Unwrap Me at Midnight

Scarlett sprawls on the rug beside Ethan while he wrestles wrapping paper, her form-hugging sweater riding up, thighs shifting under her skirt. Then she's riding him — hips moving with a slow relentless rhythm, heat slick and hot, clamping down like a hot fist. The rug is torn and rucked under them, the air thick with sweat and that musky sweet smell of pure need.

A rotating cast — Ethan, Noah, Luke, Miles, Nicholas, Adrian — across Christmas wrapping sessions, gingerbread houses, apartments, gift-wrap stations, New Year's parties. Noah's hardness strains against denim as each slather of frosting tightens a screw inside him. The gingerbread house is ruined — shards littering the floor, frosting smeared on the counter. Luke's apartment: ripped skirt, exposed t**s, that damn silver chain. Miles at a gift-wrap station: "I've been thinking about you all goddamn day." Nicholas at a New Year's countdown: a riot of sequins and swagger, nine minutes left, his hardness a throbbing beast begging. Her heat clenches like a silken vice of fire.