Merry Inkmas: A BWWM Romance

by Talia Hibbert

“He really didn’t mean any harm. He just doesn’t think before he speaks. And he forgets that other people don’t see things the way he does.”

  “Honestly, it’s okay.”

  “He likes you, you know.”

  Bailey gave Monroe a blatantly sceptical look, and the other woman giggled.

  “Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating. But he told me that you’re ‘both pretty and pleasant’.” Her voice took on George’s gentle, distant cadence.

  “Oh, well. A ringing endorsement!”

  “It’s a hell of a lot better than his first comment on my character.”

  “Do I even want to know?”

  Monroe shook her head with a snort. “Nope. You don’t. Or you’ll wonder why I married him.”

  Bailey was already wondering that. But then, she’d learned a long time ago that love was a tricky fucker.

  As though she’d spoken the thought aloud, Monroe murmured, “My brother really does like you, though. Doesn’t he?”

  “Oh… I don’t know. I suppose so.”

  “You suppose so? I’ve never heard him talk about a woman like that. Not ever. Certainly not in front of everyone!”

  Bailey shifted awkwardly on the sofa, tucking her feet under her bum. She wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that. She wasn’t entirely sure about anything when it came to Cash. But she did know that his words at dinner had lit a spark in her—not one that burned comet-bright and faded just as fast, or one that seared away her good sense. No; it glowed gently, warming her up from the inside out. It didn’t feel like a dangerous love. It felt like the kind of secret that was a pleasure to keep.

  Monroe was watching her closely. In the low light, the woman’s blue eyes looked eerily like Cash’s green ones. “My brother is a complicated man,” she said. “We had some difficult times growing up.”

  Bailey nodded. She’d heard as much from Cash himself. But then Monroe’s next words caught her completely by surprise.

  “Our father beat the shit out of Mum.”

  Bailey’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. What the hell did you say to that?

  “He was a monster. He was obsessed with her. There was nowhere for her to hide. She ran away and took us with her, and it worked for a while. But in the end, he’d find us, and he’d punish her.” Monroe swirled her wine around the glass, as though they were discussing nothing heavier than tomorrow’s menu. “So I suppose we’re all a little bit fucked. Which is fine. But Cash—”

  “What about me?”

  Bailey jumped at the sudden sound of his voice, her heart stuttering. In the shadows of the hallway, Cash leant against the doorframe. Darkness danced with light across the sardonic twist of his mouth. His hair fell forward, hiding his eyes almost completely, but she could still see that glint of green, like a tiger peering through tall grass.

  Fuck.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Monroe leaned back against the sofa cushions, her expression resigned. “Hello, little brother.”

  “Hello, Roe. Spinning fairytales again?”

  “Fairytales?” Her voice was sharp, defiant.

  “Turning me into a hero?” He stepped into the room, his arms folded, his jaw set. “Don’t bother. It stretches the limits of imagination too far.”

  Monroe stood up, her hands clenched into fists. “Don’t—”

  But Bailey could see what Monroe apparently couldn’t. Cash was on the edge of absolute fury; every inch of him was vibrating, the lines of his face terrible in their severity. And the last thing anyone needed was a God-awful war the night before Christmas Eve.

  And so she leapt up and went to him, pressing her hand against his chest. Forcing him to concentrate on something other than the demons chasing his shadow.

  “I’m tired,” she said. And then, when he continued to stare over her head, his face iron: “Cash. I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”

  He looked down at her, finally, his eyes focusing on her face. The set of his jaw softened, just a bit. “Alright,” he said. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

  He turned on his heel and left the room without looking back. Bailey followed, throwing Monroe an apologetic glance over her shoulder. She was rewarded with a wry smile and a shake of the head.

  Crisis averted. Maybe.

  Cash led her through the now-dark halls and up two flights of stairs. “We’re on the top floor,” he explained, the strain easing from his voice with every step. “Mum chose rooms for us all when we got the house. She wanted me to have skylights.”

  “Who else is up here?” She whispered in the darkness, staying close to him, tracing his path by the moonlight beaming through the hallway windows. He passed one door and stopped at the next.

  “Right now? No-one. Just us. So you don’t need to whisper.” He pushed the door open and flicked on the light, then took her hand and pulled her into the room.

  His mother might have chosen it for him, but she’d decorated it generically. Like the rest of the house, it was done in warm, neutral tones with flashes of colour here and there; in this case, sky blue. Still, it was big and warm, and the soft, cream carpet was heavenly beneath Bailey’s feet.

  There was a bed. A large bed. But just the one.

  Obviously.

  She turned to face Cash, suddenly hesitant. “Is… Did you put my things in here?”

  “Yeah,” he said softly. “Is that okay?”

  “Um… Yes. Of course. I mean, this is fine.” She sounded like she was convincing herself more than him, and she knew it. He smiled, the expression chasing away the last of the tension on his face. Which made her embarrassment worth it.

  He held her hands tightly, his thumb tracing over her knuckles.

  “Bailey,” he murmured, almost to himself. His smile faded, was replaced by something painfully tender. He pulled her forward, inch by inch, until the only thing between them was the covenant of their joined hands. Then he lowered his head, pressed his cheek to hers, whispered in her ear. “You are divine. You’re like sunlight through stained glass. This isn’t how I thought things would be.” He kissed the hollow just behind her earlobe, and she gasped, her head spinning.

  Then he dragged his lips lower, grazing them along the line of her throat, and blooming desire became urgent need. “How—how did you think it would be?” She whispered.

  “Heavy. Thick as blood. Not like this. Not like breathing. And I love it.” He pressed his face to her skin, inhaled. “I knew I would, but… You feel like satisfaction. Like every summer I ever had. Should I be worried?”

  She was asking herself the same question. But she pressed her palms against his chest and felt his heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings, and she said, “Trust me.”

  He pulled away, looked into her eyes as though they held the secrets of the world. “I do,” he said. “I do trust you. I don’t trust me.”

  This was the part where she asked him why. Where she cast light over every shadow that had ever passed through his gemstone eyes. But he’d told her what he wanted, and it wasn’t questions and intimacy and—and whatever it was that made her blossom beneath his touch. Cash wanted one thing from her, and it was something she knew how to give. So she rose up onto her toes and pressed her body against his and kissed him.

  Kissing him was just like being kissed by him, only better, because a man wanting a woman was nothing special, but Bailey wanting a man, wanting him and chasing him—that was impossible. Impossible was Cash.

  She pulled at the fabric of his T-shirt, letting her desperation out of its cage, letting her need see the moonlight, even if it could never walk in the sun. And Cash crumbled just for her, wrapping his arms around her as though they were lost at sea, drinking down her kisses like they were life itself. His hands went to her hips, as they always seemed to, and she allowed herself to acknowledge the way he wanted—wanted desperately, wanted her, Bailey, before he wanted any woman—because his hands told her so; the way they grabbed, so hungry, so lustful, told her so. Her, and him. No-one els
e. It couldn’t be anyone else.

  He walked her back towards the bed and pushed her down before she realised she was falling. The mattress hugged her like heaven, let her bounce back up, and then he came too and weighed her down, earthing the current that flowed through her veins.

  “Clothes off,” he told her. “I always see you naked, when I dream of you. Clothes off.”

  “And you?”

  “Whatever you want,” he said, rising up on his knees.

  “Good.” She sat and pulled her jumper up over her head. Heat flared in his eyes as she leant back on her hands, her chest bare. He moved to touch her, but she pulled away.

  “You, too, remember? You said whatever I want.”

  He laughed and stood and stripped. His T-shirt flew and the full extent of his sleeve was revealed: the ink wrapped around his shoulder, fading into a winged chest piece. Then he unbuttoned his jeans, shoving them off along with his briefs, and straightened before her. She didn’t know where to look first; at the ink curling over his hips; at the muscle cording his thighs; at the thick, straining column of his erection.

  Wait. Yes, she did.

  She surged forward and reached for him, but he stepped back, his face tight with desire.

  “Keep going,” he said, nodding at her clothes.

  And so she stood too, and pulled off her long skirt, and thanked God she wasn’t wearing her awful, tight jeans, and that her healing tattoo was no longer a sticky mess.

  He dragged his gaze over her body, from head to toe, and she basked in his lust, letting it warm her through.

  “You’re not naked yet,” he said softly.

  She reached up and pulled off her glasses, her smile teasing. He took them from her with a smirk, putting them on the drawers by the door.

  “Nice try, Bailey. Keep going.”

  She looked down and—oops. There he stood like a fucking god, like the image of sex itself, and here she was in her Beauty and the Beast knickers. Not an easy situation to take control of. But she rather thought she could regain the upper hand.

  With a smirk of her own, Bailey turned slowly, presenting her back to him. Her back, and something he’d always liked far better.

  Bending over, she tucked her fingers into the waistband of her underwear and slid them slowly down, over the curve of her arse. He released a low groan as they made their way down her thighs.

  “Fuck,” he rasped. And then she felt his hands on her, a palm gripping each cheek as he explored the expanse of round flesh. She stepped out of her underwear a moment before he spread her wide, pushing her further forwards. And then, suddenly, his warm breath skated across her slick, exposed folds.

  She braced herself against the bed, opening her legs wider, bending lower, pushing wantonly back towards his mouth. And he obliged her silent request, his hot tongue sliding along her slit in a move that made her shiver.

  “I owe you,” he said, pulling back, and his voice was thick and smoky. “I owe you five orgasms at least.”

  “But you didn’t finish when I…”

  “Doesn’t matter. Five minutes of heaven equals five orgasms.” He pushed two thick fingers inside her, stroking the sensitive walls of her pussy, pumping back and forth. She moaned, and he laughed darkly, the exhalations caressing her skin. “I think we can manage it. Don’t you?”

  “I… Um… Oh!” Bailey’s word broke off in a shriek as the tip of his tongue swept over her swollen clit. “Fuck, do that again.”

  He did, and then again, faster, and faster—all the while plunging his fingers into her pussy until her back bowed and her breath left her body. Bailey cried out her desperation as he pushed her closer to climax, his thick fingers and clever tongue claiming her in a sensual assault. His tongue strayed for a moment to join his fingers at her entrance, lapping at her growing wetness, and he moaned as he tasted her. His licks grew frantic, as though he couldn’t get enough of the molten desire dripping from her pussy—but then, finally, he returned to torturing her swollen clit, and she broke. Writhing against the blankets, Bailey came with a shudder and a low, guttural sigh.

  He pushed her forward until she was lying fully on the bed, left limp as a doll by pleasure. Then he followed, lying on his side beside her, and she rolled over onto her back. His hair hung down as he looked at her, studying her face as though committing the features to memory. She smiled hazily and reached up to play with the silken strands.

  “There,” he whispered. “That’s just how you look at me when I dream of us.”

  “Do you do that often?” She asked, teasing.

  He traced a finger across her lips, following the curve of her smile—but his own face was serious. “Yes,” he murmured. “I do.”

  Cash knew that he was saying too much. He knew that even if he could keep his mouth shut—if he could choke down the adoration that sprang from his chest like wildflowers—his body would give him away. Because surely she must know, when he touched her like this, that he needed her.

  And yet, she wasn’t afraid of his intensity. She wasn’t running. She looked up at him with trust in her eyes—trust, and something softer. Something harder to spot and infinitely more precious. Something so bright, he was forced to look away from its brilliance. Her fingers twisted his hair gently, playfully. Her legs, smooth and soft and plump, tangled up with his. And she still wanted him.

  He leaned down and kissed her, let his feelings pour out in silence through the medium of lips and tongue. And she pulled him closer and mewled like a kitten and arched into him in such a way that he forgot himself completely. He settled over her, hooking an arm under her leg and pushing it up out of his way. Then he shifted forwards until the head of his aching cock came to rest against the heaven that was her cunt. But the minute that searing heat pressed against him, he let out a defeated sigh.

  “Fuck. Condom.”

  She huffed, pouted, and he laughed.

  “What’s up, kitten?”

  “If you’re gonna get me all worked up—”

  “All worked up, hm?” He climbed off the bed and stood up, taking a moment to admire her, laid out before him like an unwrapped gift. The flare of her hips, the dark velvet of her skin, her hair splayed out like ribbons around her head. Then he forced himself to cross the room, snatching protection from his luggage. Opening the box as he walked, Cash returned to the bed, pulling out a condom and tossing the rest aside. He tore it open and sheathed himself with the ease of practice, then climbed over Bailey, settling between her legs like the space was made for him.

  But then she traced her fingers over the ink on his ribs, and he stiffened. Held his breath. Waited.

  “You have a scar,” she murmured, stroking the thick ridge of tissue that he’d half- hidden with pitch-black ink. But of all the women he’d ever been with, of course she’d be the one to notice. The one who truly saw him, whether he wanted it or not.

  “Yeah,” he managed.

  “How—?’’

  He bent down and kissed her, soft and teasing. And by the time he pulled back, she was silent, a smile curving her lips. But still, she touched the scar. So he kissed her again, his tongue sliding against hers until she moaned into his mouth and writhed beneath him. Until his heart stopped racing and his skin stopped prickling and the lazy, liquid heat of desire overtook the sharp bite of panic in his gut.

  She stared up at him, her eyes wide, her lips parted, and he prayed he’d see her just like this a hundred thousand times before he died. Then she put her fingertips to his cheek and wrapped her legs around his waist and said, “Cash. Need you now.” And every thought but one left his head.

  He positioned himself at her entrance, felt her wet heat calling to him. Thrust forward, slow and steady, his rock-hard cock pushing its way into her tight cunt as she fluttered around him.

  “Fuck,” she gasped, sinking into the satisfaction, the divine way he stretched and filled her with every inch. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

  He kissed her, swallowed her need as she set his e
very nerve-ending on fire. When he settled himself to the hilt in her sweet pussy, she moaned against his lips, and he thought he’d lose it in that very moment.

  But he didn’t. He held on—eased back from the death-grip of her cunt, the friction so delicious it sent sparks flying behind his eyes—then thrust his way back in, again and again. She gasped in his ear, pressed her soft, slick skin to his, panted and swore and raked her nails across his back. And every desperate command she gave made his balls tighten, but he ignored them anyway. Kept his pace steady. Stoked the flames higher and higher, until Bailey thought she might faint with pleasure.

  “Please,” she whimpered, clutching his biceps, digging into the rigid, straining muscles. “I’m so fucking close.”

  “I did promise you five, didn’t I?” He panted, grinding into her, still achingly slow despite his words. “And you’re so pretty when you come.”

  “Faster,” she begged, electricity coursing through her veins, need ripening with his every thrust.

  “You feel so fucking good,” he grunted. “How will it feel when you come on my cock?” He was finally giving her what she wanted—what she needed. He opened her legs wider, bringing them up to rest against his shoulders as he thrust faster and faster. Then he reached between their bodies and rubbed her clit in rough, firm circles, and she thought she might weep. When he bent his head to suck the stiff peak of her nipple, she came again, just like that.

  Now she was fucked, because from that point on, he had her number. Over and over again he drove her to the edge. He pumped into her, stroked that aching nub between her legs, worked her sensitive breasts, and she whimpered and bit her own fist and broke into pieces around him every time.

  “I’m sorry,” he grunted as his rhythm stuttered, as his thrusts became frantic and his face twisted with passion. “Four will have to do. You’re too fucking—”

  “What?” Bailey grinned, tightening around him, watching the pleasure spike in his eyes. “I’m too what?”

  “Perfect,” he rasped. And then, finally, after teetering endlessly at the precipice, Cash followed her over the edge.