A Von Wilde Christmas

There is a stark contrast of the candlelit hallway against the darkness of the room, but Emily is inside, drawing back hefty velvet curtains to let in a flood of sunlight from three ceiling-high windows. With her eyes adjusted, Willow can take in the impeccable neatness of the space.

Upon walking in, there is a sitting area beside a fireplace, outlined by a lush rug. The firelight dances across a cozy furniture set. Across the way sit several bookshelves nestled along the wall and straight up to the ceiling. There's a writing desk beside the first window with a typewriter at the ready, a large mug holding several quills, and a high back chair that looks too stiff to be comfortable.

But the centerpiece of the room is an absolutely massive four-poster bed. Navy curtains are tied back by silver bands of rope, waiting to be released and pitch the bed into darkness. Beneath a small mound of pillows is a beautiful deep-blue duvet that shines sapphire in the sunlight from one angle and slightly orange from the fires glow on the other.

"This room is huge! Is this all for one person?" she asks, motioning at the entire space. (Indeed, her whole house could fit in this one room, including her loft above the kitchen.)

Greyson leans casually against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

"Typically, yes."

Emily crosses the room, her skirts wishing delicately, and she adds a log to the hearth, then bows to Willow and Greyson.

"Please call for me if you need anything, Miss Willow, Master Greyson."

Willow still doesn’t like the formality, but she smiles and says, "Thank you, Emily."

Once Emily has disappeared, Greyson saunters in and shuts the door behind him. While her eyes are busy taking in every nook and cranny of the room, every small decorative item she had missed upon the first sweep, his eyes are set on her.

Finally, he asks, "How do you like it?"

She thinks for a moment. She needs to be careful with how she words her thoughts so she doesn't insult him.

"Don’t get me wrong, the room is beautiful, and that gigantic bed looks real comfy, but this room is quite…cavernous."

Half his lips curl up in a light smirk.

"I figured you’d think something like that. It is…vastly different than what you’re used to."

There is no underlying criticism or taunting in his tone. The fact is, they come from different backgrounds. (Even without knowing what he was thinking, she saw that he’d been a fish-out-of-water when he came to visit the cottage.)

In an instant, a switch seems to flip inside him and he gets that look in his eyes again, the same one from the carriage; one that she can recognize in the dark. His voice has that husky timbre as he crosses the room to her.

"It’s about time we change out of these school clothes, don’t you think?"

His hands are already at the collar of her drab gray robe, sliding the fabric off her shoulders until it pools at her feet. Her arms go to wrap around his neck, one hand curling in his hair, and she leans in for a chaste kiss.

His thoughts are anything but chaste.

~~ Author's note: the rest of the chapter is not suitable for readers under the age of 18. If you do not want to read explicit smut, please stop here and return with chapter 3. Thank you ~~

Without warning, his hands are on her ass, then her thighs as he hoists her up, wrapping her legs around his waist. She can already feel him hardening against her and a shiver traces up her spine.

"Greyson," she moans softly against his lips. His growl of approval drowns in her mouth as she kisses him again, both hands now ruffling his soft dark locks.

He walks with ease and deposits her on the bed. She falls into the mattress and pauses a moment; how can something be so soft but still hold its shape?

His hands are on his shirt and it's a welcome distraction. While she was caught up by the cloud she's now lying on, he had slipped off his robe and worked his way out of the nice button up. He’s slender, has been since they first met, but there is tone to his muscles. And he’s strong enough to cart her around when needed.

Her eyes rake down his figure and when she meets his gaze, she is shocked by the burning desire coming from him. It sets her own spark of desire aflame.

She smiles. "I don’t say this enough, but you are so handsome."

His head tilts sideways, as does his grin. He says nothing, but he is quick to pounce on her. She giggles as he crawls up the length of her body, his hands touching lightly along the way.

His mouth is just on hers, barely enough pressure to know he’s there, and he whispers, "Take off your sweater, baby."

A part of her wants to tease him, to poke at him as she often does, but he’d been patient and didn’t push when she denied him in the carriage. He’s always been like that with her: patient and understanding. He doesn’t push when she says 'no' or shows hesitation.

She sits up, her arms crossing in front of her to grab the bottom hem of the sweater and pulls it over her head slowly. Torturously so, for him.

A waterfall of red waves come pouring down her shoulders as she tosses the garment aside; he doesn’t blink until every strand of hair has found its resting place.

She shimmies to the edge of the bed, but he cocks an eyebrow and pushes on her shoulder until she tumbles back against the duvet.

"Where do you think you’re going?" he asks.

"I was going to take off my skirt?"

He smirks then, bending down to kiss her until her lips are swollen and they are both breathless. Meanwhile his fingers trail lightly from her neck, between the valley of her breasts, and onward until he’s under her skirt, his fingers caressing her over her panties.

Her hips jerk, and his hand is gone in an instant. Her eyes open (she’s not sure when they’d closed) and he is quick to hide a pleased smirk.

"You," he whispers, sitting up and leaning back, "are going to keep these lovely hands right here." He kisses each of her knuckles then places them at her sides. "These wonderful legs will stay here, unless I move them." He slides off the bed, simultaneously lifting her feet until they’re resting on the edge of the mattress with her bent knees aloft. "And you will lie perfectly still."

A flurry of butterflies escape in her stomach, sending another thrill through her; his eyes haven’t left hers. He whispers, "Do you understand?"

"Yes," she breathes. One of his eyebrows raise and she corrects herself with a chuckle. "Yes sir."

He forges a path of fire as his fingers dance up the back of one calf, kneading at her thigh, and when he grips the top of her left stocking, he leans forward to place kisses where his knuckles rub as he pulls it down.

A bolt of heat sears through her. All of these sensations are…perfect.

He doesn’t just kiss; there is a warm wet tongue and sharp nips from his teeth. There is a delightful tickle from the barest of stubble on his chin as it grazes down.

It takes every ounce of self-control to keep from squirming as he shows the same care to her other leg until both stockings are on the floor.

There’s that familiar ache in her stomach, no, lower than that, and she finally breaks, grabbing a fistful of blanket in each hand as her legs tremble.

He sits up, pulling his warmth away from her, and she mentally curses how acutely aware of her movements he is.

"Naughty Willow." He has the gall to sound aghast. "My instructions were clear."

"They are impossible!" she laughs haughtily. "I want to touch you."

He’s upon her again, quick as a cobra to strike, and she lets out a needy gasp. His fingers run down her arms, his hands covering hers, pinning them down firmly to the bed.

"Nope."

He said it just like she had that night when she used her mouth on him for the first time and he’d wanted to put his hands in her hair.

A furious blush colors her from the chest up at the memory.

"You are to keep perfectly still," he orders. A small whine escapes her, and the blush deepens. He snickers, already prowling down her body. "I promise it’ll be worth it."

A quick yank has her panties at her ankles, a second one has them on the floor, and she struggles to maintain her composure as he lowers his head between her legs. He kisses from one knee up her thigh, narrowly avoiding her center but not enough that she misses the heated breath against her, and then down to her opposite knee.

She can’t take it. The ache is growing with each deliberate placement of his lips as he tortures her, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

She takes a deep steadying breath and hisses out, "Gods, you’re a tease." He snorts, his lips inching closer. "Greyson, please," she moans. He pauses, hovering so close she can feel every breath. She moistens her lips and says, "Please sir. No more teasing."

His mouth is on her before she can finish her sentence, eliciting a breathy moan. The things he does with his mouth, his heat, his tongue; it’s both too much and not enough. While his tongue works on her clit, applying the right amount of pressure, he reaches up and teases her entrance with his fingers.

"So wet for me, baby."

A flurry of soft moans come from her lips despite her best efforts to keep them contained. When he slips a finger inside her, pumping and curling it in just the right way, she can’t help but arch her back as her breathing becomes ragged.

The explosive tendrils of pleasure creep up from her stomach, growing until they plant themselves in her head and she can think of nothing but her release.

Her throat is vibrating, she must be moaning, loudly, maybe even screaming, and the tiny sane voice at the back of her brain reminds her that she is a guest in his home, and her hand lifts. She bites at her knuckles, smothering the sound against her own skin.

It is over too soon (even if it had lasted an hour, it would be too soon) and her head clears. His mouth is pressed against her, but he has stilled, his predatory blue gaze set on her when she looks down; he's as proud as a cat that caught a canary. One last sweep of his tongue earns him a prolonged groan and she is near-trembling from the effort of keeping still.

He sits up, wiping his mouth with a renewed hunger in his eyes. Hunger for her. He raises an eyebrow, eyeing where her lips are hidden behind her knuckles.

"Why is your hand up there when it’s meant to be by your side?" he asks; though he tries to sound terse, she knows him well enough to pick up the teasing undertone.

She is putty against the mattress and lets her hand fall to where he had placed it.

"I…" she has to lick her lips again. "I think I was moaning. I didn’t want anyone to…hear."

His swollen lips part before they close with a rumbling chuckle.

"You don’t have to worry about that. The room is enchanted."

Though her thoughts are muddled, she perks up at that. "Oh?"

"As long as the door is shut and locked, no one can hear what goes on in this room." He perches on his knees at the edge of the bed, his sharp gaze traveling her body before he says, "Which is convenient, considering I plan on making you scream."

"Greyson!" she squeals.

He smirks. "Yes, like that, but breathier."

She laughs, even as a blush spreads through her. For a moment, nothing moves except for his gaze. There is desire there. That pride. But also longing and something else, something…not quite new but not something she’s been able to name.

She can hardly hear it, but he says, "You are perfection, baby."

"Hardly—"

He interrupts, his voice as tender as a whispered prayer.

"Gods, what I wouldn’t do to have a portrait of you…just like this." She tracks every movement as he goes to stand at the edge of the bed. "Your soft creamy skin, flushed with arousal." He pulls her skirt off, the fabric fluttering to the wooden floor. "A sea of red waves billowing around you, crowning you." His breeches join the rest of their clothes, and she sees that he is just as ready for her as she is for him. "You are stunning, contrasted beautifully against the darkness of the duvet." He leans forward; the kiss is light and sweet. He breaks away, whispering, "While a portrait would be ideal, I will happily keep this as a memory instead."

He doesn’t break her gaze, even as he opens the familiar square foil wrapper. While he works on putting on the protection, she watches his face. She recites every single word, every movement, and encapsulates them in her memories as well.

He grips her thighs and pulls her closer, the tip of his cock teasing her center as her legs part further. There is a moan, but she isn’t sure if it was from her or him. The next one is certainly hers when his hand reaches between them, his thumb circling her clit.

"That’s right, baby. Let me hear you."

Not one to disappoint, she moans, "Please sir."

"Please what?" Though his tone is commanding, she can see his longing peeking through in how he rubs himself against her, his eyes closing and opening again. This is torture for the both of them; one must yield.

"Please sir, I want you inside me."

The hesitation is gone.

Within seconds, he has thrust himself in her as far as he can, and a heady moan sounding vaguely like her name fills the air. There is a pinch of discomfort as she takes all of him in, but she is slick with desire and whatever is left from her first orgasm, so the twinge is gone within the first few slow thrusts.

His eyes close, his lips parting to let out another low moan. When they open again, his gaze is fire-forged steel, burning into hers. He bends at the waist to pepper her chest, her neck, her jaw with needy kisses, not once breaking the gentle rhythm. It’s only when she rocks her own hips up to meet his, letting out a mewling whine for more, that he fiercely kisses her lips and speeds up.

This angle is amazing, allowing him deeper than she thought was possible, and each rampant thrust seems to hit a sweet spot within her. She can hardly catch her breath, her hands moving of their own accord to pull at his hair.

The change is immediate. He has her wrists in his hands before she can blink, pinning them above her head while he returns to the agonizingly slow rhythm.

"Ah-ah, Miss Willow. Good girls ask before they touch," he tisks.

This…this is just cruel. She tries to jut her hips out, but there isn’t much space for her to move, not with him pinning her the way he is.

"Greyson." It isn’t quite a moan or a whine, but something in between, something that leaves no room for him to wonder how badly she wants him.

He releases her wrists, gives her lips a quick kiss, and straightens up, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

"That’s not how we ask."

He's enjoying this. (Of course he is.)

She wants to grab at his waist, to pull him closer, but she knows better. Her hands stay right beside her head where he left them, and she gives him a half-grin that breaks his rhythm for a few seconds.

"Please sir, make me feel good," she faux-whispers.

He grabs her legs, pulling them up against his chest and settling her ankles on his shoulders, his hips working faster. One hand trails down her thigh until it nestles between her legs, the pad of his thumb finding her clit in seconds. She can’t stop her back from arching as pleasure twists and curls in her stomach.

"Are you going to cum for me, baby?" he asks, now thrusting wildly as his own orgasm builds.

She’s beyond words, her breathing sporadic and shallow. There are moans echoing off the walls, two separate sounds melding together in harmony. Hells if she knows which of them is being so loud. All she can focus on is the growing pressure; letting it consume her in the best way possible.

"Cum for me, baby," he says. He punctuates the sentence by nipping the calf perched on his shoulder, a rumbling moan against her skin, and that is all she needs to go over the edge.

She might have moaned quietly. She might have screamed. She might have done nothing but held her breath.

All she knows is that he’s slowing down, each thrust harder than the last, until his trembling body curls over her. He presses their foreheads together as he struggles to even out his breathing; their chests are rising and falling nearly in sync.

She raises her shaky hands to his hair, pulling at him until he meets her for a soft, sensual kiss.