Page 14 of Hampton Holiday Collective

His eyes blaze with desire as he fists his cock in hard, frantic tugs.

“Watch me, Mrs. Claus.”

He lines up and slides home in one fluid motion, my pussy greedily sucking him in and locking him in place. I’m tight and tender from the way he fucked me with his mouth, so his cock feels even bigger as my nerve endings fire off in rapid succession.

Pulling my hips into his lap, he angles himself so he can fuck me and keep his hands free. My eyes practically roll back into my head as I track the movement of his huge hands cupping both my breasts.

He smashes them together through the fabric, then bites down on one nipple, then the other, moving back and forth between them like a starving man. The thin lace of my lingerie is no match for the way he’s lavishing my tits, his frenetic bites sending bolts of lust straight to my pussy.

My arousal soaks his cock, and soon it’s almost too slick. At this angle and when I’m this wet, we risk losing contact every time he pulls back.

“Hold these for me, angel,” he instructs with a grunt, moving his hands from my breasts so he can brace himself over me with one arm.

He dips into my cleavage with his other hand, then travels up my chest, teasing me every inch of the way before he wraps each individual finger around my neck. He kisses me savagely, leaving me breathless, then smirks and squeezes my throat.

“Harder,” I pant when he pistons into my pussy. I honestly don’t need anything beyond what he’s already giving me—because it’severything—but he loves to hear me beg.

“Fuck… Fielding. Harder.Please,” I moan through raspy, panting bursts.

His hips drill into me. His hand tightens around my throat. My husband fucks me with animalistic fervor, the muscles and veins in his forearm flexing as he holds me down and gives me his all.

The sight of him going full out is enough to send me teetering toward the edge of my orgasm. When he bends low and clamps his mouth around the peak of one nipple, I topple over the edge in a burst of ecstasy and expletives.

He ravages me through my release, then finally lets himself come with a satisfied, blissful groan. In repetitive prayer, he chants my name as he thrusts through his own orgasm.

My vision blurs slightly around the edges as he continues to squeeze my throat, so I dig my nails into his forearm, and he immediately peels his hand away from my neck. Resting back on his heels, panting, he smirks down at me, his eyes shining in reverence.

“Fuck, I love you,” he whispers, his words inspiring my pussy to clench around him.

I grin up at him and bite my bottom lip, already ready for round two. “Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal.”

Chapter 12

Fielding

Icarryanothertoteinto the living room toward the big windows on the east wall. Setting it down gently, I glance over to where Wesley’s lying on the couch. “You’re not even going to help us with the Christmas village, little scrooge?”

Dempsey makes a sound of disapproval under his breath like the jab was directed at him.

“I still don’t feel good,” Wesley whines in protest.

No doubt the boys were up and sneaking sugary cereal sometime between when the girls left and when I got out of bed this morning. Wyatt was bouncing off the walls, per usual. Wesley was fine before lunch, but now he’s listless and less than enthusiastic about our traditional day-after-Thanksgiving decorating.

Doesn’t matter. I’m not particular about much, but I do like the Christmas decorations to be set up just so, as proven by the numerous times I’ve had to rearrange things my brother has placed all willy-nilly. It’s honestly easier when the kids don’t help.

We’ll decorate the tree later this weekend when everyone’s home. The girls are still out shopping, and I have to work the night shift for the next two nights. Dempsey and I have a friendly wager going for whether Maddie or Winnie will be the first to lose steam.

It sure as hell won’t be Daphne. My angel has stamina for days, as proven by our almost all-night fuckfest last night.

I lost track of her orgasms, but I came three times, and her little Mrs. Claus number is officially ruined. If she doesn’t order a new one stat, she risks ending up on my naughty list.

“Again!” Wyatt cries from his beanbag chair on the floor, startling me. “Again, again!” he screams when no one immediately reacts to his demands.

“Hang on, little devil.” I pick up the remote and restartThe Grinch. That’s the other thing I’ve lost count of—how many times we’ve watched it so far today.

I’m turning back toward the windows when Wyatt speaks up again. Although “speak” isn’t the way I’d describe this communication—my youngest does nothing by halves, so every word out of his mouth is either a cry of glee or a scream of agony.

“Mo cw-ackers!” he wails, flinging his snack bowl in my general direction.