Filthy thoughts of her sliding down over the length of my cock has me grunting. I stroke faster and squeeze tighter, aching to come. Having my dick inside of her would feel like heaven. I imagine flipping her onto her back and fucking her roughly as I kiss her supple mouth.
It’s enough to break me.
I come with a guttural sound I can’t contain. If she can hear me, I will die. Yet, I don’t stop jerking off until every last drop of cum has been wrung out of me. My fantasies don’t stop with thoughts of fucking her. Now, as my soul returns to my body, I lazily run my fingers through the cum on my stomach, wishing it were Clara’s tongue licking it up.
What kind of sick fuck are you, man?
Shame and the sound of Frosty yipping outside my bedroom door have me jolting upright, hunting down something to clean up with. I locate a discarded T-shirt and quickly swipe up the mess. Once I’m dressed and hopefully looking not so guilty, I open the door.
Clara, who scoops up Frosty, has changed into plaid pajama pants and a pink form-fitting long sleeved top with red Christmas bows sewn on. It’s over-the-top and ridiculous for sleepwear, but somehow she makes it looks sexy.
“You know he gets lonely if you shut your door,” she says, grinning at me. “Come on. The movie will start soon.”
I take Frosty from her and follow her down the stairs. Either she’s wearing a thong or no panties beneath her pants because the fabric is damn near painted to her ass, revealing no lines for anything under it. My cock throbs with appreciation.
Unbelievable.
Once in the living room, I hide my visceral reaction to her by tugging a furry Santa Claus blanket into my lap. Frosty curls up between me and the arm of the couch. Clara turns off all the lights aside from the ones lighting up the Christmas tree in the corner of the room before plopping down beside me.
Too close.
Too fucking close.
Her thigh warms mine and it’s distracting. I want to drag Frosty out of his spot and shove him between us, but the little guy is old and seems comfortable. I’d be a dick if I moved him.
Just have to figure out a way to control mine…
Thankfully, Clara hands me a mug of hot cocoa and it fixes everything, like old times. I get sucked into the ridiculous story and end up rooting for the uptight woman from the city to fall for the guy in the small town, hoping she’ll leave her busy life behind to spend her days making scones with the regular Joe.
And when it’s over, I realize Clara has fallen asleep again, head nuzzled into my shoulder. While she sleeps, I allow myself a moment to admire how pretty she is. Her dark eyelashes fan across her apple cheeks and even in slumber, she smiles.
So beautiful.
Unable to stop myself, I stroke my fingers through her hair. So fucking soft. I’m trying to figure out how to extricate myself when her lashes flutter. Then, her eyes bore into me. The look she gives me is intense, fiery, hungry.
I’m imagining it.
Or maybe not.
It’s the same look she gave me at the Christmas market.
What would she do if I kissed her?
Her pink lips part and then she closes her eyes. She’s not sleeping, though. It’s an invitation. All I have to do is lean forward.
I brush my lips over hers, relishing in the gasp of shock she makes. Stupidly, I delve my tongue past her plump lips, aching to taste her. The moan she rewards me with is dizzying and addictive.
How else can I make her moan like that?
Can I make her beg and scream?
Dad would fucking kill me.
The thought comes out of nowhere but serves as a handful of icy-cold snowballs being shoved down my pants. Reality serves me a dose of nausea.
This can’t happen.
I jerk away from her and bolt like my ass is no fire.
