“Maybe,” he said, still not convinced. “There’s no rush anyway. It doesn’t have to be this year that I give it to her. Probably best not to do it at Christmas anyway. She knows I don’t celebrate and have so many bad memories of the season that it would probably taint the gift.”
“Or wipe the slate clean,” I suggested.
He didn’t reply. We sat in silence for a few minutes until the music stopped again. Sebastian closed the lid and rewrapped the box and tucked it back in his pocket. The melancholy mood seemed to lift as soon as the trinket was out of sight.
“Is it wrong to toast with hot chocolate?” he asked, his mood brightening.
“Never, but especially not when there’s brandy in it.” I held up my cup.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, chinking his snowman mug to mine.
For a half-second, I allowed my mind to wander. Would Sebastian be here when my decorations came down? Would he help me put them up next year and then clink our hot chocolates at a job well done?
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
I smiled, pleased he cared but completely unwilling to answer. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m wondering whether or not your bedding is festive.”
I slid off his lap and held out my hand. “You’re in for a treat.”
Seventeen
Sebastian
If I’d been thinking clearly, I wouldn’t be here tonight, but something drew me to Celia. Most men would have been attracted by her near-constant smile and her infectious, sunny energy. That, along with her perfectly round breasts and glossy, hip-length hair. But that wasn’t just it for me. I was drawn to the bits of self-doubt she hid under the smile; the way when she spoke to someone, she focused all her attention on them as if they were the most important person she’d ever met; the almost too-blue eyes that told you exactly what she was feeling on the inside, no matter what her smile said. The curve of her back, the smooth skin of her neck, her delicate fingers and determined drive . . .
I really liked everything about her.
“Sebastian?” she asked, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Is it too much?” She glanced surreptitiously at her duvet cover, which boasted Christmas trees and snow-covered houses, and the fairy lights strung across her headboard.
I shook my head. That ex of hers had obviously done a number on her. “I don’t care what’s on the bed, Celia,” I said, pulling her toward me and lifting the hem of her pajama top, pushing it over her head. “I care who’s in it.” I dipped, placing a kiss on her collarbone and then on the other side of her bra strap, on her shoulder. Had there been any place I hadn’t kissed her? There shouldn’t be. I made a mental note to cover every part of her body from ankle to forehead with my lips.
She slid her arms around my neck and pressed her delicate fingertips into my skin.
“It’s cold,” she said with a shiver.
“Then I suggest we warm up.” I slid her pajama bottoms over her hips and down her thighs. I held them as she stepped out, then placed a kiss on her stomach. I drank in the scent of fir and heat. I pulled out my wallet from my jeans, put it on the bedside table, and undressed as Celia watched, shifted her weight from one leg to another—in either cold or anticipation. Or both.
“I’m pleased you came over tonight,” she said.
I took a step toward her and cupped the back of her neck in my hands. “I’m pleased too.” I pressed my lips to hers and her tongue pushed between my lips. I couldn’t help but groan at her determination. Her need.
I lifted her up and she wrapped her legs around my waist, but instead of heading to the bed, I turned and sat her on the chest of drawers opposite. It was the perfect height. And this way, I got to see her face-to-face while I drove into her.
“Here?” she asked, a little uncertain.
“Everywhere.”
I pulled off her knickers and unsnapped the back of her bra. Cupping her breasts in my hands, I leaned forward, grazing each nipple with my teeth, breathing in her whimpers. I pressed my lips against the skin of her throat, trailed my tongue down between her breasts, over her stomach and down, her heat radiating into me and straight to my cock.
I paused, just above her clit. “You’re fucking delicious.”
She leaned back and pushed her tiny fingers into my hair, causing my erection to rear, as I pressed my tongue against her clit and through her folds, licking and sucking and pushing and pulling over and over and over until her body snapped and she shuddered around me.
I liked hearing her Christmas puns, despite my complaining. I liked talking to her and having her listen. But I really liked making her come.
“I thought I must have imagined how good this felt,” she said, her voice whispery and light.
I shook my head, a growl of desperation gathering in my throat. “No. It’s really this good.” I grabbed a condom and pushed it over my tightening cock.
I took a breath, trying to relax, to push the stirrings at the base of my spine away, silence the thud of the blood in my veins.
I wanted this to last.
Sliding my crown over her gleaming wet pussy, I traced up and down her folds, coating my tip in her juices, trying to steady my heart rate before I pushed into her. It wasn’t working.
“Sebastian,” she whimpered, shifting.
“What?” I asked, touching my forehead to hers.
“I want you.”
I bit down on my bottom lip and pushed into her as she gripped my shoulders. “Yes,” she said, her voice soft but victorious as I pushed deep, deep, deep.
I lifted her knees and pushed deeper, grinding into her. She moaned my name like she’d never felt pleasure like it. Pulling back, all I wanted to do was get as close as I could and I slammed back into her, making the dresser rock back and hit the wall. She gripped the edge of the wood and lifted her knees, urging me deeper still.
I slammed in again and again, blocking out everything but her heavy breaths on my neck, the grip of her fingers on my arms and the slide of her pussy.
I was so close so fast that I paused, trying not to focus on the soft, tight wetness surrounding my cock.
“You okay?” she asked. Her hand skidded up my sweat-sheeted back.
“More than okay. You’re just so fucking perfect, Celia.”
She pressed small kisses on my temple, my forehead, my cheek, and they brought me to life again. I began to move. Slow, lingering strokes, plowing deep into her.
I brought my forehead to hers, trying to control my breathing.
“It feels so good,” she said. “Like you know exactly what I need.”
That’s how I felt—like somehow we were what each other needed, in bed and out of it. I groaned and pushed into her again, a little less controlled, a little more desperate to come, to make her come again.
She tipped her head back, exposing her smooth neck. I buried my face there, breathing her in, pushing hard and fast as if I were seconds away from victory in a marathon and only the scent of her was keeping me going.
She screamed my name, and convulsed underneath me. I let go, finally giving into the gnashing impatience of my climax. I pushed up and into her, half launching myself onto her.
The delicate press of her fingers stirred me back to consciousness.