, baby?”

  Averting my face, I reach for my sweater and pull it on, covering the marks. But I feel as if I should tell him something.

  My throat feels hot and tight as I say, “I don’t talk about it.”

  A muscle works in his jaw. Then he nods. “I won’t mention it again.”

  Relief at his easy acceptance loosens the obstruction in my throat. Hesitantly I suggest, “Should we go down and eat?”

  “I already did,” he replies with an exaggerated leer—and when I laugh, he kisses me and kisses me and kisses me before swinging me up into his arms. His voice is like crushed gravel when he adds, “Now I’ll take care of you.”

  8

  Caleb

  I begin counting down the days to the wedding like a kid waiting for Christmas. Except no kid ever wanted anything as much as I want Audrey Clarke.

  After that first night at her house, I use her pussy like my own personal Advent calendar, opening up those thighs every day and finding a sweet treat to eat. And that’s all I do. By some miracle, I keep my goddamn pants on. I like to think it’s willpower, but I don’t have much where Audrey is concerned. More likely it’s cowardice, because I don’t trust myself enough to sleep in her bed—so every night after making her come on my tongue, I return home and remove myself from temptation.

  Or it’s fear that keeps my pants on. Terror that I’ll lose her. That she’ll decide wanting me isn’t reason enough to marry me. So I hold out on the desperate hope that if she begins wavering, sexual need will see her through the wedding.

  But she hasn’t wavered yet. And now there’s only three days left. Three more days until she’s completely mine—not just because I’ll finally bury my cock deep inside her, but because she’ll be wearing my ring.

  Not long to wait. And she probably won’t change her mind now. But I’ll feel a lot more secure when I’ve got her locked down. Today I take one step closer to that—by signing the marriage contract.

  I arrive at the law firm’s building before Audrey does and wait in the lobby for her. She strides through the entrance a few minutes later, her blonde hair sprinkled with snowflakes, her red lips curving into a smile the moment she spots me.

  “Ready for this?” she greets me, her icy eyes sparkling.

  “More than ready.”

  I hold out my hand and she takes it without hesitation. Just like she always does. Ever since she mentioned that she doesn’t like being touched, I’ve paid a lot more attention to when she does touch anyone—and when she doesn’t. Like when we went out to dinner with Cole and Mia a few days ago. Audrey obviously adores the other woman. Yet all the hugs of greeting and casual, affectionate touches I often see between female friends were absent. Also absent are all the casual touches with me. She’ll take my hand as we’re walking or standing together, but unless we’re alone and focused on each other, she won’t reach out and touch me. As if there’s nothing at all casual about the way she touches anyone—it’s all deliberate. Maybe even an effort. And whenever she’s the recipient of an absent touch, even if it’s just someone lightly brushing her arm to get her attention, she stiffens up.

  Yet she never stiffens up when I touch her. And I figure it relates back to what she told me once about having a context for personal interactions. I’m her fiancée, and she wants me. So me touching her is all part of that. But it’s still not easy for her to reciprocate those touches unless we’re in a clearly intimate situation—such as standing close to each other in the kitchen. Or snuggled up together on her big sofa and watching a football game. Or while I’m making her come in her bed.

  Or in an elevator. Because we still don’t kiss hello. I kiss her for better reasons.

  As soon as the doors clos
e, I tilt her chin up and tell her, “I’m kissing you now because I can’t fucking wait to call you my wife.”

  That happy smile curves her mouth again just before I claim her lips, pulling her body tight against mine. She moans softly and her fingers tangle in my hair as she hungrily returns the kiss. Only the chime of the floor indicator reminds me to let her go—and if I’ve got red lipstick smeared all over my mouth now, so be it. Everyone at the law firm of Sullivan & Ellis already knows I’m hers.

  She takes my hand again as we exit the elevator. “I told them you’re on your lunch break and we need to move through this as quickly as possible. Are you all set for next week?”

  For our honeymoon. A full week spent between her thighs, if I have anything to say about it.

  “All set.” My boss gave me the time off for the wedding and honeymoon, but only after I persuaded the other mechanics to cover my shifts those days. Luckily I possess something valuable to barter with. As lead mechanic, I’ve got a coveted schedule that gives me weekends off…but I won’t be seeing those weekends for a while. I ended up trading schedules with the other employees for three months out, starting with the weekend before Christmas—which starts tomorrow. “I’ll be working this Saturday and Sunday, though.”

  “I will be, too,” she says lightly and I laugh before lifting her hand to my mouth and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Audrey works every weekend, according to her assistants. Maybe that’ll change up after we’re married, but if it doesn’t…well, I keep pretty busy on weekends, too, usually working on my current restoration project. I don’t expect Audrey to sit on her ass while I’m messing around in the garage.

  Maybe we’ll just shorten those working hours on the weekends, though. Staying a little later in bed in the mornings. Coming home early in the afternoon.

  “What did you think about the Wyndhams’ dinner invitation?” she asks as we enter the law firm’s spacious reception area, which resembles one of those rooms you see in movies about rich people in England. “Do you want to accept?”