Page 9 of Twelve Days of Christmas (Sixty Five Hours #1.5)

ON THE NINTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS…

This time, I watch him as he paces his office floor with his phone to his ear. He’s pissed off about something, and whoever he’s talking to is getting an earful.

I love it when he’s pissed off. It makes for fucking hot sex.

I’m half tempted to just walk into his private bathroom and wait for him. He’d follow me as soon as he could. Hell, he’d probably end the phone call right then and there so I could suck him off.

In fact, that’s a fucking marvelous idea.

I tell Rachel to hold all calls; I’m taking ten minutes.

And I just walk straight into his office, walk right past him and straight into his private bathroom.

He watched me.

I have no fucking doubt he watched me.

I count the seconds. Twelve. That’s all. Twelve seconds later, and he stalks into his bathroom, locking the door behind him.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he starts to say, but I’m already on my knees in front of him. I unzip him, taking his cock into my mouth, and suck him and pump him until his knees buckle and he shoots his load down my throat.

He slumps against the wall, all dreamy-eyed and smirking. I stand up, lick my lips and kiss him. He slides down, and when I think he’s still all cum-woozy, he unzips my pants, and my erection springs free.

“Does giving me head make you hard?” he asks, looking up at me before he slips the head of my cock between his lips.

I moan. “Watching you cum, feeling you cum, sucking it right out of you,” I tell him with a groan. “That makes me hard.”

It feels so fucking good. The way he slides and sucks, and twirls his tongue. Fuck.

I grab his head with both hands, guiding, feeling, fucking.

I’m so deep in his mouth, his throat, all of me. Every throbbing inch. Then he cups my balls, and the room spins. I cum so hard.

So hard.

So fucking hard.

The smug sonnava bitch is still smirking when we’re re-dressed and straightened up, sitting at his office desk.

“Feel better?” I ask.

“Much better,” he says proudly. “Thank you.”

Just then there’s a knock at the door. In walks a Fed-ex guy with a wooden crate looking box in his hand. “Cameron Fletcher?”

I look at Cameron.

He looks at the delivery guy, then at me. “Ninth day of Christmas?”

The guy puts the box on Cameron’s desk, and Cameron in turn signs for the box. He waits until we’re alone before he opens the lid to reveal the 1983 and 1984 bottles of wine.

His eyes dart to mine, and I can see this gift has thrown him; the confusion is clear in his eyes.

“It’s the years we were born,” I tell him.

He nods as though he understands that much, but doesn’t really understand why I chose them. “Dad has a cellar,” he says. “We could house them there.”

“I thought we could have them at Christmas dinner,” I suggest, trying for nonchalance.

His brow furrows for just a second, but then he shrugs. I’m thankfully saved by Rachel, who interrupts to tell me my three o’clock meeting with Marcus from accounts is about to start without me.

But I spend the entire meeting distracted that he might know what’s going on.