“Three down,” she whispers, voice hoarse.
I press my lips to her temple. “Nine to go.”
She curls tighter against me, one leg sliding between mine, palm flat over my heart.
Imogen
The afternoon sun is low and pale, slipping through the frosted windows in long, drowsy bars of light. The cabin smells like pine from the tree Flynn cut down for me this morning. I mentioned that he did not have a Christmas tree, and he was out getting me one from the trees around his cabin.
I’m curled on the couch in two pairs of his socks and one of his old hoodies, knees drawn up, totally engrossed in a dog-eared copy of The Hobbit I found on his shelf. Every few pages, I glance up and watch him.
Flynn is at his workbench near the window, sleeves rolled high, forearms flexing as he carves something out of a chunk of walnut with a small gouge. Wood curls fall like snow onto the floor around his boots. The concentration on his face is ridiculously sexy.
He catches me staring and raises a brow. “Thought you were reading, Vixen.”
“I am. Bilbo just found the ring. You’re distracting.”
He smirks and goes back to carving.
I set the book down, stretch, and wander over. “What are you making?”
He blows a curl of wood off the piece and turns it so I can see: a tiny, perfect Christmas tree ornament, about three inches tall, delicate branches, and a little star on top.
My heart does something stupid. “Flynn…”
“Figured the tree you bullied me into cutting this morning needed at least one thing ornament.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, but his ears are pink.
He steps into my space, big hands settling on my waist, and looks at the tree. “I like it.”
The simple words hit me harder than any filthy promise he’s made so far.
We stand there for a minute, foreheads almost touching, breathing each other in.
Then his voice drops, rough and deliberate. “Item four, baby.”
My stomach flips. “Dirty talk from a stranger.”
He backs me up slowly until my spine meets the cabin door.
“I’m not a stranger anymore,” he murmurs, caging me in with one forearm above my head. “But I can still talk to you like one.”
His free hand slides under the hoodie, calloused palm gliding up my bare skin until he cups my breast, thumb brushing my nipple once, twice.
“Remember that night in Vegas?” His mouth ghosts over my ear. “I watched you write that list, and I wanted to drag you into the bathroom, bend you over the sink, and fuck you so hard the mirror cracked. Wanted to pull that little red dress up to your waist and watch you try to stay quiet while I filled you up.”
I whimper. My head thumps back against the door.
“Wanted to sit you on my lap at that bar and slide my fingers inside you under the table while everyone pretended they couldn’t tell what we were doing.”
His hand slips lower, into the waistband of my leggings, two thick fingers pushing inside me without warning. I’m already soaked, and they glide in easily.
“That’s it,” he growls against my throat. “Take what you need. You wrote that list like a dare, Vixen. Like you wanted someone to ruin you. I’ve been hard for twelve years thinking about all the ways I never got to.”
He curls his fingers, strokes that spot that makes my knees buckle, thumb circling my clit in tight, ruthless circles.
“Come for me,” he orders, voice pure sin. “Come while I tell you every filthy thing I’m still going to do to you before Christmas morning.”
I shatter against the door with a broken cry, thighs clamping around his hand. He doesn’t let me sag. He spins me, presses my chest to the wood, and yanks my leggings and panties down in one rough motion.
