Blizzards and Bastards, page 4
Frost frees the condom from the package, letting the wrapper fall to the floor and then deftly sliding it on. The sight of him doing that one-handed is foreplay all on its own. He makes it look easy.
“Still into this?” Frost asks, panting a little, like he’s going to go fucking crazy if I say no. Good. Because I’m feeling the same damn way. I make him wait in agony for my answer as he yanks my boots off and then peels both my panties and my leggings down, tossing them aside and onto the—thankfully—closed lid of the toilet.
I nod and he lets out this obscene little noise that basically forces me to put my hand over his mouth again. Not only do I not want anyone to hear us, but I’m sure I won’t last if he makes many noises like that.
Frost doesn’t seem to mind, using his free hand to guide himself to the tight, wet opening between my thighs. My sex is swollen and desperate, wanting the hard length of him buried inside me now. Thankfully, he doesn’t disappoint.
Frost nudges the head of his shaft against my dripping pussy, meets my eyes, and then drives his hips hard into me. I’m empty, and then I’m full, clutching at his neck with my right arm as he fills me in a single thrust.
We both moan so fucking loudly, it’s obvious even with each other’s hands clamped over our mouths that we’re in here and up to no good.
I slap my left hand against the wall and hit the fan. The sound helps but … but then it doesn’t matter because I’m grabbing Frost with both arms and burying my face into the sage and pine scent of his neck.
After releasing my mouth, Frost takes me by the hips, digs his fingertips hard into my flesh and pounds himself into me with a frenzy that mimics our angry back and forth in the living room.
Wiggling my body, I adjust myself so that his rocking pelvis soothes my clit. Hey, I have a point to prove here, and so does he.
Three minutes, huh?
I wrap my legs around his ass and bite this man’s sexy, muscular neck, my teeth pressing into his skin. I know he likes it because his entire body shudders with pleasure against me, his grip tightening even more, fingertips bruising my ass.
Frost slams us together against the vanity, my orgasm starting in my clit and reaching white-hot fingers of pleasure up through my belly and into my breasts.
“Grab my tits,” I plead, but Frost acts like he doesn’t hear me, his panting breaths ruffling the hair by my ear. My hand snags his, prying his fingers from my hip and dragging them where I want him to go.
“You know what you like, don’t you?” he teases, turning his head toward my ear, lips brushing my skin. Frost nips my lobe, and I clench around him. The way his breath hisses out … I flush all over. “Me, too.”
He shoves his hand under my tank top, squeezing my breast and sliding his thumb over a single lace-covered nipple. Frost gets frustrated quickly with the fabric between us and jerks it up, finding my see-through white bra with the glittery gold stars all over it. My mother sent that one, the matching bra. Probably trying to set me up with some douche over the holidays.
But oh.
Frost looks excited about the lingerie.
He tears the lacy cup down and out of his way, dropping his head to my chest and biting down on my nipple—harder even than I bit his neck.
My head falls back against the mirror again as the pleasure completes its circuit from my cunt to my brain. The orgasm hits me so hard that I let out a sharp cry of pleasure, my body locking down around Frost’s and freezing him in place. The squeezing of my muscles is so powerful that his body succumbs to the demands of my own, and he comes with a deep, reverent sound, almost a prayer.
My pussy pulses with the aftershocks of my climax, milking Frost’s shaft as he finishes with three hard, final thrusts. His breathing is wild, dizzying. I think I sound the same way, breathy and tired and fulfilled.
“Told you,” I whisper in his ear as he lifts his head up and then turns to look at me.
“Told me?” he whispers back, raising a dark eyebrow. A few glorious beads of sweat dot his forehead, and I have the weirdest urge to lick them away. Ew, gross. If he were my lover then that’d be one thing. But I don’t even know this guy. “I just proved I could make you come quick.”
“What?!” I whisper back, feeling my mouth fall open in shock. “No, I was proving that I could make myself orgasm fast—even with a shitty lover.”
“Oh, like that wasn’t some of the best sex you’ve ever had,” Frost scoffs, and I laugh, making him groan as my muscles tighten around him again.
“Best sex? That was like two seconds long,” I growl back and he narrows his eyes on me. The twinkle lights on the wall behind him cast his pale skin and icy stare in gold, like a Christmas miracle instead of a grumpy lay.
“Good God, woman. First, you challenge me to give you an orgasm and then you complain when I do.” Frost sighs, but I can see the faintest hint of another smile before he turns his head.
“I said give me an orgasm, not blow your load and end it before it really got good,” I snap back as Frost pulls out of me, slides off the condom, and chucks it in the trash. I see then … that he’s hard. Well, like half-hard, and getting harder by the second. How is that even possible?
“You like what you see?” he asks me, leaning against the glass wall of the shower with a smirk. Frost’s smooth sexuality is crowned with the bright red and green garlands above his head. A felted Santa with a deranged serial killer face rests on the back of the toilet, a stoic observer to our merry tryst.
“You like what you see?” I taunt, flicking my eyes to the side and then looking back at Frost’s cock, the head shiny with his seed. I hate to admit it, but I am impressed.
We meet eyes.
“Guess so.” Frost fists himself, pausing to wrinkle his nose when the automatic air freshener on the wall spurts a puff of cinnamon scent into the air.
I take the opportunity to slide off the counter and grab my leggings, turning away from the arrogant bastard with his dick hanging out of his pants. If I keep looking … I’ll do it all over again. With my eyes downcast, I slip first one leg into my pants and then …
Feel myself get pushed up against the counter—hard.
“Are you sure you’re done?” Frost whispers in my ear, smelling like sweat and man and sex. And underneath it, his pine and sage scent still burns. One set of smells is a turn-on, and the other, comforting and soothing. It’s a nice mix. A tantalizing mix. A dangerous mix.
“I …” I start, but let’s be honest—one of the most beautiful men on the planet is standing behind me, his hard body pressed up against mine. Lifting my gaze, I meet his eyes in the mirror and I want nothing more than his hard cock between my thighs again.
Aaaaand … I’m on my way to my parents’ place. Shit. I’m going to look like a ruffled sex goddess when I walk in and find my family sipping champagne from tiny flutes and eating artisan gingerbread cookies.
I open the same drawer Frost used earlier and pull out another condom, passing it back to him. He watches me in the mirror the entire time, opening the condom slowly and sensually, like it’s part of the sex act, too. My boobs … okay, boob is still hanging out of my bra and my cheeks are flushed, lips swollen. Frost looks about the same—minus the boobs, of course. He has rippling pectorals that I feel like I really need to see.
“Take your shirt off,” I tell him and he complies with an annoyingly smug little grin. Fucker. But oh. Oh. It’s worth it.
Frost tears his top off and tosses it over the shower door, his chest a tattooed paradise that matches the stories on his arm, a tale of ice and snow, of predators in the white-white of an arctic forest. All of that color blanketed over his muscles, it excites me to the point where I’m wiggling, waiting for him to grab me by the hips and enter me again.
I know I’m screwing him to banish bad memories, but he is making me feel better. The moment is hot and immediate, a burst of physical pleasure to brighten up the shit year I’ve had as well as the shit year I’m destined to find after the holidays are over.
Frost moves close enough that his shaft slips between my butt cheeks, using my natural lube to slide around and ignite every nerve ending between my legs.
“Mm,” I murmur, biting my lower lip, long brown hair hanging over my shoulders and into the sink. I’m still wearing the white knit beanie my dad sent me, the one with the matching gold star on the brim. But no makeup, messy brows, cracked and dry lips from the cold. I should feel ugly, but right now, with Frost looking at me the way he is, I couldn’t possibly let myself go down that route.
Frost Manderach of Inked Pages thinks I’m hot as hell. Me. Cyan, the unemployed, homeless loner. How?
Christmas miracles do exist.
“Take your other tit out,” he says, and even though his domineering voice rankles me, he did what I asked so I suppose I can do the same. I reach up with my left hand and free the round, pale curve of my other breast, my pink nipples pebbled and hard. “Oh, fuck yes.”
Frost guides his erection into me a second time, stretching my tight body with his thick shaft. He’s so much bigger than the other guys I’ve been with. And his stamina? He can come as many times as he wants if he can keep getting it up like that.
And I thought his guitar playing was impressive.
Holy shitting snowflakes.
Frost wraps one hand around my hip for balance and leans forward, covering my body with his, so he can fondle my bare breasts with the other. They swing with his motions, the entire show available for me to watch in the mirror.
Christmas lights shimmer around us, the tacky garland catching the golden glow and reflecting it across the walls in red and green sparkles. I guess, looking at them like this, they’re not quite so ugly as I first thought.
“Oh, that’s good,” I whisper as his balls slap my clit, and his shaft finds the very end of me, taking up all the available space inside my body, completing me. It’s that feeling of completion that really gets me, that turns my entire body to flame.
His name might be Frost, but this man, he’s fire and ice.
“So you admit it?” he growls into my ear, filling me up and then teasing me by pulling all the way out, leaving me wanting and aching. I squirm for him, can’t help it. He chuckles, like my behavior is charming instead of annoying.
“We can be equals,” I say as he shoves forward and fills me up again. A groan escapes my lips and I reach out and smack the faucet, turning the water on for an extra sound barrier. Somewhere outside the door, someone turns on a ridiculously loud rendition of Blue Christmas.
Frosty fucking Christmas fudge.
Someone out there can hear us.
“Equals, puh-lease,” Frost says, screwing me so hard that I’m finding it almost impossible to respond. “I’ve got you, babe. It’s pretty obvious who’s the one in charge here.”
Biting my lip, I push back into Frost’s crotch and squeeze my muscles as hard as I can. All those Kegel exercises are coming in handy. My pussy clamps down like a vise, and a wild, ragged groan escapes his lips.
His hand comes out and grabs my hair, twisting it around his fist and pulling.
Our eyes meet in the mirror and our hate-fuck just amps all the way up. I push back into him, squeezing my muscles, and he thrusts his pelvis as hard as he can. Our bodies clash again and again and again …
We fuck through several different Christmas songs—I’m too far-gone to even recognize what they are. Sweat drips down the sides of my face, over the rounded curves of my breasts. My muscles tense, but I refuse to give in. This is a game now, between me and Frost.
But when he reaches around and puts his fingers to my clit?
All bets are off.
With a violent groan, I curl my fingers around the edges of the counter, my body shuddering as my skin ripples with pleasure, and I come with a wild sound that I’m sure everyone else on the bus can hear.
When the white-hot stars fade from my vision and I can actually see Frost’s expression in the mirror, I can tell I’m not the only one who just climaxed.
“Truce?” he whispers, voice ragged.
We look at each other’s postcoital, slack-jawed reflections, and it takes me three separate tries to swallow past the lump in my throat to answer him.
“Truce.”
CYAN
Still the first day of Christmas, but at least I’m getting orgasms
The rest of the ride to my parents’ house is slow-going, the wind picking up speed, gusting against the metal side of the tour bus with violent, wild howls. The snow is thick and heavy with snowflakes half the size of my hand. The whole world looks white, just one endless plain of powder, suburbia asleep beneath its blanket.
My body feels wired and I’m having a really hard time sitting still—especially with Frost’s eyes flicking my way every few minutes.
God.
Not much longer, I tell myself, a second mug of cocoa clutched in my hands. Both times, Crispin made it for me. He’s really too fucking cute. And yet you wasted your have-fun-with-rockstars-free-fuck on the jerk of the group? I remind myself that Crispin flirts with every fan, everywhere, all the time. Frost pretends to be shy during interviews.
Everyone on this bus knows you just had sex in their bathroom. Everyone but Vale whose bare arms are covered in Sharpie now, all the way from his biceps to the collection of rubber bracelets on his wrists. He’s asleep again, red earbud shining in his left ear, head leaned back against the cushions.
Crispin is at the stove, making a cup of peppermint tea for his lead singer. He sways with the sensual whisper of old-timey holiday music piping into the bus, those holey jeans clinging to his perfect ass. He saluted me when I came out of the bathroom, my trembling fingers combing through my hair while I visualized that my legs were made of steel instead of wobbly canned cranberry sauce.
I could barely walk. Crispin noticed. He keeps peering at me over his shoulder when he thinks I’m not looking.
“Have any Christmas plans?” Aspen asks, his sapphire eyes pretty, even with the white parts still red from the pepper spray. He’s a little teary, but he looks better. Now that his symptoms are lessening and he’s sitting up, he doesn’t seem quite as rude as I originally thought.
I feign confidence, like I have quickies with strangers on the regular. Definitely not. The Cafe Boys were my wildest encounter prior to today.
“Me?” I reply with a small chuckle. “Oh Lord, yes. Heaps. My dad is a holiday fanatic, and he’s very particular about the way it goes down. You won’t see any … uh …” I clear my throat and rephrase what I was about to say. Looking around at the ceramic reindeer glued to the countertops with hot glue, the plastic wreath on the bathroom door, and the multicolored Christmas blankets on all the bunks, I figure somebody in the band likes this kitschy style. Calling it tacky like my dad does … probably not the best idea. “He likes classic Christmas,” I say, trying to figure out the best way to describe my father’s decorating style. “White and gold, a lot of glitter, designer decorations, holiday work from local artists.”
“And your mom?” Aspen asks, sniffling and touching a wad of tissues to his still-running nose. Poor guy. I mean, it was an accident that I ended up spraying him in the face, and it was sort of his fault for crawling under the stall. But the sex with Frost has calmed me down quite a bit, and I feel sorry for Aspen now. He is my bias, after all.
Unless … he’s not anymore.
I glance over at Frost, meet his eyes, and feel my breath catch.
He looks away first and crosses his arms over his chest, like he doesn’t give a fuck. But even from here, I can see his pulse thundering in his throat like a live thing. He gives many fucks, it seems. Nice to know that it’s not just my inner fangirl losing her mind.
“She’s a busy lawyer,” I say, waving my hand dismissively in Aspen’s direction and trying not to let my hormone-addled body notice how gorgeous he is. Hair like hot cocoa, thick and velvety brown, dyed with a green and red stripe (part of that charity thing again). His focus is sharp now, like he’s seeing me for the very first time. I really wish he’d tug his shirt down, cover his navel and the sprinkle of hair beneath it. “She couldn’t care less about decorating and holidays, although she does like all the schmoozing and connection-making that goes on at my dad’s infamous parties.”
“Sounds fun,” Frost grumbles dryly, tapping tattooed fingers on his equally inked bicep. He’s sweating. His white t-shirt is stuck to his chest. He picks at it with long fingers, tenting the fabric for some airflow.
I will myself to ignore him.
“Yeah, uh, we watch the Heat the Frost concert every year. I mean, it’s on during my dad’s party anyway. So … as thanks for the ride, I’ll take a break from the spiked eggnog to watch you guys perform.” I make myself smile, but all I can really think about is how I can’t wait to escape this fucking bus and retreat to my childhood bedroom.
And the only reason I can’t wait to get off the bus is because I suddenly don’t want to get off the bus at all. Not good. It was easier when I sort of hated these guys for a hot minute. I’m back to remembering why I’m such a huge fan in the first place, and it’s blurring boundaries in my brain.
I need a minute to process that ridiculously sexy rendezvous with Frost, and I could really use a nice hot—or in this case, maybe cold—shower. Change of clothes. Moment to brace myself for the onslaught of … shudder … family.
“Well, it’ll be a pleasure to know you’re out there watching, Sugar Plum.” Crispin takes the mug of tea over to Aspen, dropping a candy cane into the hot water in place of a spoon. Vale stirs at the movement beside him, lifting his head and uncapping that black pen again. He searches for a spot to write, gives up, and steals Frost’s arm instead, scratching out musical notes across a polar bear tattoo.
“Sugar Plum?” I ask with a raised brow and Crispin gives me this adorable good ol’ boy smile. My heart skips a beat, and I take a forced sip of my cocoa. Please don’t sit next to me again, and force me to feel the heat from your muscular thigh. I only have so much self-control.
