How My Brother's Best Friend Stole Christmas - Molly O'Keefe Page 0,13

pulled me up against him. All of it rough.

He was punishing me for making him feel some kind of way and I was here for it. All day long I was here for it. There was going to be some seriously messy fallout from this. But I was having it. Having him.

Cleanup could come later.

This was my Christmas wish come true.

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and the rest of my dress slipped down my body. My breasts were there, cold in the warehouse air, and he groaned, cupping them in his palms. And I wanted a thousand words from him to erase his silence over all these years, but wanting Sam to talk was like wanting fish to walk. It just wouldn’t happen. So I soaked up all his touch. Convincing myself that whatever happened next and no matter what had happened before—right now he wanted me as much as I wanted him.

He kissed his way from my mouth to my neck, down over my chest to my tits, pulling my nipples into his mouth. “Yes,” I groaned. “Oh my God, yes.”

“You like that?” he asked, his deep voice like another set of hands on my flesh. I whimpered as he squeezed my breasts together, licking the nipples. Sucking one and then the other. I squirmed and arched against him, the hard press of his cock so good. I reached down and yanked aside my thong, spreading myself just a little, so the next thrust of his cock against me hit my clit.

The pleasure was like electricity through my whole body. I literally shook.

He stopped licking me and I opened my eyes, only to find him watching me. Serious and hot, his mouth swollen, and I realized I’d been kissing him as hard as he was kissing me.

“You can take care of yourself, can’t you?”

“You mean…can I make myself come? Sure. Can’t you?” I cocked my head at him.

“Make you come?” His lip lifted, the half smile that changed the beat of my heart. “I think I can figure it out.”

Oh, this was our old game. I understood him like this. Trash talking over video games and Broncos vs. Bears. Arguing over the last chicken wing, which television series had the worst ending, or who was the best Batman. This was comfortable.

I’d just never been mostly naked while doing it.

“Go for it,” I said and then leaned back, bracing one hand behind my body as if this…presenting myself to him…was something I’d done before. I even gave him my best Sophie Kane smile, the one that hid all the stains and pains.

But at the sight of my smile, his vanished. And his eyes were dark storms on my body. “We’re doing this, Soph,” he said. “And there’s no going back.”

“Well, it looks like you’re—”

His hand covered the whole of my pussy. The heel of it pressing down on my clit, his fingers slipping, just barely, just enough, inside of me, and I couldn’t breathe. All the air was gone and his eyes held me so still.

He pushed down harder with his hand, as though he knew that was what I liked. What I needed. That abstract pressure. I whimpered.

“I fucking love that sound, Sophie.”

Don’t make it again, I thought. But then, of course, the devil, he pressed down on me again. Slipping that big, wide finger of his inside me. So hard and so deep I had to tilt my head back.

“I want that sound, Soph.”

“Too bad.”

His laughter was dark, devious medicine. My soul, starving for whatever scraps he would give me, soaked it up. My eyes drifted closed as pleasure sparked and sparkled inside of me, growing bright.

No, I thought. Open your eyes. You don’t want to miss this.

And oh, sweet Jesus, I didn’t. Because Fucking Sam Porter was getting down on his knees in front of me, his hands pressing my thighs out wide. He glanced up at me, something unreadable on his face. He licked his lips like he could already taste me, and I felt those delicious forerunners of an orgasm pushing at me. Pulling at me.

His fingers spread me wide and he licked me. Sucked me. Tongued me.

“Oh my God,” I groaned. My thighs twitched under his hands and he pushed them out further. His chest settled against me, his palms grabbed my ass, holding me still. Holding me down. Holding me close.

“Make that sound again,” he said.

I couldn’t even remember which sound he was talking about.

“Make me.”

His laugh was dark desire made