He slowed his pace, like he was savoring every shiver that passed through me. Every thrust was a question. Can you takemore? Do you want me deeper? And the answer was yes, yes to everything.
The rhythm we found was ancient and natural, a dance our bodies seemed to know instinctively. Each movement sent heat spiraling through me, building toward something I could feel gathering like a storm.
“More,” I cried, digging my nails into his sides.
He responded by shifting the angle, hitting a spot inside me that made stars explode behind my eyelids. I gasped his name, and he groaned in response, his control finally slipping.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he said roughly, thrusting harder, faster.
“Then die beautifully. Right here. Wrapped in me.”
I held on tight, not just with my body, but with something deeper, some quiet, desperate part of me that had never felt quite safe enough to hope until now.
His hands roamed over me, my hips, the dip of my waist, the soft underside of my thighs, as if he couldn’t commit enough of me to memory all at once. My name left his lips again, almost a sob this time, as he began to move even faster. The slap of skin, the slick slide of him inside me, each sound sent thrills through the haze of pleasure.
“Come for me,” he said. “I want to feel you squeeze me, want to see that look on your face when you fall apart.”
I answered him with my body, arching into his thrusts, gasping his name with every sharp push. The pressure was unbearable and exquisite. I spiraled into release as he gave me everything, and it crashed through me, pushing me higher and higher as I shuddered in his arms.
He followed me with a hoarse cry, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside me.
I could feel him losing himself in me the same way I was losing myself in him. This wasn’t just physical bliss. It was aconnection on a level I’d never experienced. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered endearment felt like a piece of my soul clicking into place.
For a heartbeat, time suspended. He curled forward to press his forehead to mine, our breath shared in the sliver of space between us. The look in his eyes, dazed and open, wasn’t only lust. It was something quieter, heavier, and it made my throat tighten.
I wanted to tell him I saw it. That I felt it too. But instead, I cupped the back of his neck and pulled us closer, letting our bodies say what words might ruin.
We stayed like that for long moments, our lungs dragging in air, holding each other as the aftershocks subsided. I was grateful for the wall supporting my weight and his arms keeping me upright.
“I want to wake up like this,” he whispered. “With you wrapped around me. Every damn morning.”
“You’ve been holding out on me,” I quipped.
He laughed. “I promise not to do it again.”
“Good.”
He buried his face in my neck. “Yes, good.”
I wanted to tell him that nothing about this was simple anymore. That the thought of leaving made me feel physically ill. That somewhere between confronting him in the saloon on my first day in town and rebuilding Santa’s workshop, I’d fallen completely in love with him. But the words got stuck in my throat. They were too big and too frightening to say.
We finally pulled apart, collecting our scattered clothes. I could feel him watching me as I dressed. The intimacy we’d shared made putting barriers back up feel wrong, but the alternative of having a conversation about feelings and futures felt even more scary.
“We should probably…” I gestured vaguely toward the door.
“People will be looking for us soon.”
When we were both presentable again, Becken reached for the door handle but paused. “Carla.”
“Yes?”
“Whatever happens next, I want you to know that this meant something to me. More than just…”
“I know.” I touched his arm gently. “It meant something to me too.”
He nodded, relief flickering across his features. “I’m glad.”
We left the function hall together, walking toward the hotel, passing tourists on the boardwalk who called out Merry Christmas. Tomorrow was Christmas eve, with all its complications and expectations.
