Page 49 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

The vibrator is cradled in his palm. It’s still on a low setting. I expect him to somehow subtly move his hand under my dress, but he doesn’t. He’s holding the toy against me through the fabric of my dress and panties.

“Open.” His voice is muffled against my shoulder. “More.”

There. Now I understand the no jeans request. I begin to move beneath the blanket—slow, fluid rocking nobody would notice even if they looked right at us. The purr of the vibrator isn’t enough for me to get off, but it’s making blood rush to all the critical places. Quickly.

He winds my braid around his fist. “I’ve fantasized about this plait since the first time I saw you. So pretty. So … orderly. I’ve been dying to fuck it up.” He eases off the elastic at the bottom, then he works his fingers between the thick strands to part them.

“Kiss me, Jake.”

Jake presses his mouth to the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. His voice drops a husky octave. “I am kissing you.”

I breathe out a barely there whimper as he boosts the vibrator up a level. “Kiss my mouth.”

Jake coasts his bottom lip whisper-soft along mine, but when I try to deepen the kiss, he leans away and makes a tiny tsk sound with his tongue. The vibrator switches off.

“You monster,” I breathe, grinding down on his leg to maintain the pressure. The fingers of his free hand dig in where my thigh meets my hip, keeping me locked down against his lap so I can’t move. His grip is coarse, rough, opposite the tender restraint he’s showing with the rest of his body. He might even leave a bruise. I want him to leave a bruise so I can see it on my body tomorrow and have proof that this really happened. Otherwise, I fear I might not believe it.

Jake’s expression is infuriatingly placid when he clicks the vibrator back on. This time, he indulges me with a higher setting. But every time I begin to move, he turns it off.

“What are you doing?” I whisper. I’ve got a white-knuckle grip on restraint, but it’s bucking like a thoroughbred to rip loose.

“I’m going to edge you until you cry, darling.”

He keeps me right at the top without letting me fall. “Please, Jake.” My lips are pinned between my teeth. I’m panting through my nose like an animal, pinning the vibrator between my clit and the muscle of his thigh for extra friction. Tension and pressure are twin flames racing up a dynamite fuse.

“Jake …” My legs begin to shudder, my ass clenches. Goosebumps erupt across my breasts, my back, my thighs. Tears squeeze free from the corners of my eyes. “I’m … mmmf—”

With his free hand, Jake reaches up to clutch his long fingers around my jaw, twisting my head sideways to cover my mouth with his. My insides turn molten and impossibly heavy the moment he finally lets me have what I need.

“I’m going to—”

“I know,” he murmurs against my lips. Then he revs the vibe to the highest setting.

I come so hard, my vision goes black around the edges, and I have to squeeze every muscle in my core to keep the orgasm from whipping me backward. Jake tightens his arm around me and keeps his mouth locked to mine to swallow my sobbing moan.

I slump into him when he turns the vibe off. His pulse jerks visibly in his neck. He looks like he’s the one who just came.

Later, as we approach the end of the ride, Jake helps me into my coat. There’s a wet spot on his leg where I was sitting, so he folds his own coat over his forearm to let it hang. I’m sure I have a matching spot on the back of my dress. Wear a long coat. No jeans. Expect to get wet.

When we leave the pod, a few of the attendants congratulate us. I glance at Jake and say, playfully, “You told them you were going to propose, didn’t you?”

He gives me a sheepish smile.

Laughing, I catch a glimpse of myself in a reflection as we leave the boarding area. I hope nobody remembers what I looked like when I arrived. Now, my hair is wild, my cheeks are flushed, my lips swollen and rubbed red. I look a mess.

I look like I just had an orgasm four hundred feet in the air over London.

* * *

We walk along the Southbank of the Thames to get back to Covent Garden. It’s busy, but more intimate and cozy than Borough. There are stalls nestled inside their own wooden Alpine-style chalets draped in bulbs. The fairy lights have a fuzzy halo around them, softened by the cinnamon-spiced mist in the night air.

The scentscape of London has been one of my favorite things about the city, and the Southbank is no exception. It’s clove and citrus and buttery vanilla from a creperie. Herbs and garlic and the hot, salty fat of sausages and smashburgers. It’s the brackish water and cold mud of the Thames, the fleeting perfumes of passersby, the smoke and spice of a woodfire.

God, I love it here.

I buy beeswax candles and marmalade, and a few hand-knitted scarves. Despite not having a Christmas tree of my own back home, I buy a gorgeous enamel and bronze ornament of the London Eye. I have no idea how I’m going to fit everything in my luggage, but for tonight, I want to pretend I’m a local, and I’m taking these things back to my cozy Covent Garden flat.

We pass Burgess Selby and one of his tour groups. One of the people in the back dumps their mulled wine onto the pavement. Another fiddles with the bulb on their plastic candle as it winks on and off.