Page 34 of Snowbound

“You can’t…” I gasp. “Oh god. What are you— I can’t—Jesus?—”

“Oh, I do believe I can…”

Two fingers slide inside me, curling… just right.

He sucks my clit hard, and I explode.

I scream.

My body convulses. I’m boneless and wrecked, and still—he doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking.

Keeps devouring.

Keeps breaking me apart until I’m limp and ruined beneath him. Then he pulls back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Good morning, lass,” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Nowyou’re ready to write. Unblocked, as it were?”

“JesusfuckingChrist,” I whisper, dazed. “I thinkso.”

“You better be,” he warns, his voice playful but edged with something serious. “Are you hungry?”

I blink up at him, still trembling.

“That,” he says, his Irish brogue thick as honey, “was the breakfast appetizer.”

He disappears down the hall and returns a few minutes later with an actual tray, filled with eggs, toast, and fruit. There’s a frosted Christmas cookie and a steaming mug of tea with cinnamon sticks. It’s festive and sweet.

“You made me breakfast?” I ask, stunned. Someone was up early.

He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “You need to fuel up. Time to write. You’re on a deadline, remember?”

I pout. “Are you really gonna be that strict? It’s Christmas.”And I’m here with you.

He cocks his head. “Would you rather I not hold you accountable?”

I hesitate.

His voice drops low—dangerous.

“Did you forget what I told you would happen if you missed your word count?”

Heat flashes through me, and the image hits hard: Me, bent over the couch, panties at my ankles, his hand across my ass, marking me.

When we were younger, I used to imagine what it’d be like to get in trouble with him.

But never like this. I didn’t let my mind gothatfar.

I was too ashamed of how excited I got when he was all stern and bossy. It felt strange, and I didn’t understand why.

But now? “Yeah, so…” I want this, but I’m afraid of what this means about me. Finally, in a rush of words, I admit, “That might work.”

“It better,” he murmurs. “Because I’m tracking every word. And I’m ready to make good on my promise.” He winks. Ibethe is.

I sit up in bed—still naked, still flushed—fueled by breakfast and a toe-curling orgasm. He hands me my laptop.

And I write.