A Hot Rancher Who Tastes Even Better Than Christmas Cookies

This sexy story excerpt from 'The Trouble with Christmas' by Amy Andrews is published with permission.

Hotter20 minsAdult MFContemporary
Erotic sexy story excerpt from The Trouble with Christmas by Amy Andrews

“We need more cookies?”

No, they had enough cookies to feed all of eastern Colorado, but she had to do something. “I’m making some for Winona. We give each other a fun, gimmicky gift every year so I thought, in the spirit of hokiest Christmas ever, why not?”

She didn’t mention the cookies were more risqué than hokey.

Not the type you could put out for Christmas day, although, no doubt Winona would.

Conscious of Grady’s every move as he stepped into the kitchen area, she took a quick swallow of her wine and went back to the frosting, hoping he’d grab whatever he’d come for and leave again, although he didn’t seem to be in any crashing hurry to do so. He crossed to the cupboard where the glasses lived, then headed for the sink. She heard the faucet turn on and the sound of running water into the glass seemed extraordinarily loud. A beat or two later, the hair on Suzanne’s nape stood to attention as she sensed a heated gaze fixed firmly on her ass.

Crap, she squeezed her butt cheeks together. Plaid was not a flattering pattern if you had an ass like hers, especially with them being so baggy. Stripes—why didn’t she bring her stripy pajamas?

“It smells good in here.” His voice was all low and rumbly. “May I have one?”

Suzanne shut her eyes at his low request, knowing it would be a particular kind of torture watching him eat cookies lounging in his pajamas. With bare feet. Maybe crumbs on his lips.

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He didn’t wait for permission, and the hairs on her neck actually prickled as he sidled up. His arm, his shoulder, his hip were about an inch from hers, and the warmth radiating from his body was like a furnace. She was excruciatingly conscious of him—of his heat and his hardness and the heady aroma of his soap. Hell, she was conscious of his breathing.

His big hand slid out to snaffle a cookie but paused halfway to the tray. “What the hell?”

Suzanne was confused for a second, so caught up in her awareness of him that she’d temporarily forgotten what she’d been frosting.

He stared at the bench top. “Are they…?”

Her gaze refocused on the dozen cookies in front of her. “Penis cookies?” She cleared her throat of its sudden highness and tried to affect an air of nonchalance, like she shaped dough into phalluses every day. “Yes.”

He glanced at her. “You’re making cock and ball cookies?”Suzanne didn’t return his gaze as her cheeks flushed hot. “Yes. For Winona. Like I said, something gimmicky. You know…because she’s an erotic romance author.”

“Yeah.” He returned his attention to the cookies. “I get it. I just didn’t realize they made…penis cookie cutters.”

With her gaze firmly fixed on the cookies, she said, “Well, I’m sure you can get penis paraphernalia online, but that obviously wasn’t much help to me now. And I guess you can probably get all kind of penis-related cooking items in sex shops and the like, but I didn’t think Credence had one of those.”

Suzanne cringed internally as she ran off at the mouth again, the words spewing unchecked from her lips. “So I just kind of improvised. I wouldn’t be much of an artist if I couldn’t do a bit of freehand, would I? And I figured how hard can a penis be, right?”

Oh dear god. Shut up, Suzanne. For the love of god, shut up!

“Anyway,” she rushed on (for reasons known only to the universe), “they’re just for fun, and I’m going to put them in some little clear bags and tie a red bow around them—the bags that is, not the penises—or is that peni for plural? I never know!” Suzanne shut her eyes. Oh Jesus, please make it stop. “And I’m going to do a fancy label because nothing says Christmas like a bag of dicks, right?”

Suzanne didn’t know how many times she’d said the word “penis” just now, but she did know saying it less in front of Grady while they stared at a dozen of them would have been a better strategy.

Mercifully, he took her question as rhetorical and left it alone. “They’re quite…big.”

“Well, yeah…small dicks aren’t as funny.”

He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, then shut it, and there was a beat or two of silence before he tried again. “They’re also quite…” He pointed at the one nearest him. “Embellished.”

“Oh yes…well.” The cookie in question was sporting a cock ring. “I mean, they’re supposed to be fun, so…”

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Apart from the cock ring, she’d also frosted two cookies with bow ties, one dressed as Santa, one wearing a leather-studded jockstrap and two more where the testicles had been decorated as Christmas baubles. She’d just finished piping words onto one when Grady had appeared, and that was the one he pointed to next.

“Lick me?”

The timber of his voice changed. It was deeper, rougher, and sparks of heat turned on like switches all along her pelvic floor. “A character in”—she stopped and cleared her throat—“one of Winona’s books has a lick-me tattoo on his…”

Jesus, do not say penis one more time. Suzanne let the sentence drift off.

“I see.”

He didn’t sound like he see’d at all. He sounded bemused and disbelieving and maybe even slightly intrigued. “And what’s your next decorative move?”

“I was just going to do a couple with blue balls.”

“Blue balls aren’t very funny, either.”

 Suzanne could hear the wince in his voice loud and clear. She didn’t know if he was talking from experience or implying the current state of his testicles. Both thoughts led down unhelpful paths—like ways in which she could help him out of that predicament.

“You can take one if you like. I have more than enough, and they taste delicious if I do say so myself.”

“Thanks, but—” He held up his hands. “No thanks.”

She noticed his slight recoil and rolled her eyes at his macho bullshit. “It’s a cookie.”

He chuckled. “I know.”

Suzanne’s breath caught as his smile warmed his face and the vibrations from his low laughter enveloped her. “What?” She raised an eyebrow. “You think eating a cookie dick is going to make you gay?”

He laughed again. “Nope.”

None of the men—straight or gay—she knew in New York would think twice about eating a cookie shaped like a penis. They’d probably make crude, witty jokes that made her laugh as they munched.

“I’m just more of a female genitalia cookie kinda guy. You make any of them?”

“No. But pussy cookies would have been a good idea.” One she might have thought of had Grady not been on her mind so much. “Winona’s all about equal genitalia opportunity.”

He grinned and gave a little fist pump. “Viva la vulva.”

Suzanne blinked. Then she laughed. Viva la vulva? The man was full of surprises. It should have sounded ridiculous, something so feminist coming from a guy who pretty much represented one of the country’s last bastions of masculinity, but it didn’t. Her pulse tripped and she felt a little light-headed. How could she be so damn angry with this guy 50 percent of the time yet still want to climb all over him?

It had to be the surroundings. It had to be the fire crackling in the hearth and the Christmas tree lights blinking haphazardly and the carols. Add in the aromas of sugar and cinnamon and the wine that must be going to her head, and it was no wonder a shot of recklessness jettisoned into her system.

Picking up one of the unfrosted cookies, she bit into the head. It crumbled in her mouth, and the sugar and butter melted on her tongue, and she moaned a little because it tasted amazing and because it made Grady’s eyes darken and his nostrils flare.

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“Good?” His gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered.

“Uh-huh.” Swallowing her mouthful, she licked the crumbs from her lips and enjoyed the way his eyes tracked the movement. “Best dick I’ve had in a long time,” she murmured with a smile.

He laughed, and Suzanne’s gaze was drawn to his bottom lip, to the reddened area where she’d marked him earlier today. A prolonged inspection revealed a slight bluish discoloration to the mark. “I’m sorry…about biting you.”

He shrugged. “I was being an asshole.”

Suzanne blinked, surprised by his easy admission of guilt. “Yeah, you were.” He laughed again. “But that doesn’t make it right. Is it sore?”

He shook his head. “Only when I laugh, talk, eat, drink, or breathe.”

It was Suzanne’s turn to laugh. “I am sorry,” she said, and without giving it much thought, she lifted her fingers to his mouth and lightly touched the spot.

He didn’t pull away or wince, he just went very still, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before opening again. “It’s fine,” he dismissed, his voice like gravel as he stared at her mouth, and heat bloomed between them.

“Maybe,” Suzanne whispered, blood throbbing through her veins, the air in her lungs heavy, “or maybe it needs kissing better?”

He swallowed, and the bob of his Adam’s apple seemed thick and painful, and she knew all sense of rationality had left the building when she seriously contemplated kissing it better.

Kissing all his boo-boos better. The ones she could see and the ones she could not.

“Maybe it does,” he agreed, his voice rumbling into the air, his eyes glued to her lips, making her breath hitch and her pulse whoosh through her head as every reason she shouldn’t be doing this fled.

It was just a kiss, right?

Slowly, rising on her tiptoes, excruciatingly careful to maintain the paltry distance between their bodies, she leaned in, her mouth—just her mouth—closing the distance.

Kissing Grady’s lip better didn’t require their bodies to touch. Just their mouths. Only their mouths.

Carefully, gently, Suzanne touched her mouth to the mark on his bottom lip. He kept still as her mouth lingered for one second, two. But she could hear the rough draw of his breathing. And hers. Pulling back slightly, she asked, “Better?”

“A little.” His voice was somewhere between a pant and a whisper.

Her pulse so loud between her ears now that she couldn’t think straight, Suzanne put her mouth to his bottom lip again, lingered again, touched her tongue to the swollen area.

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He made a rumbly kind of noise in the back of his throat, and she did it again and again until her tongue was swiping along his entire bottom lip, until he groaned and a hand slid into her hair and his mouth parted.

They were truly kissing now, tentatively at first and then not at all tentatively as he deepened the kiss, his hand sliding onto her hip, hitching her close, their bodies bumping deliciously together, his hand sliding to the small of her back, locking them in place.

A momentary slither of clarity had her mouth breaking away slightly, the pant of her breath mingling with the pant of his. “Does it hurt?”

His rough “Hell no” was all the encouragement she needed to go back for more, one arm sliding around his neck, the other hand fisting in his shirt.

Things went wild and hazy then, his mouth devouring hers, hard and demanding, his tongue licking along her lips and into her mouth, thrusting and seeking and devouring.

“God, you taste good,” he said on a groan, his lips the merest of a fraction away from hers. “I want to taste all of you.”

Then he was kissing her again, so deep and so good and pressed against her so close and so tight that Suzanne was barely conscious of him turning her and lifting her onto the bench. Her knees spread automatically to admit him closer, and his hands found her ass and hitched her forward. The bench was just the right height, bringing the heat and tingling between her legs flush against the heat and hardness between his. It felt electric, arcing and sizzling, tearing a gasp from her throat and a groan from his.

“Fuck,” he whispered as their lips broke apart and they held, panting together, suspended in the moment for a beat or two before Suzanne ground against him.

“Yes please,” she said, her voice low and urgent.

Grady groaned again, his lips sliding kisses to her jaw and down her neck and along her collarbone and to the swell of her cleavage as she rode the hard ridge of his erection, the sensation both soothing and stoking the roaring ache between her legs.

The tip of his tongue licked along the edge of the V neckline before his lips traveled to the hard point of her nipple pressing against the T-shirt and sucked into his mouth. Even with the barrier of fabric, it was a jolt through her system, and Suzanne cried out, her hand finding the back of his head and holding tight.

He broke free, lifting his head, and said, “Off.” His eyes hot green pools as he glared in frustration at her shirt. “I need to see you.”

He didn’t wait for her to comply, just lifted his hands to the front of her shirt, grasped either side of the buttons, and yanked them apart. Suzanne gasped as buttons flew everywhere and she sat exposed before him, her shirt ruined, her chest rising and falling unevenly, her breathing a rough pant as his eyes roved over her satiny red bra with black stitching and a black lace trim.

“Christ.” His eyes roved over her breasts like he’d just discovered gold. “These are so much nicer than my fantasies,” he said in a hushed, husky kind of reverence that Suzanne felt all the way down to her clitoris.

“You fantasized about me?” Her stomach clenched and her heart fibrillated, and she was hot and trembling all over. It was good to know she hadn’t been the only one unable to master her subconscious.

But had he fantasized about her with the level of detail she had him?

He nodded. “All the time.” Dragging his gaze off her breasts, he met her eyes. “While I’m fixing fences, feeding cattle, talking to my men, freezing my ass off on a horse. And every fucking night since you moved into the cottage.”

His voice was rough with desire and indignation, like he hated himself a little for his lack of control, and that only made Suzanne hotter. Because she knew exactly how he felt. Streaks of need darted from her inner thighs to her belly button and undulated along her pelvic floor.

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“And these.” Grady dropped his gaze to her breasts, his hands sliding up her thighs, over her stomach and ribs to slide onto the satin-covered mounds. He squeezed them, Suzanne’s breath caught, and when he swiped his thumbs over the visibly erect nipples, she made a little noise in her throat and arched her back. “I’ve thought about these more than I’ve thought about boobs in my whole life combined.”

He traced his index fingers along the lacy edge where fabric met flesh and then, hooking his fingers under the edge, he pulled both the cups aside. Suzanne panted heavily as her breasts spilled out, and Grady groaned, his hands moving to capture the fullness of them, squeezing them, playing with the weight of them in his hands before lowering his head.

Suzanne cried out as he sucked a nipple into the wet heat of his mouth, rolling it around, flicking it with his tongue, grazing it with his teeth. He switched quickly to the other, and everything dissolved around her as her body succumbed to the hot, wet tug of his mouth, her fingers winding in his hair.

But even as she gasped and writhed beneath his tongue, the growing need to touch him, to slide her hands over him, to feel him, grew until she was clawing at his soft shirt.

She yanked it up over his head, forcing him to release her nipple, but that was okay because oh dear god it was the mudroom all over again. Except his skin was flushed and warm and his eyes were hot as they bored into her and his mouth was wet and he was looking at her with the kind of feral need she knew echoed in every beat of her heart.

Grabbing his shoulders, Suzanne pulled him close, her mouth landing on his, her breasts flattened to his chest as she ground against his erection. His hands slid to her ass to keep them locked in place, and she blasted him with a kiss that gave and took in equal measure as her hands explored his back, stroking up and down the length, feeling the play of muscle, the hardness of bone, the furrow and notches of his spine. Exploring the dip that was the small of his back, the rounded well of two dimples and the slope leading to the waistband of his track pants.

Suzanne didn’t think twice about slipping her hands into the waistband. Her palms were greedy for the feel of his flesh, and they moved on autopilot, enjoying the contraction of muscles as she palmed the smooth naked globes of his ass and gave them a squeeze.

God…Grady was built. This was an ass that out-assed anything she could have ever painted. Suzanne stroked her tongue in and out, mimicking the rhythm of her hands as they kneaded his glutes. The deep well of his groan was like a sexual sugar rush to a system already buzzing with high-octane arousal.

But, as good as it was, his ass was never going to be enough. She needed more than his ass in her hands; she needed the hardness between his legs in her hands—in other parts of her. Greedily, her fingers moved to his front, dipping into his boxer briefs, seeking out his erection, trembling with a need that bordered on feral, finding it all hard and heavy and solid, moaning in satisfaction as she curled her fingers around its girth.

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A noise that didn’t sound quite human spilled from Grady’s lips as he tore his mouth away, pressing his forehead to hers, their heads bowing as she wrapped her fingers around his dick, a bead of liquid pearling at the slit in his flushed crown.

“Jesus…” He gasped, his breathing short, sharp pants. “We should not be doing this.”

Suzanne’s chest rose and fell in unison. “I know.” And she did know. He was absolutely right. They really needed to stop. This wasn’t real, and making it real wasn’t an option.

But he felt so good in her hand—so thick, so right—the taut skin deceptively velvet, the core like forged steel. And it felt like that all the way from the root to the tip because she tested it to make sure. She couldn’t not. Not with her heartbeat like a tempest in her blood.

Groaning again, he buried his head in the crook of her shoulder, and she knew that his gaze was locked on her hand as she worked up and down his length. Once, twice, three times. A series of rough pants spilling from his mouth.

 “Suzy…” he muttered, his hand on her ass tightening.

The use of Suzy was like a lit flare to a vat of oil. Suzanne might just have been able to pull her back from the brink. After all, Suzanne always did the right thing. She was the good daughter, the good friend. She didn’t push or make waves. Her path had been cut out for her in life, and she’d been happy to tread it. She was Simone St. Michelle’s daughter; she forged other people’s art and was happy doing so.

Suzy, on the other hand, was none of those things. Suzy yelled at tough rancher dudes and bribed them and bit their lips. She lied to her parents. Suzy painted her own stuff. And made out on kitchen benches.

Suzy was freaking awesome.

“I need…” His voice trailed away as his gaze searched her face like he was trying to fathom if she also felt this wild kind of recklessness. “I need…”

She nodded. She knew exactly what he needed because she needed it to. She needed him inside her, moving inside her, to be as connected to him as was humanely possible.

To be one with Joshua Grady.

“Me too,” she whispered, releasing his dick to circle her arms around his neck, her nipples brushing the smoothness of his chest. “Me too.”

She kissed him again, their lips meeting in a desperate kind of mashing that had her gripping his hair and locking her legs around him, clinging and grinding herself against him until they were both groaning and panting.

Suzanne wouldn’t have thought it was possible to come from dry humping, but she was damn near there, and she wanted him inside her when she came.

“Condoms,” she rasped, pulling out of the kiss, the air in her lungs thick with desire.

He stared at her, his hair all messed up, the spot where she’d bitten him even more pronounced, his chest rising and falling as he dragged air into his lungs. “Wh-what?” His green gaze was clouded with confusion for a second before it cleared. “Oh shit.” His eyes went distant as if he was doing a mental inventory of his bathroom vanity. “I…don’t think I have a single condom in this entire house.”

Suzanne, her breath chugging, too, sat back a little. She hadn’t expected him to have them in the back pocket of his track pants, but what single man didn’t have quick, easy access to a stash in his own home? Just in case he was called on to be someone’s fake rancher boyfriend and things got out of hand. “You don’t use condoms?”

He shot her a frustrated scowl. “I always use condoms. I just…don’t do this all that regularly…and never here. I usually get them on the way…”

Suzanne supposed it made her a bad person to like that Grady wasn’t putting it out for every woman he came across. It probably made her a truly heinous person to admit the thought even turned her on a little.

Grady was a seriously hot guy. She imagined—if he actually smiled—he could crook his finger and have just about anyone.

And he’d chosen her.

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It was ridiculous to be aroused by what essentially amounted to a lack of practice. It probably made him lousy in bed. But some things were innate, and Grady sure as hell hadn’t taken a wrong step yet.

“I have condoms,” she said, sliding her arms around his neck, tightening her thighs around his waist. She always carried them in her handbag. “In my room.”

Grady did not need any further direction. He just grabbed her ass and pulled her off the bench top, kissing her with deep, drugging kisses as he carried her, navigating from the kitchen past Zoom’s tank through the archway to her bedroom at the end of the hall without dropping her or running them into a single wall. Not that Suzanne was conscious of anything outside of Grady. All that existed was his mouth and the play of his tongue and the heat of his chest and the hardness between his legs. It was as if she were floating.

Floating in a sea of fake rancher boyfriend.

It wasn’t until he urged her legs to unlock and her feet were sliding to the ground, the backs of her calves brushing the mattress, that she came back to herself.

They broke apart and just stared at each other for long moments, the only sound between them the husky fall of their breaths.

God…he was sexy. His naked chest, his hair all messed up, the stubble on his jaw. The heat radiating from his body mixed with the soapy scent of his skin to form some kind of intoxicating hit of pheromones. The glitter in his eyes was full of desire and longing and absolute purpose.

Her legs suddenly weak as cotton candy, Suzanne sat on the mattress and eyed the tie of his track pants. It was dark in the room, but her night vision was in full working order, allowing her to see the prominent bulge at just the right level.

Yay for night vision!

Her mouth watered at the thought of tasting him. “Take them off.”

It was satisfying to hear the rough intake of his breath and see the slight tremble of his hand as he tugged on the tie, then pushed them down his legs.

“Those too,” she said, pointing at his boxer briefs even before his track pants had hit the floor. He looked hot as fuck in the crimson fabric, his erection filling them out the way God and Calvin Klein had no doubt intended, but right now all they were doing was stopping her from getting to his goods.

They were soon gone, too, and his erection sprang free, standing out—thick and proud. And hard. And big. The kind of big that made tumescent manroot an entirely acceptable way of describing a penis.

He was certainly no David—that was for sure.

“Come closer,” she whispered, her exposed nipples aching, her mouth dry with the need to taste him.

He stepped in close, and their gazes locked. The groan he let out when she slid her fingers down his length went straight to her ovaries. The swift, harsh suck of his breath when her mouth followed went straight to her clitoris.

“Jesussss,” he hissed. “Fuck.”

His eyes closed as he slid his hand onto her shoulder, and Suzanne’s eyes closed, too, reveling in the silky hard contradiction of him against her tongue, in the scent of him filling her nostrils and his clean salty flavor playing on her taste buds. She swallowed him up, her hand sliding onto one of his ass cheeks as she took him as far as she could before backing off, to swirl her tongue around and around and around the taut crown, lapping at the salty residue there.

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“Christ,” he muttered, opening his eyes. “You drive me crazy.”

Suzanne didn’t know if he meant right now or the past two weeks or both, but he sounded so undone, and hell if that didn’t do loopy things to her insides. Her eyes fluttered open to find him staring down at her, and the craving in his gaze was arousing in ways she never knew existed.

He wasn’t the tough guy rancher or the badass military dude anymore. He was just a man—totally stripped back. It was humbling and powerful all at once that he was laying himself bare to her. A guy as hard and stoic as the elements he battled every day, who didn’t seem to open up to anybody. To need anybody. But he was looking at her—the woman who talked too much and sassed him too much and was just there too much—with such naked hunger, her bones dissolved.

It was hot as fuck, and she had the giant lady boner to prove it.

“The feeling’s entirely mutual,” she whispered, her lips brushing the head of his penis as she spoke before she opened them over him again, shut her eyes, and took him in as far as she could.

He groaned, and it was like an electric charge spurring Suzanne to take him deeper, suck him harder. A hand slid into her hair and tightened, and for long moments there was just the bob of her head, the taste of him on her tongue, the ragged pant of his breathing, the tingle in her scalp and the rhythmic contraction and relaxation of his ass cheek under her hand.

And just when that ass cheek started to clench and get harder, he groaned something unintelligible and wrenched himself from her mouth, reaching down for her, hauling her up, pulling her roughly against him, breathing hard as his eyes glittered for long, charged seconds.

“I wasn’t done yet,” she said, her voice breathy, her pulse fluttering at her temples.

 “I’m not going to last very long if you keep doing that, and I want to be so deep inside you when I come, you’re never going to forget my face.”

He kissed her then, the pressure almost punishing, but it was exactly what Suzanne needed as she rose to meet the kiss with equal vigor, trying to assuage the desperate passion his words had ignited.

She didn’t understand the passion. His words were so possessive, so…bullshit patriarchal, so caveman. Like his cock was the one cock that ruled them all.

Like it was going to ruin her for all other men.

He didn’t even like her. Hell, right now she wasn’t sure she liked him. But he wanted to be the face she always saw? It was breathtakingly arrogant.

Also seriously freaking hot.

With his cock jammed between them, his mouth devoured hers, his tongue lashing hers, his hands stripping off her shirt and her bra and pushing at the waistband of her plaid pajama bottoms, then at the waistband of her lacy red underwear. They weren’t even fully down her legs before he was easing her backward, bouncing her softly against the mattress and following her down, stripping her pants off her legs before rolling on top, his weight solid and perfect, their hips aligning, his erection pressed like hot lead into her belly.

And then his mouth was on hers again, devouring her, possessing her in a frenzy that stole Suzanne’s breath. It was like he couldn’t get close enough. Kiss her hard enough or deep enough, and she met him with equal ferocity. Kiss for kiss, tongue stroke for tongue stroke, licking into him, her pulse washing through her ears, her breathing struggling to keep up and then spilling out on a moan as his hand slipped between them to guide his dick through the slippery folds of her sex.

 Her fingers dug into his shoulders as he notched at her entrance. He felt so good. Thick and blunt and all she could think about was that heat and hardness inside her.

Grady inside her.

Not about tomorrow or about their pretense or her parents or Christmas. There was nothing but Grady.

And he didn’t pause, didn’t slow down, didn’t stop kissing her to take a breath, he just entered her in one stroke, sliding in high and hard, tearing a gasp from Suzanne’s throat and a groan from his, his mouth breaking away as he buried his face in her neck, pressing his lips to just below her ear.

He didn’t move for long moments, and neither did Suzanne. They just lay still, breathing heavy in the aftermath of that first thrust. It was better than anything she’d ever imagined—and she’d imagined this far more than was good for her. Fireworks popped behind her closed eyes as she reveled in the weight and the heat and the hardness of him on top.

If this was how good he was at entry, Suzanne was going to be a dead woman when it came to actual thrusting.

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He moved then, levering up on one arm as he withdrew and looming up over her as he thrust again. Suzanne gasped, twining her legs around his waist to take him deeper, and he kissed her, cutting off her gasp as he nudged higher, thrusting his tongue in time with the piston of his hips, turning her gasps to moans and then whimpers.

He fucked her hard. The tension in his muscles ratcheted tight, his back a taut, tight bow, a fine tremor fibrillating through his frame as he hunched into every thrust. It was almost like he was punishing her, or punishing himself anyway. Like he was trying to exorcise her from his head if not his life.

Suzanne knew exactly how he felt—she didn’t want to want him, either—but if this kind of pleasure was punishment, she’d take it any day.

This frenzy was exactly what Suzanne craved, and she met his every thrust, feeling it ripple over her skin and rattle through her bones and streak straight to her clitoris as her heart galloped inside her chest. And whether it was from Grady’s barely contained arousal or the way his grinding provided such a direct stimulus to just the right place, Suzanne knew she was close to climax.

She cried out at the first deep pull spreading through her pelvis. “Josh,” she whimpered, her lungs on fire as they desperately grabbed for air.

“Fuck,” he muttered, panting hard as he rose up on his forearms, the tendons in his neck like ropes. He stared down at her with a mix of lust and helplessness more potent than his bourbon.

The pull became a hot ripple of pleasure. Frickin’ hell, she was going to come. “Oh god…I…I’m…”

“Yes,” he said, his voice so rough it scraped like gravel along her skin; then he slid his hand between them, found her clitoris, and rubbed. “Yes.”

At his touch, Suzanne’s orgasm flared like a firework, and her thighs gripped his convulsively as it exploded to life. She cried out as it hit, and so did he, the muscles in his back turning to rock, a guttural kind of curse escaping his lips as the fierce piston of his hips became discordant—but no less effectual—under the influence of his climax. Each thrust sent her higher and higher as he pulled her close, buried his face in her neck, and they panted and shuddered through their orgasms together.

Begging for more? You can buy The Trouble With Christmas here, or find out more about Amy Andrews.

If you enjoyed that, check out the review of Amy Andrew’s Playing by Her Rules on AAR.

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