by Kati Wilde
Except there’s a whole lot more we both want to do, and it’s with a reluctant moan that Mia stops. Panting, she lifts her head, her lips soft and swollen and her pale blue eyes gazing down into mine. My angel, in the living flesh.
“I’ll go with you to that gala,” I tell her hoarsely. “If you’re still asking.”
Laughter brightens her expression. “I am. And I’d like that.”
“I’ll warn you that I’m not too good at dancing, though.”
“I don’t care. I’m asking because I like your face.” Her cold palms frame my jaw, and she drops another soft kiss to my mouth before sighing and backing away. “I have to get back to work soon…but I’ve got another minute or two.”
I do, too. Hopefully it’ll be long enough for my cock to settle down. “You have lunch here every day?”
“Yes.”
“You want company if I can get away from the desk?”
“Yes.” She lifts her coffee cup and begins to lower herself onto the bench across from me.
“Oh, fuck no.” My urgent tone freezes her in place, and she looks across the table at me in alarm. My heart’s pounding a fucking mile a minute. “Don’t sit there again. Christ.”
Her tension vanishing, she laughs at me. “Cops are so superstitious.”
“It’s not superstition. It’s our guts reminding us that behaviors create patterns. And patterns repeat.”
“Yeah, well”—she sits—“I’m determined to break this particular pattern.”
Not the bullet, I realize. She means everything leading up to it. Her mother. Her entire childhood. Her past holidays. And all those plans she has for the future that she was telling Huertas about, they’re just making sure her children don’t experience the same things that she did.
And put like that— “I’ve got a few patterns I’d like to break, too,” I tell her.
She raises her coffee cup in a toast to me. “One day at a time, then?”
“Yeah,” I agree. Even if taking it slow kills me.
At least it’ll be a real sweet death.
10
Mia
Maybe there’s some irony that, to break my own pattern, I fall into the larger one of holiday consumerism. Actually, I don’t even ‘fall.’ That sounds like an accident, and I deliberately run toward it, embracing it with all my might. Thanksgiving was only yesterday, but I find an all-Christmas station on my car radio and turn it up, then sing along to the carols I know. I head to Home Depot and, after a workshop where I learn how to use a lathe, load up a shopping cart with decorations. Then I drive to the tree lot and pick out the tallest tree that I can drag around by myself, my heart bursting with the thrill of hope.
This year will be different. In every single way. Not because of these decorations or this tree, but because I’m finally free. And I’ve never been this happy.
At my apartment building, I wrestle the tall pine from the top of my car, thankful the twine binding the branches didn’t break on the drive home. Dragging the heavy tree across the snow and into the lobby is difficult enough. I’m out of breath by the time I reach the elevator—but still loving every second of this.
When the elevator opens on the third floor, I grip the base of the tree trunk in my gloved hands and start hauling it backwards down the hallway. My heart swells again when I hear a door swing open, then Cole’s laughing, “Holy shit, angel. That thing’s bigger than I am. Let me help you.”
I won’t say no. Especially since he shows up beside me wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt that clings to his arms and chest as if the fabric loves every inch of his skin.
But I have to warn him, “You might want to put on gloves first. I’ve got sap all over mine.”
“I’m sure I’ve had stickier shit on my hands,” he says dryly. “Give that over to me and go unlock your door.”
I do, taking a second to catch my breath and admire the flex of his thick biceps when he begins pulling the tree toward me.
My ogling doesn’t go unnoticed. “I thought it was my face you liked,” he tells me.
I do. Especially the day’s growth of stubble shadowing his jaw, lending him a disheveled, dangerous air. But I’m not ashamed to admit, “I like your arms, too.” And since he’s coming at me backwards, “And the way your jeans fit.”
“They won’t fit much longer if you keep talking like that. Where do you want this?”
I haven’t thought that far ahead. “Just drop it wherever. I’ll be right back—I need to run down and grab the tree stand.”
Along with everything else I bought. It takes four trips from my car to the elevator, and this time when I get to the third floor with my bags and boxes stacked all around me, Cole’s standing right there—wearing his boots and coat.
Relief is naked on his face when he sees me. “You and I have different definitions of ‘right back,’ angel. And I need your damn cell number.”
“Sorry. It took longer than I thought.” And no one has really cared before. I flutter my eyelashes up at him. “But I’ll give you my phone number if you help me carry this stuff, too?”
“Shit. You’re so fucking cute,” he mutters, then cups his hand behind my neck and pulls me in for a hard kiss. “Now load me up.”
A six-foot-four helper makes everything easier, and four trips becomes one. It’s with a huge sense of accomplishment that I dump everything I’m carrying onto the sofa, then unload Cole.
As soon as his arms are free, he cups my face and kisses me again, slower and sweeter. Then murmurs against my lips, “Let’s get that tree up, then.”
I’d rather continue kissing him, but the thought of putting up the tree has me bouncing with excitement. I drag off my coat and gloves, tossing them onto the pile of decorations to deal with later. “Where do you think it should go?”
He points to the bay window in the small dining area. “Maybe over there, so you can see it from the couch? Or where do you spend most of your time?”
“The kitchen. But I can see that spot from there, too.” I sort through the boxes, looking for the tree stand. “Have you ever used one of these stands before? The guy at the store said it was the best one on the market but that it’s always tricky getting the tree straight, no matter which one you use.”
“I haven’t put a tree up before. But I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”
I look up at him in surprise. “Never?”
He shakes his head. “I never bothered.”
Uncertainty strikes me. “Is it a bother now?”
“Not a bit, angel.” His lips twitch. “It’s shaping up to be more fun than I expected. Though we’ll probably end up with a crooked tree.”
We. Just hearing him put it like that makes me so happy, I don’t care if it’s leaning drunkenly against the wall when we’re done.
It’s not. Instead it’s only a little crooked after we get the screws into the trunk and then adjust them and unscrew the whole thing and rotate the tree and screw them in and adjust them again. Then Cole says that he’s pretty damn sure the tree is just fucking with us and that it’ll look less lopsided when the branches are open—so we cut the twine and it does look better, it looks absolutely magical, and I can only stand in front of the bare tree with my hands clasped and eyes shining.
After a long moment, I look to Cole. He’s examining the tree with his arms crossed over his chest and wearing an utterly masculine expression of satisfaction—and most of his weight braced on his right leg.
“I think this calls for a celebratory drink while we sit on the sofa and look at the tree and feel proud of ourselves,” I tell him.
He grins. “We should.”
“Any preference in drinks?”
“I’ll take a beer.”
I bring him one of the bottles I keep on hand for Jason, then start making room on the big leather sofa, moving aside the bags and boxes I brought in, shifting everything to the floor.
Cole starts to help, then abruptly stops, looking into one of the plastic bags. His v
oice sounds tight with strain when he says, “You bought this today?”
I glance inside the bag, recognize the ice cream scoop with the wooden handle that I shaped in the lathing workshop. “I made it, kind of.”
“You made it?”
I narrow my eyes at him. Is it that hard to believe? “In a workshop. Not the metal scoop part, but the rest of it. I’m giving it to Dr. Childers for Christmas.”
His broad shoulders start shaking and he slowly sinks onto the sofa, putting his head in his hand. “You’re giving this to your boss?”
“Because she makes her own ice cream at home. I’m trying to give more personalized gifts this year.”
“Personalized?” A deep laugh explodes from him. “I suppose it can’t get more personal than this. Angel, have you looked at it?”
Of course I have. But I sit beside him and pull it out of the bag, turning the scoop in my hand, trying to figure out what’s so hilarious. I did a good job. The wood handle is long and thick and smooth, about eight inches long and with a rounded decorative knob at the end that I’m especially proud of, considering that it was my first time using a lathe.
Catching his breath, Cole wipes his eyes. “Think dirty, Mia.”
I do, and even when realization strikes…I still can’t see it. “You think this looks like a penis?” I shake my head. “It’s way too big.”
His eyebrows shoot upward. “Is it?”
Bigger than most of the penises I see, though maybe they shouldn’t count. Very few of those are erect. “And it’s too smooth.”
“And not the kind of toy a person usually gets for Christmas.”
Oh. Ohhhh. Suddenly mortified, I stare at it with widened eyes, unable to see anything else now that he’s said toy. “I almost gave my boss a giant wooden dildo.”
“With a handy scoop at one end. And maybe it’s not such a bad gift after all. Get some ice cream on one side, pussy on the other, and a man has all the necessary food groups in one convenient meal.”
Oh god. I can’t stop my giggle. Then Cole reaches past me to set his beer on the coffee table, and when he gently pries the scoop from my fingers and sets it aside, too, I can barely breathe past the anticipation racing through me.
His thumb brushes my bottom lip. “So you think that was too big?”
“Bigger than anything I could ever use.”
His head lowers and I close my eyes. But instead of the kiss I was expecting, he eases me down lengthwise along the sofa, with my shoulder and right side against the back of the couch. His big hand captures my wrists and pulls them over my head, pinning my arms against the leather cushion. He follows me down, lying flush against me on his side.
His free hand cups my cheek. His piercing gaze holds mine. “I swore I would never hurt you, Mia,” he says in a low voice. “And I’m about to ask you a few things—those aren’t to hurt you, either. Instead it’s to make sure I never do. This isn’t to embarrass you or judge you. All right?”
I nod into his palm. “I wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t trust you.”
“That’s good, angel.” Gravel roughens his reply. “But have you ever been with anyone else? Ever trusted them that much? Girls, boys?”
Biting my lip, I shake my head.
His body stiffens slightly. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything in response to the discovery that he’ll be my first—just stares at me, his dark eyes intense, his jaw tight. Finally he says gruffly, “You’ve made yourself come before, though?”
“Sure. I masturbate all the time.”
Amusement flickers across his expression. His palm leaves my cheek, and I shiver as he casually flicks open the top button of my shirt. My hands are still trapped over my head, a position that subtly arches my back. Every one of my panting breaths strains the cotton over my sensitive breasts.
Until he unfastens the button in the valley between them. Then the shirt gapes open, exposing my lacy pink bra. “With just your fingers?”
“Sometimes a toy.” I lift higher, encouraging his touch on my bare skin, but he simply moves down to the next button.
“But nothing like that ice cream scoop.”
A breathy laugh huffs from me. “No.”
“Just a vibrator? Or something inside you?” The final button gives way beneath his fingers, and he spreads the sides of my shirt. “Holy fuck, Mia. You’re so damn beautiful.”
The way he looks at me, I feel as if I must be. His gaze worships my belly, his callused palm sliding up over its soft swell. I arch my back again, so that he can more easily reach the clasp of my bra behind me. But his hard fingers simply grasp the lacy cups and drag them down beneath my breasts, and even though I’m lying on my back, the tension from my shoulder straps gives them a gravity-defying lift. It’s like the most uncomfortable underwire ever, until he groans at the sight of me, at the sight of the lingerie plumping my breasts, my nipples hard and flushed a dark pink, and then it just feels sexy and naughty and wonderful.
“It’s both,” I tell him, and by the glazed look in his eyes, I realize he doesn’t remember what he asked me. “The toy. You want me to bring it out here?”
His mouth curves and slowly he shakes his head. His hand slides down to the waistband of my jeans. With his gaze on mine, he pops open the snap. “Both…so it’s one of those rabbit things, then? It has a dick to fill you up and little ears to tease your clit?”
“Yes.” I can barely breathe or think, because he’s unzipping my pants. Cole Matthews is unzipping my pants. Frantically I raise my hips, but he doesn’t drag my jeans down, or do anything except loosen them.
His head dips and it isn’t until I hear his soothing, “Shh, angel. There’s no rush,” against my ear that I hear the urgent sounds I’m making. His mouth finds mine in a long, slow kiss—maybe in an attempt to slow all of me down, but with my hands pinned over my head and the heavy warmth of his palm resting on my lower belly and his tongue stroking against mine, there’s no slowing. My heart just pounds faster and the liquid heat between my legs just gets hotter, wetter.
With a soft groan, he breaks the kiss. The ragged heave of his chest tells me that despite his words, his body isn’t going any slower, either. “I need to know how much you’re comfortable with, Mia,” he tells me gruffly, and my breath stops when his hand slides into my panties. “And that toy is all right for you?”
“Yes,” I whisper, then everything inside me clenches at the first brush of fingers over my clit.
A harsh sound rips from his chest. “So wet, Mia. Ah fuck. Christ.”
His fingers delve deeper, slicking through my intimate folds. But not deep enough. There’s no room in there with my jeans barely loosened, and rocking my hips only moves his hand with me, doesn’t push his touch where I want it to go. Gritting my teeth, I moan in helpless frustration.
“That’s how I feel, too, angel.” With a tortured laugh, he bends his head, kisses the corner of my mouth. “Is this all right, then?”
This is his finger pressing into me, thick and long. “Yes,” I gasp. “It’s so all right. And more.”
“You can take more?”
“Please.” I beg, then cry out as I’m suddenly fuller, as full as I’ve ever been.
“Like this—about two fingers’ worth? This is how much you’re used to taking?”
I can’t answer, only rock my hips, riding his hand.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he growls against my ear. “You must have to fight to get it in every damn time.”
Wildly I shake my head. “Not anymore. Not if I’m wet enough.”
“You’re wet enough. You’re so fucking wet you could take every inch of my cock.” With a harsh groan, he buries his face in my throat. His ragged breath is hot against my neck. “But not yet. So tell me what you like, angel. Tell me how you make yourself come. You fuck that toy dick in and out of your pussy? Or just let the vibrator tease your clit?”
As he asks, his thumb circles that engorged flesh. My hips jerk, a choked cry escaping
me when he does it again. “That,” I tell him on a strangled breath. “That.”
“And what’s in your head when you do? You imagining it hard and fast, or—”
“You.” It’s a guttural confession torn from deep within me. “I just imagine it’s you. That’s how I get wet enough.”
His hand stills. “Me?”
“Ever since the first time I saw you.”
Cole lifts his head, his gaze burning into mine. Slowly his thumb begins to circle again. “So you imagine that’s my dick inside you.”
Full and stretching me, like his fingers are. “Yes,” I breathe.
“And when you come, it’s my dick that your pussy is squeezing so tight. Do you imagine what happens after that, angel? How the feel of your hot little pussy clamping down on my cock will make me lose my fucking mind? How I’ll hold you down and fuck deep and hard until I’ve unloaded every drop of my cum inside you?”
Oh my god. Helplessly aroused by that explicit image, I roll my hips against his hand, trying to get to that place, when everything tightens and shatters.
Relentlessly teasing my clit, he bends his head and captures my bottom lip between his teeth before releasing it to murmur, “Is what you imagine like this, angel?”
No. “This is so much better,” I tell him, and he rewards me with a kiss, his tongue slicking over mine in the same slow rhythm as his fingers move inside me.
And everything within me is spiraling up, up. His fingers are patient and endless, his mouth hot as he breaks the kiss and lowers his head to my breast, latching on to my hardened nipple. The suction of his mouth begins an endless swirl of pleasure, sweeping me higher, my body rising in a taut bow—and the gentle pluck of his thumb against my clit sends me flying. I cry out, my inner muscles clinging to his slowly thrusting fingers.
“You’re so perfect, Mia,” he groans against my breast, then claims my mouth in another lingering kiss as I sigh and soften against him. He releases my wrists and I hold him close, sliding my fingers into his thick hair, loving every sweet blissful moment passing between us.
