Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 44474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
“Stay.” Hudson backed me against the door and held my face in his hands. “Stay here with me. Let me make love to you. All night. Please.”
I leaped into his arms. Gah! Yes, yes, yes.
Hudson caught me with an oomph, laughing as he fused our mouths, half carrying, half pulling me to his bedroom.
We undressed in our usual frenzy, but we slowed once we were skin to skin, sucking and licking. His slid his erection alongside mine, rutting and pumping his hips while our tongues mated. I hiked my legs high, wordlessly inviting him to take more.
He prepared me with thick, lubed fingers…one, two, three—dragging them over my prostate until I begged him to give me what I really wanted.
“Do it. Please, now.”
Hudson slicked his cock, his knees nudging my inner thighs while he took in the view of me spread out and open for him. “Say it. Tell me you want me to fuck your sweet hole.”
“I did,” I whined. “I just said it.”
He rested the tip on my pucker, then reached for my dick and stroked me, twisting his wrist slightly…the way he knew I liked it. “Go on, Moody. Let me hear it. I want inside you more than I want my next breath, but you’ve got to say the words and you’ve got to—”
“Fuck my sweet hole, cowboy!” I growled.
I thought he’d laugh. I mean, I sounded ridiculous to my own ears.
Hudson didn’t agree. He entered me, his trembling arms caging my head as he began to move. And it was glorious and beautiful and sexier than every other time. Don’t ask me why…it just was. His rippled muscular torso, the clench of his jaw, the rhythmic slide of his hand on my shaft timed perfectly to his every thrust. But I liked it better when he lost control, released my cock, and slammed into me over and over and over and—
“Ungh!” He roared like a wild beast, pouring every ounce of himself into me.
Two quick strokes later, I joined him, falling apart as he wrapped me in his arms, spent and gasping for air.
It wasn’t until my breathing returned to normal that I heard the soft strains of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” Strange. I thought we’d turned off the music. I opened my mouth to ask Hudson, but I didn’t want to mar this perfect moment. Besides, I liked the sentiment.
I was with Hudson, and I felt very much at home.
14
HUDSON
“Is that Moody?”
“What’s gotten into him?”
“Is he okay?”
I noticed a few clandestine looks of disbelief and confusion in town. And I definitely overheard a few whispers.
I couldn’t blame them. The town Grinch suddenly didn’t seem so grinchy anymore. For starters, he smiled, joked with his customers, and even incorporated some more cheerful holiday elements in the store…like joyful music and trees with more than one limb.
Someone commented that he’d dropped his standard “Happy Honking Holidays” greeting too.
And then there was the gingerbread contest.
It had turned out to be a bigger deal than I’d thought. See, apparently the gingerbread bake-off was a vehicle to raise money for each participant’s charity of choice. There was paperwork and advertising involved—chores that were divvied out amongst a few shop owners. When Misty Sherman, Christmas Town’s candy queen, was summoned to Santa Barbara for a family emergency, Moody stepped in to help. No questions asked.
Curious?
Maybe, but I was too busy enjoying his company to analyze Moody’s holiday personality quirks. We spent every spare moment together.
I gave him a horseback riding lesson, taught him how to manually milk a cow and feed the animals. Let me tell you, Moody surrounded on all sides by a posse of hungry goats was high entertainment. He was unbearably sweet and so full of joy, it was hard to look away. In fact, I caught myself staring at him like a lovesick puppy, and that was just…weird. Wasn’t it?
I walked him home from the bookstore most nights and talked about every little thing that had popped into my mind while we’d been apart—differences between my uncle’s ranch and Oak Ridge, changes I hoped to implement. And Moody talked about books that inspired him, his secret love of poetry, and the snow globe collection he’d inherited from his mom that he’d decided to dust off and display in his window at home.
We’d commented on his neighbor’s holiday lights— “Elegant, a tad garish, over the top and then some.”
We’d talked about our favorite gifts from childhood—a skateboard, a game console, and new boots for me; an Easy Bake Oven and a bicycle for Moody.
“Did you ever get the dress you asked for?”
“No, I amended my request to a sewing machine.” Moody had snickered at the old memory, crossing his arms as if for warmth. “I don’t know why I asked for it. I was a terrible sewer. I figured it was a simple matter of following directions, but my seams were always off-centered and wonky. Of course, Mom praised the odd-shaped napkins I made for her birthday and didn’t comment that I’d inexplicably chosen a flannel fabric.”