I wake slowly, awareness creeping in through layers of contentment I’ve never experienced before.
The first thing I notice is warmth—not just from the blankets, but the delicious, lingering heat of remembered pleasure. The second thing I notice is tenderness. Everywhere.
My lips feel swollen from kissing. My breasts are sensitive where his mouth worshipped them for what felt like hours. Between my thighs… Heat floods my face at the memory of his tongue, his careful tusks teasing the sensitive skin, the devastating bliss he wrung from my body over and over until I almost forgot my own name.
And then what I did to him. The taste of him still lingers on my tongue—salt and musk and… Ryder. The way he looked at me with such reverence when I took him in my mouth, the sounds he made, the way his hands clutched my hair as though he never wanted to let go.
Oh God. We really did that.
The physical evidence is everywhere: rumpled sheets, my clothes scattered across the floor where he stripped them away with reverent hands, the masculine scent of him lingering on my skin.
I should probably feel awkward or uncertain about what happened last night. Instead, I feel… powerful. Desired. Cherished in a way I’ve never experienced before.
The fire has burned low, its glow washing the room in soft amber light. Ryder is crouched in front of the hearth, bare to the waist, adding another log with unhurried movements. The poker clanks softly against the grate. Hamlet lies curled nearby, positioned as though he’s guarding us both, though he’s lightly snoring.
I should get up. Put on clothes. Face him in the morning light and see if what happened last night changes things between us.
But part of me wants to stay here, wrapped in blankets that smell like him, holding onto this feeling for just a little longer.
“You didn’t have to get up so early.” I don’t know how I manage to sound so unconcerned. Inside, my desire is already rising as Inotice that a few of his braids are so messy they’ll need to be re-plaited, and there are small half-moon cuts on his shoulder.
I did that, and I can’t find an iota of embarrassment about it.
“Wanted to.” He sets down the poker and rises in one fluid movement. Hamlet snorts in protest at whoever had the gall to wake him. “Besides, someone needed to make sure the fire didn’t go out. Can’t have you freezing after I worked so hard to keep you warm last night.”
The suggestive comment makes me blush to my roots, and his knowing smile says he notices. He crosses to me, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the air charged with the same electricity that crackled between us last night.
“Christmas Eve morning,” he says softly, his eyes warm as they trace my face. “Thought you might want coffee before we tackle the day.”
He kneels beside the mattress, close enough that I can smell the faint mix of smoke and clean skin. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The air feels thick with everything we’re not saying.
“How do you feel?” he asks quietly, one hand coming up to cup my face. His thumb brushes across my lips—lips that are still kiss-swollen from his attention.
“Tender,” I admit, and watch heat flare in his eyes. “But good. Really good.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear.” He leans closer, his forehead resting against mine. “I worried I might have been too… intense.”
“You were… what they write about in romances.” I reach up to touch his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath my palm. “Everything was beyond amazing. I’ve never… it’s never been like that for me before.”
His arm tightens around me. “Never?”
I shake my head. “Never. The way you touched me, the way you made me feel…” I trail off, not sure how to put into words the magnitude of what he gave me last night. “I didn’t know it could be like that.”
“Good.” His voice rumbles with satisfaction. He shifts, cups the side of my head, and brushes a kiss across my temple. His breath stirs my hair as he speaks. “I want to be the one who shows you. The one who makes you feel cherished and wanted and absolutely perfect.”
“You do,” I whisper. “You make me feel all of that.”
He kisses me then, slow and deep, and I can taste coffee on his lips. His tusks graze my cheek as he deepens the kiss, careful even in passion. The rumble starts low in his chest—that purr I’m quickly becoming addicted to. It vibrates through me where our bodies touch, soothing and arousing at once. When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Come sit with me,” he says, leading me to the couch. Hamlet immediately waddles over, determined not to be left out. Peanut squawks commentary from his cage: “Kiss, kiss!”
We settle on the worn couch, Ryder pulling me against his side. Hamlet plants himself firmly between us and the fire. The domestic normalcy of it—sitting together in comfortable silence, his arm around me, the animals settled nearby—feels surreal after the intensity of last night.
It also feels perfect. Natural. Like maybe this is what I’ve been missing my whole life without knowing it.
But as we sit here, wrapped in the peaceful aftermath of last night and this quiet morning, something shifts in my chest. A restlessness I can’t quite name. The contentment is real, but underneath it, there’s a question that’s been buried for so long I barely recognize it as mine.
It’s strange how being truly happy for the first time makes you notice all the places you’ve been broken.
