Dirty Christmas のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 11 - チャプター 20

"Penelope, dear, could you fetch the silverware from the pantry? The guests will arrive soon, and I want everything perfect for Henry's return," Mrs. Gusto called out from the grand dining room, her voice echoing through the opulent halls of the Gusto mansion. The air was filled with the scent of pine from the towering Christmas tree in the foyer, its lights twinkling like stars against the snow-dusted windows.Penelope smoothed her crisp black maid's uniform, the fabric hugging her curves a bit too snugly after the holiday indulgences. she was the picture of quiet beauty, long auburn hair tied in a neat bun, porcelain skin flushed from the warmth of the roaring fireplace, and wide green eyes that darted nervously whenever someone addressed her directly. She'd been with the Gusto family for three years, ever since her parents' farm failed and she needed steady work. The mansion was a world away from her simple life, but it paid the bills, and the Gustos treated her kindly enough. Sti

The snow fell softly over the rolling hills of Willow Creek Ranch, blanketing the world in a hush that matched the quiet ache in Jack Windam's chest. At twenty-five, he'd spent the last three years tending the cows under Kane Hemsworth's watchful eye, his calloused hands more at home with ropes and feed buckets than with the wild dreams that plagued his nights. Kane was everything Jack wasn't, tall, broad-shouldered, with sun-kissed skin and eyes like storm clouds, a man who commanded the ranch with a firm hand and a rare, disarming smile. Jack had fallen hard, his love a secret fire that burned hotter each Christmas, when the isolation of the country made everything feel both closer and impossibly distant.This year, the holiday loomed with extra weight. The other hands had gone home to families, leaving just Jack and Kane to keep the place running through the blizzard warnings. Jack shoveled the barn path that morning, his breath fogging the air, when Kane's truck rumbled up. The

Gabriel’s POVI couldn't believe I was back home for Christmas. The house smelled like Christmas, lights twinkling everywhere, but all I could think about was Davina. My stepmom. She'd been driving me crazy since I left for college, those texts, the photos she'd "accidentally" send. Now, here she was, bending over to adjust the stockings by the fireplace, her tight red sweater hugging her curves, that short skirt riding up just enough to tease."Gabriel, honey, you're finally here!" she said, straightening up and turning to me with a smile that lit up her green eyes. She pulled me into a hug, her body pressing against mine a little too long. I felt her breasts squash against my chest, and damn, she smelled like vanilla and something sinful."Yeah, traffic was a bitch," I muttered, my hands lingering on her waist. She didn't pull away. Instead, she looked up at me, biting her lip."Language, Gabe. But I'm glad you're home. It's been lonely without you." Her voice dropped, husky, like

The Christmas tree lights flickered like dying stars, casting erratic glows over our tangled bodies on the worn rug. Emmy's legs hooked around my hips, pulling me deeper, her pussy gripping my cock like a vice, hot, slick, unyielding. I thrust slow, deliberate, each slide dragging out the friction until her whimpers turned to ragged pleas. Sweat beaded on her skin despite the chill seeping through the windows, snow howling outside like a jealous lover."Juan... God, you're splitting me open," she gasped, nails digging into my shoulders, leaving red trails. Her blue eyes locked on mine, wild and exposed, no fan-girl facade left, just raw need.I ground against her clit with every push, watching her face contort. "You take it so well, Emmy. Like you were made for this…for me wrecking you." My voice came out gravelly, strained. I'd fucked plenty on tour, but this? This felt like carving into my own scars, her darkness bleeding into mine.She arched, breasts pressing against my chest, n

The wind howled like a beast outside St. Mary's Chapel as I pushed open the heavy oak door on Christmas Eve. Snowflakes clung to my coat, melting into damp spots on the stone floor. I'd come for confession, not because I was devout, but because the weight of my secrets had grown too heavy. Father Frednand was new to the parish, a man in his late thirties with kind eyes shadowed by something deeper, like he carried his own burdens. I'd heard whispers. he'd taken vows after a personal tragedy, but tonight, I needed to unburden mine.The confessional was dim, lit only by a single candle. I knelt in the booth, the wooden kneeler biting into my knees through my skirt. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," I started, voice trembling. "It's been months since my last confession.""Speak freely, child," his voice came through the lattice, warm and steady, with a faint accent that made my stomach flutter. Frednand. Even his name felt forbidden.I hesitated, then let it pour out. "I've had tho