Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
It’s warm inside the truck, my stomach growling as I barely touched the light brunch Mama made for us before we set out. Even with frost hanging on the branches of trees as we pass, the faint scent of pine comes through the air vents and filling the interior of the cab.
I steal glances at Papa as he drives, the angles of his cheeks, the reminder of his lips on my body. The way he rubbed my clit so softly after tucking me into my bed until I fell asleep last night. I dare let my eyes drift to his lap, for a second, wishing Lucy wasn’t in the back seat so I could wake that sleeping giant and feel him push all his thickness inside me again.
“Hey, you can get yourself some mulled wine this year,” Lucy quips from the back seat because I called shotgun. “Finally legal, huh, sis?”
I grin. “I’m not bothered about being legal… for mulled wine.”
My eyes are still on Grandpa’s lap and his cock jumps out on the seam of his pants. He’s wearing a black parka with a white shirt and black jeans and boots.
I raced upstairs to change into something more festive than my usual jeans and tomboy shirts settling on red fleece lined leggings and a fuzzy cashmere white sweater and matching fuzzy boots. He glances my way, grunts, then looks back at the road.
We continue in silence until the sound of Christmas music seeps through the windows as we pull into the parking lot in the center of town, surrounded by log cabins and cottages with snow-covered roofs. We’ve barely pulled to a stop before Lucy launches herself out of the back, heading for the salon saying she will meet us later at The Fortress which is a restaurant bar at the end of Snowflake Street. She’s been desperate for a mani-pedi for weeks.
“Come on,” Papa says, putting his arm around me. It feels nice. Protective. Like he always is. “Want to dance?”
“What? Really?”
“Really.”
I’m pulled along with him through the crowds. Some people who see us nod and smile, knowing us by sight but none of us by name.
Grandpa likes it that way.
There’s a massive gazebo in the middle of the town, wrapped with thousands of twinkling white lights and a live band playing carols with a group standing by, singing dressed like they are from a Dickens novel. I’ve always looked at the gazebo with envy when we come here for the winter festival, but it’s always a crowded area and Papa doesn’t like crowds. He always says staying safe means keeping to ourselves.
But something has changed. Gennero is my personal protector today, and nothing could harm me when he’s here.
The snow crunches under our feet as we take the steps up into the gazebo and I’m reminded of the scene from Twilight with Bella and Edward dancing.
Papa winds his arms down my back as I lean in, feeling the hardness of his chest, the itchy scratch of his wool coat remembering how I tore at his chest hair last night as he held himself above me, buried deep, pulsing his seed inside me, telling me to say such filthy things that made me come so hard I lost consciousness.
Even through his jeans and his coat, his hardness presses against my belly, and my lubrication station turns on full blast, drowning out any rational thought.
I’m sure some of the people milling around know he’s my grandfather. It’s a small town no matter how much we keep to ourselves. Our dance is a little too close, but I don’t care. And Grandpa doesn’t seem to, either.
He holds me over his heart, inhaling above my head. His hand drops to the small of my back, then lower, then into a full-on ass grab. And I love the feel of his fingers slipping into the crack of my rear, reminding me that he can take any hole he likes.
And he can. And he does.
Oh, how things change.
We dance to Santa Baby, then Silent Night and time speeds by, and my whole world is him. The feel of his warmth against me, the scent of his spicy cologne, the roughness of his massive hand enveloping my tiny one. I want to kiss him so badly. I want to feel his lips open to mine and taste his breath.
“What’s wrong, honeysuckle?”
I draw a shaking breath, realizing I was lost in my own little world. “I wish we could be together. Like, together together. I wish I could tell the world.”
He replies with silence and that horrible sinking feeling returns when I think of what secrets he may have with Lucy.
As the song ends, he tugs me down the stairs of the gazebo and my heart sinks, knowing some things are not to be wished for.