small Jøtul gas stove sat in one corner, a small kitchenette in the other. There was a tan leather loveseat and an oak rocking chair with a Navajo rug before the stove, and a restroom over to the right.
Drake started the stove and within a minute, the room was noticeably warmer.
I walked over to the kitchen area, peeling off my gloves, hat and parka as I went, and threw them on the sofa. The cupboards were high, so I looked around for something to stand on.
“Oh good, a stool. Being short sucks.” I pulled it over, climbed up and started delving through the shelves. “What would you like? They have tea, cocoa and Keurig coffees.”
“Tea sounds good.” His voice was much closer. I whirled around and almost toppled, startled to see him so close and at eye level. His hands grabbed my waist to steady me—and stayed there.
“I don’t know why you complain about being short. You look just right to me.” His voice grew softer, rougher, his eyes focused on my lips. He leaned in closer, and I put my hands on his shoulders to steady myself.
His eyes held mine, but he didn’t move. They were steady and assured, and waited for me. Waited for permission.
And I was ready—to move on, to risk life again. He made me feel powerful—confident and in control. My knees shook, and I shivered, but it wasn’t from fear. It was desire. I wanted him. And I wanted him now.
His arms tightened around me, but he still waited. I pulled off his cap and ran my fingers through his silky curls. His eyes searched mine and when I grinned, I saw a flash of relief answer in his. Then I claimed his mouth with mine, but I felt possessed.
The fears, the longing, the pent-up frustration poured through me like floodwaters through a broken dam. I threw myself at his head, rough, demanding. My tongue pushed through his lips, conquering his mouth, and he gave it right back, his hunger as strong as mine. This was no dance of tongues; this was a fistfight, a take-no-prisoners tangle. We stroked and licked, tasted and sucked, explored and slid over every nook, seeking every sensation. I forgot to breathe and pulled away gasping, only to lurch back harder, pulling his warm sweet mouth to mine. I wanted everything, everywhere, all at once. It was shocking, arousing, exhilarating, exciting. And he was totally with me.
I felt myself lifted straight onto the counter and heard him kick the stool out of the way. One hand rifled my hair, the other digging under my sweater, then my shirt. He groaned and settled closer between my thighs, pulling me to the counter edge, and I could feel his swollen desire there between my legs. I pulled off his sweater and shirt, craving no barriers, burning for his skin, frantic to touch him, to feel him. His hands were caressing my mound through my tights, and I could feel my wetness on my panties. He pulled off my sweater, my shirt, my bra, and groaned again as he pulled my nipple into his mouth and suckled, hard, his tongue stroking and twirling. My insides turned to molten lava, and I rasped myself against the hot bulge in his ski tights. He turned to my other breast and worshipped it, his arm holding me tight around the waist, pulling me into his urgent mouth. I arched my back to bring him nearer, my body aching, squirming with need. I had to have him. Had to.
“Claire…Claire,” I heard him moan, and I whimpered with need.
I pulled down his tights, and I heard his breath hitch. His erection was glorious—long and wide, hot and hard. My hand slid down his gorgeous shaft, my fingers taking his drops of come and swirling it around his cock’s throbbing head. He moaned and I thrilled to his jerking at my touch. He took my mouth in another assault, stroking, conquering with his lips, thrusting with his tongue. He pulled off my tights and panties in a rush, cupped my bottom firmly, then slid one finger into my dripping sheath. He shivered and his cock leapt in my hand.
“Oh dear God, baby, you’re so ready,” he
Drake started the stove and within a minute, the room was noticeably warmer.
I walked over to the kitchen area, peeling off my gloves, hat and parka as I went, and threw them on the sofa. The cupboards were high, so I looked around for something to stand on.
“Oh good, a stool. Being short sucks.” I pulled it over, climbed up and started delving through the shelves. “What would you like? They have tea, cocoa and Keurig coffees.”
“Tea sounds good.” His voice was much closer. I whirled around and almost toppled, startled to see him so close and at eye level. His hands grabbed my waist to steady me—and stayed there.
“I don’t know why you complain about being short. You look just right to me.” His voice grew softer, rougher, his eyes focused on my lips. He leaned in closer, and I put my hands on his shoulders to steady myself.
His eyes held mine, but he didn’t move. They were steady and assured, and waited for me. Waited for permission.
And I was ready—to move on, to risk life again. He made me feel powerful—confident and in control. My knees shook, and I shivered, but it wasn’t from fear. It was desire. I wanted him. And I wanted him now.
His arms tightened around me, but he still waited. I pulled off his cap and ran my fingers through his silky curls. His eyes searched mine and when I grinned, I saw a flash of relief answer in his. Then I claimed his mouth with mine, but I felt possessed.
The fears, the longing, the pent-up frustration poured through me like floodwaters through a broken dam. I threw myself at his head, rough, demanding. My tongue pushed through his lips, conquering his mouth, and he gave it right back, his hunger as strong as mine. This was no dance of tongues; this was a fistfight, a take-no-prisoners tangle. We stroked and licked, tasted and sucked, explored and slid over every nook, seeking every sensation. I forgot to breathe and pulled away gasping, only to lurch back harder, pulling his warm sweet mouth to mine. I wanted everything, everywhere, all at once. It was shocking, arousing, exhilarating, exciting. And he was totally with me.
I felt myself lifted straight onto the counter and heard him kick the stool out of the way. One hand rifled my hair, the other digging under my sweater, then my shirt. He groaned and settled closer between my thighs, pulling me to the counter edge, and I could feel his swollen desire there between my legs. I pulled off his sweater and shirt, craving no barriers, burning for his skin, frantic to touch him, to feel him. His hands were caressing my mound through my tights, and I could feel my wetness on my panties. He pulled off my sweater, my shirt, my bra, and groaned again as he pulled my nipple into his mouth and suckled, hard, his tongue stroking and twirling. My insides turned to molten lava, and I rasped myself against the hot bulge in his ski tights. He turned to my other breast and worshipped it, his arm holding me tight around the waist, pulling me into his urgent mouth. I arched my back to bring him nearer, my body aching, squirming with need. I had to have him. Had to.
“Claire…Claire,” I heard him moan, and I whimpered with need.
I pulled down his tights, and I heard his breath hitch. His erection was glorious—long and wide, hot and hard. My hand slid down his gorgeous shaft, my fingers taking his drops of come and swirling it around his cock’s throbbing head. He moaned and I thrilled to his jerking at my touch. He took my mouth in another assault, stroking, conquering with his lips, thrusting with his tongue. He pulled off my tights and panties in a rush, cupped my bottom firmly, then slid one finger into my dripping sheath. He shivered and his cock leapt in my hand.
“Oh dear God, baby, you’re so ready,” he
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