“Yes, oh God, yes.” She arches, and I tug her nipple with my teeth as her pussy spasms around me. Pleasure waves crash over her; sweat beads on her skin, her heels digging into my ass. With my jeans at my thighs, I pause to savor her pussy pulsing around my cock, then find my rhythm and erupt inside her, filling her as my balls empty every last drop.
My blood settles, warm and slow, as the aftershocks of my orgasm fade. She threads her fingers through my hair, tracing soft circles on my scalp. I drop my head to her shoulder, inhaling the sweet scent of our lovemaking. I nip at her collarbone, cradling her head with one hand buried in her damp hair. Wild and tangled, just how I like her.
I ease out, relishing the slow drag of my cock against the hot walls of her pussy.
She sighs as her feet touch the ground. “That was amazing.”
I tuck myself back into my jeans, shake my head, and press a kiss to her lips. “You’re amazing.”
I help her pull her pants back up, brush loose strands of hair from her face, and trail a thumb across her flushed cheek. “You’re so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you.”
She sighs, lacing her hand with mine. “I think you need your eyes checked.”
“My eyes are fine. It’s you that does this to me.”
I kiss her knuckles.
“Thanks for the orgasm,” she giggles.
“Mm…” I grasp her thighs. “You look even better with me inside you.”
I kiss the hollow between her breasts, her heartbeat hammering like mine.
“You didn’t just decorate my cabin,” I murmur.
She lifts her head, sleepy smile on her lips. “No?”
I shake my head. “You rebuilt me.”
She curls up on my chest, and for the first time in years?—
I don’t feel alone.
Chapter 18
Nash
Ihate cameras.
Always did. Always will. They remind me of everything fake in this world—pretense, illusion, bullshit for an audience. But now there’s a camera two feet from my face, and I’m supposed to smile and talk about snowflake-pattern throw pillows without snapping like an unhinged lumberjack.
All because ofher.
Noel Hart—interior designer, chaos goddess, and now center of my personal storm—zips across my cabin with a string of gold ribbon and a glue gun like she’s about to commit felonies with craft supplies.
She’s glowing.
It isn’t just the lights or the camera or the red lipstick she reapplied with vengeance. It’s something in her eyes—bright, unafraid, wild. Her laughter sparks something warm in my chest every time I hear it.
Even when she sticks a holly wreath onmytool cabinet.
“This is a sacred space,” I grumble.
“Relax,” she says without looking up. “You’ll survive a little cheer.”
“Doubtful.”
She turns, presses a kiss to my jaw, and smirks. “I’ll make it up to you later.”
