He reaches for a condom from a collection on the nightstand, then rolls it on. After settling between mythighs, he sinks inside me. I arch my back, so hungry for him. Pleasure shoots through me, sparking through all my veins, filling all of my cells. I’m close already.
When he grabs my hips and practically slams me onto his cock, I scream out in pleasure, “So good.”
“I know,” he grunts out. “It’s always so good with you, sweetheart. It’s so fucking good I can barely stand how much I want you.” He sounds borderline mad at himself, and it’s hot as hell.
His cock is masterful, hitting me in the right spot over and over, and I ache to touch him, to rake my nails over his back, to grip his ass and encourage him deeper, but the scarves keep me restrained, and that naughty thrill lights me up again.
“It’s driving me fucking crazy how much I need you,” he grunts out as he thrusts deep into me.
“How crazy?” I ask, egging him on.
“It’s infuriating,” he says with another rough punch of his hips. Pleasure bursts inside me, coiling tight and hot, and I’m not far off.
“Then fuck it out,” I urge. “Fuck it out now.”
He takes my command and runs with it, pumping hard and fast, a punishing rhythm. When I feel close, I strain against the scarves even more.
“Want me to free you?” he rasps out.
“No. I want you to make me come.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As he fucks me hard, he rubs dizzying circles on my clit, owning my pleasure as I’m tied up with my scarves, the remnants of candy cane bits and whipped cream on my body. Soon, very soon, he sends me over the edge after midnight. Seconds later, he’s grunting and cursing as he follows me there.
A little later after we’ve both showered and my sheets have been swapped for clean ones, he slides into bed with me, nuzzling my neck.
“Pretty sure this counts as a date,” I say softly, stroking his hair.
“Good. I planned it and everything. Wanted it to be amazing.”
“You succeeded. From the surprise of it to all it entailed.”
He smiles against my skin, giving me another soft, sleepy kiss. “You gonna say it now?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Not yet. I’m not saying it yet.”
“You will, Isla. You will.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely,” he says, then blows out a long breath, like he’s letting the day fade away.
We’re quiet for a beat, but as he drifts off, I ask, “Are you sure you don’t need to go?” I’m hoping he’ll stay.
“Are you kicking me out?”
“No, but you said you snuck away. I wanted to be certain,” I say, and maybe because I’m not that used to sleepovers, or to a man telling me what he’s up to. It’s all new, but I like it.
“This is where I want to be,” he says, and my chest warms from the reassurance. With a yawn, Rowan reaches for his phone from the nightstand and dictates a text, presumably to his parents, saying, “You were right, but I’ll be home by five-thirty.”
After one more soft kiss in the dark, he falls asleep in seconds, probably tired from the game, tired from the candy canes, tired from everything.
I’m not tired, so I read a little longer.
Even though the story is an escapist one, and even though I’m still riding the high of kisses and whipped cream and candy, I’m both dangerously happy and a little bit melancholy.
But secret midnight visits with a hot guy who takes you on a trip down Candy Cane Lane don’t come around often. You have to grab them while you can.
