Santa Claws

Chapter Seven



“Ah...”



“Don’t be afraid.”



“I think this is an excellent time to be afraid. For one thing, a) you’re a lot bigger than I am, and b) I’m pretty sure you’ll tackle me before I get to the door.”



“A) you’re right, and b) you’re right. You’re welcome t’try, though.” His eyes gleamed. “I like to play Chase.”



Oh, Jesus. She slid from the bed and he was right behind her. “Now, now,” he said, almost purred, “a promise is a promise. Right, Giselle sweetie?”



Odd, the way he said that...like it was one word: Gisellesweetie. She liked it. Liked him. And a good thing, too, since they were about to get down to it. “You’re right. I gave my wormmmphhh!” His mouth was on hers, he was pulling her toward him and she went up on her tiptoes. His tongue was in her mouth, jabbing and darting, and she could actually feel that between her legs. One of his hands was on the back of her neck, holding her firmly to him. The other arm was around her waist—luckily he had long arms.



He broke the kiss. With difficulty, she was delighted to see. As for herself, she was panting as if she’d just run a marathon. And as elated as if she’d just won one. “Now,” he said, almost gasped. “You said anything. That you’d do anything. Until the sun came up.”



“Yes.” It was hard to breathe. Black excitement swamped her. A promise was a promise, dammit, and she had his personal physician’s word that he wasn’t sick. More, she trusted him implicitly. She had been handed a fantasy on a plate, and meant to take full advantage. After tonight she’d never see him again. But by God, she had tonight. “Yes, anything. Anything you want.”



“Ooooh, verra good,” he crooned, almost growled. He sank to the bed and pulled her down with him. And kept pushing her down until she was on her knees, facing him. “Unbuckle my belt. Please,” he added with a wolfish grin.



She did, with fingers that were clumsy and stupid. She finally pulled the belt free and wordlessly handed it to him. He tossed it in a corner. “Since you’re keeping your promise—so far—we likely won’t be needing that .” She gulped—what the hell had she gotten herself into? “Now. My slacks, love. All the way off.”



She did so, and then, when asked, relieved him of his boxers. It was too dark in the room to see their color—navy blue? puce?—but by their slippery feel she guessed they were made of silk. No flannel for him .



“Now,” he breathed. “Kiss me.”



She understood him perfectly, and kissed the head of his cock, then rubbed her cheek against him like a cat. He smelled warm and musky and undeniably male. He was also quite thick; she had difficulty closing her fingers around him. “Again,” he groaned, “kiss me again, Giselle sweetie.”



She did so, tasting the saltiness of pre-come. She licked it off, then licked up and down the length of him. She could feel his bristly pubic hairs tickling her chin on the down stroke. His hand came up, caught a handful of her curls, fisted. “Now,” he growled, “open your mouth. Wide.” His voice was so gritty she could hardly understand him, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand what he wanted—needed. Then he was filling her mouth, her throat. He withdrew in time for her to take a breath, then was in her mouth again. His hips were pistoning toward her face and she realized he was fucking her mouth . While part of her was wildly excited, her practical side reminded her that although she could count the number of blow jobs she had given on one hand, she was definitely not a swallower.



His other hand had found her breasts and he was kneading, squeezing. The sensation of his hands on her, his cock in her mouth, was as exciting as it was overwhelming. She tried to pull back but his grip tightened, and then she felt him start to throb. Shockingly, suddenly, her mouth was flooded with musky saltiness and she reared back, but he had a grip like iron. In a second he had pulled free of her but clapped a hand over her mouth. “Swallow,” he murmured in her ear. “All of it. Right down.” Aoull oof it. Ret daeown.



She did. “Bastard!” she cried, making a fist and smacking him on the thigh. “A little warning next time, all right?”



“I promise,” he said solemnly. “The next time I’m about to come in your mouth, I’ll give ye ample warning. Ouch!”



“I’ve never done that before.”



He was rubbing his thigh where she’d pinched him, hard. “I could tell.”



Incredibly, pierced vanity was now warring with outraged propriety. “Well, hell , I’m not exactly known as Slut Girl around here, and besides, I didn’t exactly plan—”



He stopped her with a kiss. “You were wonderful,” he said warmly. He nuzzled her nose for a moment. “And I’m verra sorry if I startled ye. But I needed ye t’do that for me. Now I can touch you wi’ a clear head. Now the fun can really start.”



“You’re still a bastard,” she said sulkily. She could still taste him in her mouth, her throat. “You didn’t have to make me—”



His smile flashed in the dark. “Well enough. But now it’s y’turn, sweetie.”



Her irritation lessened as he eased her back on the bed and knelt between her legs, disappeared entirely as she realized he was going to be as good as his word.



It seemed as though he spent hours between her thighs: kissing, nibbling, sucking, and licking, ah, God, the licking. Lots of it, slow and steady; the man never got tired. In no time her clit was enthusiastically throbbing, and that’s when he started paying special, extended, loving attention to the little button Giselle hardly thought of unless she was enjoying the evening with Mr. Shaky.



His tongue darted and stroked; she could feel its warm, wet length sliding and slipping between her throbbing lips. Felt him sucking on her clit with a single-minded enthusiasm that was as exciting as it was astonishing.



After a while she was squirming all over the bed, trying to get away from the delectable torture of his mouth. He wouldn’t—he—he never stopped, never got tired, just kept at her, at her, at her. Lick lick lick and suck suck suck and even small, tender bites. She could feel herself getting drenched and would have blushed if she hadn’t been so close to shrieking. She’d start to feel her orgasm approach, and he’d somehow know, and back off. Instead of giving her the last few flicks of his tongue to push her over the brink, he’d move to her inner labia and gently suck them until she was no longer close to coming, or his tongue would delve inside her—so deeply!—leaving her clit bereft.



“Oh, God , y’smell so damned good!” After that breathless declaration he buried his face between her legs and commenced tormenting her anew. His hands spread her thighs so wide her knees were almost parallel, baring her fleshy mound for his hungry mouth. He started licking her in long, slow, agonizing slurps, from bottom to top, over and over and over. Her back bowed and she was certain she was about to lose her mind if she didn’t come now .



So she squirmed and wriggled, and when she made progress getting away from him he simply grasped her thighs and pulled her back to his mouth. This went on for about seventeen years, until he tired of playing with her, sucked her clit into his mouth, and slipped two fingers inside her. The feeling of his warm lips on her, his long fingers in her, was exquisite, mind-boggling. His fingers moved, stroked, pushed hard inside her, pressure that was just short of discomfort, pressure that was amazing, mind-boggling. His lips had closed over her clit while his tongue flicked back and forth with dizzying rapidity. Her orgasm crashed over her like a wave and she shrieked at the ceiling.



When he came up to lie beside her, she was still shaking. “Better?”



“Oh my God . Do you have a license to do that? You ought to be against the law.” She reached out and did what she had longed to do an hour ago: gently stroked his chest hair, then followed a path down to his groin. She found him thick, hard, and ready for her. He sucked in breath when she gently closed her fingers around him. “By the way,” she added cheerfully, if breathlessly, “I’m on to you. There’s no way you’re an ordinary guy. Not that I mind.”



He stiffened, though whether it was from what she had said, or what her fingers were doing, she couldn’t tell. She was squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing. Her other hand slipped lower until she was cradling his testicles in her palm, testing their warm weight. “You’ve got a butterfly’s touch, Giselle sweetie,” he said, almost groaned.



She almost giggled; she’d never pictured her plump self as something so light and delicate as a butterfly. Alec was no doubt mumbling nonsense because all the blood had left his head some time ago, and gone significantly southward.



She slipped her hand up, down, up, down, with excruciating slowness, with all the care he had shown her a few moments ago. She wasn’t terribly experienced, but she was well read. She’d been buying Emma Holly’s books for years. “That’s why you shouldn’t mess with a bookworm,” she whispered in Alec’s ear. “We know some pretty good stuff.” He didn’t answer her, but because she had brought her palm across his slippery tip and circled, circled, circled while her other hand stroked, she didn’t expect him to.



She had meant to keep playing with him as long as she could draw it out, but he suddenly jerked away from her and kneed her thighs apart. He was terse, silent, but oh, how his hands were shaking. “Shouldn’t you buy me dinner first? Again, I mea—eeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEE!” He entered her with one brutal thrust, all the way, all at once. She was slick, more than ready for him, but it was startling—a little frightening, even—all the same.



He started to drive himself into her.



She squirmed beneath him, felt her eyes roll back in her head...ah, Jesus, this was almost too much! Almost. “Alec.”



His hips were shoving against hers, his eyes were tightly closed; his mouth was a narrow line.