Page 50 of Daddies' Holiday Toy

In here, the air is thicker, hotter than even before. Sweat pours down my body while my back hits the wall.

His mouth is on mine, and the taste of him is spicy and something entirely Liam that I can’t quite name.

His hands cup my face like I’m going to evaporate right in front of him if he doesn’t hold onto me, but his kiss is anything but careful.

It’s hungry, coaxing my lips apart while his tongue slides against mine in a way that makes my knees threaten to collapse under me.

Then he’s moving lower, his mouth tracing the edge of my jaw, down my throat, down to the neckline of my tank top.

Fingers slip under the fabric, dragging up and skimming the undercurve of my breast until my nipple tightens hard against the cotton.

I gasp his name, and his answering groan vibrates straight through me. “Oh, fuck.”

In the dream I’m shameless, arching into him while my hands tug at his shirt, desperate for more contact.

I want more…more touches, more heat, morehim.

His palm slides over my ribs, down my stomach, stopping just above where I want him most.

My hips urge forward on instinct, chasing it, and he chuckles darkly.

“Beg me, Holly.”

God help me, I do.

I whisperpleaselike a confession, begging for my wayward soul to be free.

Over and over, until his hand dips lower to touch me between my legs and I?—

Light forces my eyes open, jolting me back into reality.

Annoyance slices through me.

My heart’s still racing, my body lit up in all the wrong places as my sheets tangle around my legs.

For two blissful, groggy seconds, I almost believe it was real.

That Liam really had me pressed to the wall right across from my bed and really had my name breaking apart in my throat as he told me to beg him for mercy.

Reality soon hits like ice water.

Oh god…last night.

The real memories slam into place: me in his lap, the heat of his arm around me while I roasted marshmallows and was told ghost stories, my own tipsy laugh.

Then it’s him being kind enough to bring me inside.

Mebegginghim to get me off like some drunk sorority girl with no self-respect or preservation.

I groan and bury my face into my pillow, my cheeks burning so hot I’m surprised they don’t scorch the fabric.

Fuck my life.

My thighs press together instinctively, chasing the last ghost of that dream touch and hating myself for it.

Because the truth is, I wanted it then just as much as I do right now.

I wanthim.