Page 28 of Christmas By Design

“What, ‘please?’”

“No.” His cock pulses inside me. “Beckett.”

He starts a rhythm with his hips that he matches with his hand that was holding my leg up. In its absence, I rest my leg on top of his, which has the effect of squeezing me tighter around him. I can feel him even better inside me. “Beckett,” I call on a moan. “Keep doing that, and I’ll say your name as many times as you like.”

“Not good enough.” He thrusts harder. I’m so hungry for it that I loop my leg around his and push myself even closer. “My name is going to be the only one you remember when I make you come so hard you see stars.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I agree, because he’s right. I can’t think of anything but him. He surrounds me. The heat of his skin, the rosemary scent of his aftershave, the raspy and desperate sound of his breath in my ear. He blocks out everything else. He’s everything I never knew I needed.

He snakes his other hand underneath me and uses it to pinch one of my nipples. It’s sensory overload, but in the best way. It’s pain and pleasure and impulse and understanding all rolling me into a tight little ball of desire. The pressure builds in my core as Beckett finds the perfect rhythm behind me.

I’m going to snap, and soon. “Oh,” I breathe. “I’m close.”

“Me too. You’re so fucking pretty when you come, Gemma. Let me see it.”

His fingers move faster over my clit, and the pressure inside me splinters. I shudder and pulse and cry out his name over and over again. His tempo becomes completely erratic as he thrusts impossibly deeper and harder. It only strokes the sensitive parts inside of me more, and I continue to shake with my release. He buries his head in my neck as he pulses one more time, then comes inside me.

We lay there until long after he’s softened. The fire is dying, and the cold sunlight streaming through the window signals it’s closing in on noon. With each passing moment, my hope that we’ll get plowed out in time to make it home for Christmas Eve dwindles like the flames. I know I should clean myself up, maybe even put some distance between Beckett and me because it’s going to have to happen eventually. But it feels too good, laying here, his fingers stroking up and down my side, his lips pressing against my neck and back every so often.

I’m almost nodding off when an extremely loud, scraping noise comes from outside. Beckett’s hand on my side stills as we listen.

That sound is unmistakable. It’s a plow.

I sit up with a gasp, almost giddy. “Is that what I think it is?”

Beckett is slower to drag himself off the floor, almost as if he’s sad to leave our cocoon behind. “I suppose it’s a Christmas miracle,” he intones. Funny, that doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s a miracle. He starts pulling his clothes on, and I have to admit, when I see him doing that, I’m not sure I think it’s much of a miracle, either.

“Why don’t you get cleaned up. I’ll see what’s going on,” he suggests. I nod and gather my clothes on my way to the bathroom.

Chapter 17

Beckett

I try to find an ounce of shame for the way I ogle Gemma as she hurries to the bathroom, but I have none. Her ass is perfect. I’m only a little shocked at the revelation that I would like to look at it every day.

The plow outside scrapes against the pavement again, and I’m quickly reminded that this situation between us is about to end as soon as we leave this house. I’m sure she doesn’t want to carry any of what happened over the last twenty-four hours outside of here. The guys at the office already give her enough shit; she doesn’t need them thinking she’s getting special treatment because she’s with me on top of it. I don’t even know if she wants to be with me, or what “with me” looks like. She’s got a kid, for crying out loud. I can’t just waltz into her life like there aren’t any repercussions if things don’t work out.

This is a mess. And I don’t do messes. I do white walls, clean lines, and a nice, quiet Christmas.

For a minute this morning, when I was awake and rekindling the fire, I looked outside and figured there was no way we’d be getting out of here before tomorrow. I had visions of whiskey and peanut butter and Gemma’s luscious curves dancing in my head. But this plow is clearing those away with the snow, and it’s turning everything sour.

I pull my clothes on with more force than absolutely necessary and head outside before Gemma leaves the bathroom. Maybe the fresh air will do me good.

“Morning!” a young man shouts as he jumps down from his truck. There’s a plow attached to the front of it, and he’s holding a shovel in his hand. “I’m Jack.”

“Beckett,” I reply, shielding my eyes against the harsh, winter sun bouncing off the bright snow. “My… coworker and I got stuck here last night. We’re working on renovating the house.”

“Ah,” Jack says as if this explains something. “I knew this wasn’t Mrs. Dash’s car, but I thought maybe her son bought a new one and was visiting for Christmas or something. I hadn’t heard she was renovating.”

It’s clear this man wants to chat with me, and I don’t do chats, so I shrug. “Well, she is.”

“Makes sense. Mr. Dash left her a lot of money, and this place could use an update.” Jack whistles approvingly. “She hires me to do odd jobs every so often. That’s why I’m here. I always plow the road and dig out her car after a storm,” he says by way of explanation. “And, you know, to check up on her. It’s the neighborly thing to do, right?”

“Right.” I jam my hands in my pockets. Jack finally stops talking and clears enough of a space behind my car that I’ll be able to back out of the driveway and onto the one lane of freshly-plowed country road.

I should be grateful. This way, Gemma and I won’t be able to get in any deeper or make things any messier. I can go back to my condo, check on my cat, and pour myself some brandy. Like I always do on Christmas Eve. Who cares if my fireplace is gas-powered and chic, not the huge wood-burning hearth Gemma and I made love in front of. Twice. It’s for the best, probably, because then I won’t be reminded of the way her skin felt against mine, or how my heart felt funny when she repeatedly called out my name.

As if thinking of her summons her, the screen door behind me bangs, and she comes up next to me. Her scent envelops me—all spice and sugar.