Slowly, carefully, I slide my fingers from her warmth. The air is cool against my wet skin. My hand comes up between us, and I can’t help it—I’m captivated by the sight, by the scent of her that rises to fill the space between our labored breaths.
I meet her dazed, heavy-lidded gaze as I bring my glistening fingers to my lips. The taste is sweet as sugar, uniquely her, and I commit it to memory as the most intimate truth I’ve ever known.
She is utterly spent, her energy completely spent. She doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t speak. She just curls into my side, her cheek finding a home against the frantic, hammering beat of my heart. I am still hard, still aching with a need so fierce it’s a physical pain, but she blinks up at me with those sleepy, sated eyes, and how could I ever ask for more?
This… this has to be better than sex. This trust is better than a few minutes of a pleasure high. This feels more permanent.
She mumbles something into my chest, the words slurred with exhaustion. “…just give me five minutes… I’ll return the favor, I promise…”
I shush her gently, my voice rough. Leaning over, I snag the soft blanket I’d brought out for her earlier and drape it over us both. “Hush, Nova. I’d rather stay right like this.”
She hums her agreement, a soft, contented sound as she nuzzles deeper against me, her body already going slack with impending sleep.
Once we’re covered, I look down at the crown of her head, at the way her dark hair spills across my chest. Is this real? This peace, this weight, this sense of rightness? I have to consciously will my heart to slow its frantic pounding, afraid the wild rhythm will keep her awake. I don’t want anything to disturb this.
Her breathing evens out, deepening and slowing. Mine eventually follows, syncing with hers in the quiet dark. The last thing I feel is the gentle weight of her in my arms, the last thing I know is that I am exactly where I’m meant to be, before we both drift into sleep.
7
Nova
Experiencing the best sleep a woman in my position can, my eyes crack open, and I’m given a sight that feels like pure disbelief.
The fire’s gone out, leaving the air chilly. Despite the change, I’m surrounded by warmth. Half of my body is soaking up Mason’s heat directly, while the other is covered by a blanket, held in place by his secure grip wrapped around me. The only thing cold is my feet, both poked out because of the position I’m in.
Realizing I’m smiling, I take in Mason’s sleeping expression. While he’s resting, his scowl isn’t as intense as it typically is. There’s still the slight furrow of his brows and his mouth…
Heat floods my cheeks at the memory of his mouth on mine. Such a rough man shouldn’t have soft lips. Something like that should be impossible. I want to kiss him again to confirm I’m not crazy.
No matter how badly I want to, I keep my lips to myself. Turning my head, I take in one of his windows, watching as snow casually drifts from the sky. Nothing heavy like last night. With a smile playing on my lips, I soak in the fact that it’s now Christmas.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this giddy during the holiday. Is there anything more I’d want to ask for? Forget any presents. This is perfect. The only thing that could make this any better would be convincing this burly man to go down the mountain with me and watch—
Gasping, I jerk an elbow into his solid gut as I scramble to get out of his hold. A sudden, panicked thought shatters the warm, sleepy cocoon of his arms.
Mason wakes up immediately, a soldier jolting to alertness. He curses, his arms snapping out to catch me before his own movement can send me tumbling from the recliner. His eyes are wide, scanning the dim room for a threat. “What happened?”
“The parade!” I shove away the tangled blankets, my heart hammering. I need a clock, a phone, anything. “I don’t want to miss it.”
The sound that leaves him is a low, pained groan, followed by a sigh that seems to carry the weight of the world. I can’t tell what bothers him more—the rude awakening or the fact that my body is no longer curled against his.
Instead of helping, he scrubs a hand over his face, shoves his fingers through his sleep-tousled hair, and simply abandons the recliner, shuffling toward the kitchen like a man heading to his own execution.
I follow, feeling unmoored. In the kitchen’s sterile light, the stove clock glows, reassuring me that it’s still early. Relief is short-lived.
Mason is already fumbling with the coffee pot, his broad back a wall of tension. He needs his caffeine like a shield needsa polish. “You’ve got time,” he mutters, the words gravelly. “Though, not sure why you’d want to race down there to see a few floats.”
The grumpiness is back, but it’s more than that. It’s a chill, a frost creeping over the memory of last night’s warmth. He scowls at the coffee grounds as if they’ve personally offended him.
Drifting closer, I hesitate. Is this allowed? After what we did last night, I want to believe I can. My fingertips barely skim the soft cotton of his sleeve. “It’s not just that. It’s… the excitement. The magic. Don’t you want to celebrate with everyone?”
His answer is a non-committal grunt, a sound so dismissive it feels like a physical push. I pull my hand back, putting a careful distance between us. He seems to need it, this bubble of sour energy.
“I’ve never met someone who hates Christmas this much,” I say, mostly to myself.
The lack of decorations I could write off as a minimalist aesthetic. But this? This visceral reaction, this souring of his entire being at the mere mention of joy… it feels deep. Personal. If I showed him my collection of hideously festive sweaters now, would the man from last night vanish completely, replaced by this scowling stranger?
Mason stares rigidly ahead, his jaw working. A muscle ticks in his cheek. I see the war behind his eyes, the brief, startling crack in his armor as he considers… something. The truth? Do I need to ask him directly? And more importantly, do I even have the right to pry something that painful out of him, when whatever it is seems to be a wound he’s determined to let fester?
