Page 15 of Daddies’ Holiday Toy (Kissmass Daddies #1)

LIAM

The second I pull her bedroom door shut behind me, I know I’m fucked.

Not just in the “damn, that girl is trouble” kind of way.

No, this is the deep kind of fucked that I’m not sure I’m going to be able to make it out of.

Every nerve ending in my body is still humming from being that close to her, from the arousal I could literally smell from between her legs as she started to spread them for me.

She’s like a damn siren, coaxing me with a song straight off the edge of my ship.

I stand in the narrow hallway for a beat, just breathing in the air around me to try and clear my head.

Christ. That was close.

The cabin is quiet except for the muffled sound of the fire crackling from the living room.

Running a hand through my hair, I push away from her door and make it to my room without turning around and going right back to what I’d accidentally started.

As soon as my room door closes behind me, I sag against it.

My back hits the wood hard, my head tipping back while my heart refuses to slow.

My hand’s already at my belt like it’s got a mind of its own, tugging it apart and shoving my waistband down over my hips.

She’d looked at me with those dark, wide eyes, still glassy from the wine and vodka.

Like she couldn’t decide whether to let me take the lead or pull me down and straddle me for taking too long.

All I could think about was how easy it would be to lean in and taste her.

To give in to what she’d clearly been offering me and take it without hesitation.

She looked like she’d taste amazing. Sweet and warm and just a little wild.

That thought alone is enough to make me throb, the ache pulsing low and insistent while I wrap my hand around my cock.

I can feel her on my tongue even though I never got the chance to in real life.

Hell, I shouldn’t get the chance, but that doesn’t stop my brain from throwing me every filthy, vivid detail it can conjure right to the forefront.

In my mind, I see myself hooking my thumbs under the straps of her bra, peeling it down slow while watching her breasts spill free into my waiting palms.

Her skin would be hot and smooth against my calloused fingertips, her lips parting with a soft, breathy sound as I drag my mouth lower.

Over the flat of her stomach, past the dip of her navel until I’m tasting her like a man who’s been crawling through the desert for days on end.

Hungry.

Starved.

Fucking desperate .

The fantasy twists into something darker now, my fist wrapping tighter around my cock as my strokes get faster.

I can almost hear her voice breaking on my name as it spills past those cherry-colored lips, feel her legs tightening around my head as I bury it between her thighs to taste her.

Her fingers would curl into my hair as my mouth worked her over until she’s shaking apart in my hands.

“Fuck…” The word rasps out of me as heat builds fast, curling my spine forward.

It’s over too soon.

My orgasm rips through me in hot, blinding pulses, spilling over my fist as every muscle in my body tightens then goes slack.

For a moment, all I can do is stand there, breathing hard with my head bowed and my free hand braced on the door behind me.

That’s when the guilt starts to hit.

Hard .

It’s not just that she’s tipsy, though we all are after the wine and the bourbon we passed around before we went outside together.

It’s that she’s Carson’s daughter .

We’re supposed to be looking after her while she’s here, snowed in with us. Protect her, not…

Christ, this .

Images flash unbidden even though none of them are from my own memory, just made-up little anecdotes that have no business plaguing me.

Holly at nine years old, wearing one of Carson’s old baseball caps, running through the backyard with a Popsicle in one hand and our dog chasing after her.

Holly at twelve, sitting cross-legged on the couch with a juice box, trying to listen in on our poker games like she was one of the guys.

Back then, the idea of looking at her this way would’ve been unthinkable.

Disgusting, even.

But she’s not that little girl anymore.

She’s all grown up, and now every part of me knows it.

I curse under my breath, the sound swallowed up by my empty room.

The rush of blood coursing through my body refuses to settle, even as I tear myself away from the door.

My movements are jerky, too uncoordinated, after coming that hard but I need to do something else with my hands before they betray me again.

I grab a handful of tissues from the nightstand and wipe my palm clean, but it does nothing to erase how dirty it still feels.

Touching myself like this is wrong on so many levels.

And so is wanting her scent to cling to me, not just the memory of it in my head, but on my skin like a brand.

Fuck, I can’t stay in here if I’m going to be acting like this. I’ll find myself back in that room before I know it.

But what’s the alternative?

Going back outside and pretending like everything’s fine?

Or forcing myself to remain locked behind my door until this weekend is done and over with?

I wouldn’t be able to go more than an hour with that last one without Jack and Reece noticing.

Then the questions would start.

I can already hear them: Why’d you disappear right after bringing her to bed? What’s your deal? What happened with her?

Either way, it’s a disaster waiting to happen.

I force myself to breathe and zip up my pants, fingers stiff against the metal teeth.

The bathroom is my next stop—an easy excuse if anyone asks what’s taking me so long.

I brace my palms on the counter and let the cold water run until it stings to the touch, then splash it over my face a few times, the cold shocking whatever remaining burn still left in my body.

When I finally meet my own gaze in the mirror, I almost don’t recognize it.

I take one more breath before flicking the light off and heading back down the hallway, ignoring the ache in my gut to push open the door across the way and check on her.

When I step outside again, the cold hits harder than before.

The bonfire’s still going, flames tossing gold and orange light into the darkness.

Reece is leaned back in his chair with a beer loose in his hand, boots crossed at the ankles, toes stretched toward the fire.

He looks comfortable.

Jack’s nursing his whiskey, gaze locked on the flames.

Whatever’s on his mind, it’s chewing at him.

I can see it in the way his mouth is set in a tight line.

His eyes lift when he notices me.

That’s when I catch it, a flicker of suspicion, assessing me while I make my way back to my own chair.

It rolls over me slow from head to toe, not at all subtle.

The back of my neck prickles.

“What took you so long getting her inside?” he asks.

My brain scrambles, hunting for something that won’t sound like anything close to the truth. “Had to take a shit.”

Reece lets out a breathy laugh.

Jack’s brow furrows slightly, his gaze flicking from me to Reece before coming back again.

He’s reading me just like he always does.

He’s always been good at that, catching things you don’t say and turning them over in his head until the pieces finally click.

The worst part? He never bothers to hide it.

“Really…” His mouth pulls into something that’s not quite a smile. “Interesting. You better not have touched her while you were in there.”

The words land like a slap.

How the hell could he see through me that easily?

I hate being on the other side of that damn stare.

My spine stiffens as I sit upright, panicked heat flooding through my body.

“Are you fucking serious right now? You think I’d do something like that?” I push it back at him, let mock outrage flare across my face.

Jack’s jaw ticks.

We lock eyes, neither of us blinking.

Even if he’s nailed exactly what I’ve been trying to hide, I can’t let him see it.

I have to make him believe there’s nothing there to find.

Eventually, Jack leans back in his chair, taking another slow sip of his whiskey.

The glass lingers at his mouth for a moment before he lowers it and says, almost lazily. “Just making sure.”

It’s the kind of line that’s supposed to sound offhand, innocuous to anyone else, but with Jack it never is.

Every word is deliberate, carefully thought out to impact the most damage when inflicted.

It’s a warning and a dare all rolled into one.

I force out a humorless chuckle, bending down to fish a beer from the cooler at my feet.

My knuckles knock against the ice, grounding me with the sharp change in temperature.

I make myself move slowly so my hand doesn’t give away how bad it’s still shaking from that adrenaline rush.

Jack lets it drop for now, though I can feel his eyes on me, tracking the smallest shifts in my face, every twitch of my posture.

He’s not done by a long shot; he’s simply a patient man just biding his time.

On the other hand, Reece isn’t much better.

He’s got that mild look on.

So far he hasn’t been bothered enough to step into the middle of whatever this is between me and Jack, but I’ve known him long enough to recognize the flicker of doubt in his eyes.

He’s still turning over my excuse in his head, trying to decide if he believes it or not.

Thankfully, Reece has never been as sharp at reading me as Jack, because if he were I’d be even more screwed than I already am.

The three of us lapse into a quiet that doesn’t feel comfortable, humming with things unsaid.

We all stare into the fire for a long time, watching the flames twist as the logs pop and settle.

The heat washes over me, too warm compared to the bite of the air around me, but it doesn’t touch the cold knot still sitting heavy in my gut.

I tell myself the same thing I’ve told myself a dozen times now: that tomorrow she’ll wake up with nothing more than a headache and a hazy, half-formed memory of what happened.

I won’t help her fill in the blanks.

I won’t give her any reason to connect the dots.

It’ll fade the way all the almost-crossed lines do, locked away in some unspoken vault.

But even as I take another long sip of beer, the truth gnaws at me.

If she remembers even half of what happened in that room tonight…if a single flicker of it comes back to her…

I’m completely and utterly fucking screwed.