by Cassie James
My curiosity wants to drag me in two different directions. One toward the canvas bag where I know today’s surprise is waiting for me. The second toward the kitchen and the bakery box that Jean-Luc seems awfully proud of himself for.
In the end, my curiosity leads me to where Jean-Luc’s cutting the twine from around the box. “What is it?” I stand on my tip-toes to try to see over the box’s lid as he tips it open.
His light green eyes dance with joy as he turns the box toward me. “Yule log cake,” he answers happily in his lightly accented way, and my head cocks at the ultra-realistic log cake sitting in front of me.
“Why?”
He chuckles as he turns to pilfer through my cabinets.
“It’s tradition,” he explains not-so-helpfully as he snatches two plates from the cabinet nearest the fridge and starts pulling drawers open.
“By the sink,” I offer, and he grunts before dropping the plates by the box and turning toward the correct drawer.
I settle on the barstool on my side of the small kitchen island and let my eyes eat up the way his broad shoulders bunch under his light blue button up as he works his way through my kitchen.
Lord, the only thing hotter would be if the shirt was unbuttoned and he was barefoot. He turns back toward me, cocking an eyebrow as if he can also hear my horny inner voice telling me to shove the cake to the floor and let him take me right there.
“Normally yule log is saved for Christmas Eve,” he explains as he cuts two perfect slices and lines them up on the plates. I smile my thanks when he slides one to me. “But since I don’t have Christmas Eve, I thought we could share it tonight.”
“Who does have Christmas Eve?” He shakes his head at me with a playful smile. I sigh as I cut into the perfectly round slice of cake. “It was worth a shot, at least. So… yule log. What’s it symbolize?”
Jean-Luc runs a hand through his short brown hair, smiling lazily at me as he takes a bite of the cream filled chocolate roll. He drags the fork out of his mouth slowly, licking his lips after he does, and I swear to god my panties go up in flames right freaking there.
Who knew watching someone eat cake could be so goddamn hot?
“Families used to burn large logs decorated with holly and pinecones on Christmas Eve to cleanse the air—”
“Of evil spirits?” I butt in before I take a quick bite of the cake. And holy orgasm in my mouth, this cake is goooood. “Oh my god,” I moan around a full mouth, “this is amazing.”
Jean-Luc shakes his head as he takes another large bite of his cake. “Not of evil spirits, mon amour.” I don’t speak a lick of French, but I know enough from context clues to get what that means, and my face flares red as he smirks at me. “Families burned the yule log to cleanse the air of the year’s events and to get ready for spring.”
“Say it in French,” I plead, and his smirk turns downright filthy.
“Which part?”
“I don’t know,” I say as I shove another bite of the delectable cake in my mouth. Anything to distract from the fact that I’m making a complete ass of myself. “The cake name or whatever.”
“Bûche de Noël.”
“Good god,” I whisper to myself, twisting in my seat.
He almost never speaks French. He’s been in America so long his accent’s barely there most days. And boy did I never think I was the type of girl to get turned on by hearing a guy speak another language, but I’m pretty sure him whispering that cake name like he was talking to a lover just soaked my panties clean through.
A flush flares over my cheeks, and I turn my attention back to the nearly clean plate in front of me. I stab the cake a few times before glancing back up at him. He’s bracing himself against the island, veins popping in his arms just visible from where he’d pushed the sleeves of his shirt up. My mouth goes dry. There’s no good reason for any one man to be so goddamn handsome.
“So, does your family still do the yule log?” I ask because if I don’t get my mind off of him and the cake and the way he says the cake’s name in French, I’m pretty sure I’m going to rip his shirt off, smear the cake all over his chest, and lick it off until I’ve had my fill.
“Burning the log? No. Eating the cake? Hell yes, every year, and Mum’s cake is pretty much the best ever.”
“Better than this one?” I ask as I point my fork at the box from the bakery. He picks up the knife and cocks his head, but I shake my head no. The cake is delicious, but the butterflies dancing around in my belly are a pretty good indication that more cake is not a good idea right now.
“So much better.”
I push away from the island, gathering both of our plates as I head toward the other side of the kitchen. My stomach knots as I walk toward the sink, and I chew over the question I’m preparing. I don’t know why it bothers me as much as it does, but my poor heart isn’t going around making a lot of sense these days.
“You’ll have it when you fly home this Christmas?”
His chest pressing against my back as his hands drop to the sink on either side of me surprises a squeak out of me. Jean-Luc leans down, and the scruff of his perpetual five o’clock shadow scratches against my cheek. He gently kisses the irritated skin, and I turn my face more fully toward his, allowing him to brush a light kiss against my lips.
“I’m not flying home to New York this year. Mum and Dad are going home to France. Thought I might stick around here and see what the rest of the team gets up to.”
My stomach dips pleasantly, and I use my ass to push back against him until he gives me the space to turn against his chest and wrap my arms around his neck. It shouldn’t matter what he’s doing since I’ll be with other men from the team, but the possessive part of me is glad to know that I’ll have another one of the Storms close during the holidays.
I stand on my tiptoes, breasts pressing against his chest as I pull myself up to kiss him. Jean-Luc dips his head, and I nip at his bottom lip until he growls against my mouth and opens his lips for me just like a good boy should.
Our tongues tangle, and I’m moments away from climbing him like a fucking Christmas tree when he pulls away from me, eyes hooded and dark as his chest heaves with his labored breaths. “I brought a movie.”
“I don’t care.”
“It’s good—well, it’s funny at least. Okay, it hasn’t aged well, but it is my dad’s favorite Christmas movie. Le Père Noël est une Ordure,” he mutters against my lips.
If he thinks he’s getting me anywhere near my living room after speaking more French to me, he’s dead fucking wrong. “I still don’t care. You can’t just speak French to me and expect me to actually want to watch a movie,” I murmur as I try to deepen the kiss again.
Jean-Luc pulls away, and I whine with a pout. “Don’t do that, sweetheart. Besides, that movie title roughly translates to Santa Claus is a Stinker. Not sexy at all.”
“Jean-Luc, you could say baguette to me, and I’d be ready for you to fuck me six ways to Sunday.”
“Baguette,” he whispers, and I can’t help the giggle that escapes through my lips.
Okay, maybe baguette isn’t the sexiest thing to hear in French, but hearing it come from him in that growly, hungry tone?
Ugh.
“So, you’re taking me to my bedroom right now, yeah?” I ask as I press as close to him as I can get. I would share my breath with him if I could. My nipples are so hard I could probably cut freaking glass with them at the moment.
His eyes darken another degree, and I swear I’m going to combust right here on the spot with how hot and bothered I am. He dips his head to my neck, licking and nipping a trail toward my earlobe. He takes it into his mouth before biting down and then blowing on it gently.
I’m not making it out of this one alive.
“That is what you want, non?”
“Oui or whatever,” I mutter, and he throws his head back and laughs.
“Oui or whatever,” he repeats as he steps away from me laughing and shaking his
head. “I need to grab my bag—I’ll meet you in your room in a minute?”
God, yes.
I nod and scamper past him. Every part of me is tingling in anticipation, and I lose my shoes in the hall. I toe my way out of my socks near my bedroom door. My cardigan ends up somewhere in the corner of my room.
I only fight the urge to rip the rest of my clothes off because I have on a new set of lacy gold lingerie that totally deserves to be unwrapped like the gift it is. I know exactly how incredible my ass and tits look in this display, and Jean-Luc is welcome.
I’m somewhere in the middle of considering whether I should light a few candles when I hear him behind me. I turn to see him kneeling on the floor unpacking several packages of… sheets? What the hell?
“Uhhh… I have sheets, Jean-Luc.”
He glances up at me, the same panty-melting grin twisting his lips in a way that makes my thighs clench in automatic response. “But are they silk?”
“Does it matter?” I ask as I glance toward the comfy jersey sheets on the bed. The sheets that I changed just that morning.
Again, you’re welcome, Jean-Luc.
“Have you ever been fucked on silk sheets before?”
Is it just me or did the room just catch on freaking fire? Quick, someone toss my ass out in the rain before I incinerate.
“Uhm…”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he answers cheekily. He stands with two packages in his hand. He cocks his head as he stares at the bed and drops one to the ground. “I got a few different options because I wasn’t sure what size your bed is. It looks like a queen, though. It is a queen?”
“Yeah…” I mutter, and I stand back as he stoops to pull another, smaller package from the bag before springing into action. My head spins as he makes quick work of stripping the bedding from my bed just to replace it with hunter green sheets that are so shiny they look almost oily in the low light of my room.
Goosebumps erupt all over my body at the thought of my skin sliding and sticking against the material, and somehow my nipples pucker to the point of pain against the lace cup of my bra. I’m stuck somewhere between arousal and horror, though, when he opens the second package and starts tying what looks like red velvet lined restraints to the posters on my bedframe.
“What are those?” I ask even though it’s pretty fucking clear. My mind takes a delightfully dirty trip back in time to Cyrus cuffing me to my bed and fucking me so slowly I thought I’d die before I ever actually got off.
“Restraints, mon amour. They’re pretty, yes?”
I almost say no right then and there, ducking my head in hopes that Jean-Luc can’t see the hesitation in my eyes. It’s not him. It’s just that Cyrus’ slow teasing fuck was mind-numbing.
But it isn’t something I’d been looking forward to again so soon. After almost two weeks with the Storms, I’m pretty certain I like it a little faster and rougher. Slow sex is nice for like… your birthday or whatever.
Or the Captain fucking your brains out the way he knows you need it instead of the way you want it.
I remember how intense the orgasm was with Cyrus, and I glance back up at Jean-Luc from under my lashes. My mouth drops at the sight of him slipping out of his shoes, fulfilling all of my earlier fantasies since he’d also somehow managed to unbutton his shirt and unfasten his pants in the seconds that I’d been struggling with the idea of giving away control again.
“Goddamn breathtaking,” I respond as I reach for the hem of my shirt, but Jean-Luc tuts and strides my way.
“You’d deny me the pleasure of undressing you?” he asks with his own pout, and suddenly I understand why he had a player’s reputation his first year on the team. Speaks French and has game? Yeah, any woman would be a fool to deny him the right to make her cum. Luckily for me, he’s all mine.
I hold my arms up dutifully, and he shakes his head at me again. Like he can’t believe I’m so pliant in the bedroom when I’m so controlling everywhere else. Or maybe he just thinks I’m trying to be funny.
For the record, I’m not.
I’m just so desperate to be naked with him that I don’t want him to try to drag this out. I shake my arms at him, and he chuckles before reaching for the hem of my shirt and dragging it up slowly. To his credit, he makes sure his knuckles graze all the best parts of my body, making shivers race down my spine as goosebumps raise on my arms.
He tosses the shirt across the room recklessly, eyes catching on the sheer lace of my bra. He drags his thumb over his bottom lip slowly as he takes me in, and that’s it. I dance back a few steps and reach for the button of my high-waisted jeans. I manage to get the pants halfway down my hips before he rushes forward and scoops me over his shoulder like I’m light as a feather.
I shriek as he carries me across the room. The shriek turns to a breathy moan when his hand finds its way from my bare thighs to my ass, groping my cheeks roughly before he tosses me on the bed. I bounce once, biting my lip as he shrugs out of his shirt and unzips his pants, letting them fall to the floor as he closes the distance between him and me.
I indicate between the two of us, him naked except for the underwear barely keeping his straining cock in check and me in my half pulled down pants and lingerie. “There’s a little bit of an imbalance here, bud.”
“Don’t call me, bud,” he growls.
I press my lips together tightly to keep my satisfied grin at bay when he reaches for my jeans and pulls them the rest of the way down my hips and legs with jerky movements. The satisfaction is short lived when he leans over the bed and grabs me around the waist, lifting me slightly and shoving me toward the center. A protest forms on my lips as I slide across the buttery smooth material, only to die in my throat when he slants a heated glance in my direction.
He moves around the bed quickly, yanking first my feet toward the velvety restraints and then my arms. I don’t bother asking how he plans to take off my bra or panties, not when the dark look in his eye promises a much rougher time in restraints than what Cyrus gave me. A full body shudder passes through me, and I squirm against the cool, silk sheets.
Jean-Luc stands at the side of the bed, palming his cock through his underwear as he stares at me. I bite my lip and tug against the restraints, hungry to feel his skin against mine, and suddenly this all feels like a terrible, no good idea all over again.
“What do you want, Gemma?” he asks darkly, and the growly tone is a shot straight to my aching pussy.
“You.”
Jean-Luc’s smile is downright filthy as he reaches for the waistband of his underwear. I suck in a shuddering breath, eyes wide and searching as he unsheathes his hard, straining cock.
I squirm in place, tugging against the restraints again—hating the fact that I’ve given him control when all I want to do is press my thighs together. Or crawl across the bed and take him in my mouth. Or touch myself. Or freaking anything to get some relief from this ache burning inside of me.
“Jean-Luc,” his name falls from my lips in a breathy moan, and he rewards me by placing a knee on the side of the bed.
I tug against the restraints again, harder this time, and I’m thankful for the velvet lining the restraints. Otherwise, there’s no way there wouldn’t be ugly bruises on my wrists and ankles tomorrow.
Every single part of my body tingles, burns, or aches as the mattress dips with the full weight of his body. If I think he’s going to crawl between my legs and get straight to business, I’m sorely disappointed. Instead, he lies on his side next to me, head propped on his hand while he casually strokes his dick.
And it’s 100% official. I do not like being tied up. I moan in protest, but all he does is smile and keep stroking himself leisurely.
“Patience is a virtue,” he whispers, and I shudder, the same goosebumps from before erupting all over my skin. I hate that my body reacts so viscerally to his stupid, somehow sexy words.
I yank against the restraints again, whimpering so much I’m sure I sound like I’m
hurt. But oh god. Parts of me are hurting.
My pride.
My slowly stuttering heart.
My aching core.
He rolls closer to me, and my breath hitches painfully in my throat at the feel of his fingers playing over my belly. He ghosts them over the lace cups of my bra, fingers pausing to tweak my nipples briefly before moving on.
I twist against the restraints as his hand dances closer to the apex of my thighs, and all I can do is groan as his fingers cruise down my legs and then back toward my stomach again.
“Please.”
I’m not sure what it is about the word, but it really does seem to be magic. All the teasing light behind his eyes goes suddenly dark, and he’s between my legs with his lips on my stomach before I can fully comprehend the fact that he’s moved at all.
My body trembles, and even though I know it’s not going to get me anywhere, I tug against the restraints on my wrists again. Because even though he’s between my thighs with the heat of his neck and chest pressing against my aching core, he sure is taking his time kissing and licking and nipping the patch of skin between my belly button and my pubic bone.
And I’d love nothing more than to drag my fingers through his hair and then shove his face where it belongs.
I arch my hips, desperate for relief from the ache burning through my core. Jean-Luc rewards me by shoving his arms under my thighs, wrapping them around, and then gripping the inside to hold my hips in place. I bite my lip against whatever noise is trying to force its way out of my body because I’m not totally sure whether I like or hate what’s happening to me right now.
The heat of his breath brushing over the front of my panties sends an electric jolt straight to my core. My legs jerk and my hips buck as high as they can against his hold, and holy mother of all things good and evil, I might just be seeing Christmas lights behind my eyes.
I try to clench my thighs again, and the sensitive skin on the inside of them barely brushes against the scruff on his cheeks before his fingers dig in with bruising force and pulls them back apart. And you know, I never thought I’d be the type of girl to cry in bed, but I’m so fucking turned on and so goddamn frustrated that crying might be the only relief I get right now.
