Sebastian noticeseverything.
The truck is warm, the radio humming softly with Christmas music. Lights glow from porches as we drive. It feels like something from a snow globe, and for the first time in a longtime, I let myself enjoy the moment without worrying about the next.
At the diner, he orders two plates of pot roast like it’s already decided, then looks at me for approval. I grin and ask for extra mashed potatoes. He relaxes instantly.
The waitress, with her beehive hair and Santa brooch, winks at me like we’re in on something together.
We talk.
About everything and nothing. About his grandparents and the inn. About the army. About why he came back. He’s quiet about the hardest parts, but he doesn’t avoid them. When he mentions his ex, it’s only to say she broke his trust. That he won’t let that happen again.
I tell him about growing up on the coast. About my mom working two jobs. About the first cake I ever baked. I talk about my ex and how I left him when I found out he’d been sleeping with someone from work. How he told me I was overreacting. Thatmen have needs.
Sebastian’s jaw tightens. His hand finds mine on the table, thumb brushing over my knuckles. There’s strength in the way he holds on. Not possessive. Steady.
By the time the waitress returns with slices of pie—pecan for me, apple for him—the space between us has changed. Gone softer. Warmer. Intimate.
I lick a bit of pecan filling from my fork, and his gaze darkens.
“Can I take you home?” he asks, voice low.
My heart stutters. “Yes.”
The drive is quiet, thick with tension that pulses between us. When we arrive, he parks the truck, gets out first. Opens my door. Helps me down.
The cold hits my legs, but I barely notice it before I’m backed up against the truck and his hands are on my face. His mouth inches from mine.
“Can I come inside?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He groans and kisses me.
Chapter 8
Willa
Webarelymakeitto the kitchen. My back hits the stainless steel prep table with a thud, a metal bowl clattering to the floor. I don’t care.
Sebastian shrugs off his jacket, pulls off mine, and tosses them aside without a second thought.
His hands find the hem of my sweater dress and shove it up. He tugs down my leggings, slow and rough. I gasp as air kisses my thighs. He curses low when he sees the lace of my underwear.
"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" His voice is rough, thick with need.
One hand slides along my outer thigh, then up to my hip, across my stomach. He presses his palm flat just above my panties, feeling the softness there. The give of me.
My body goes still. I brace for the comment. The judgment I’ve heard before.
But all he says is, "You’re so beautiful." His voice drops, reverent. "Every damn inch of you."
A soft sound slips out of me. Relief and hunger tangled together. He catches it with his mouth.
His hands grip my ass, lifting me onto the table. My legs fall open around his hips. I feel his cock through his jeans—hot and hard—and the ache inside me deepens.
"Take off your pants," I whisper against his lips.
He lets out a low, dangerous laugh. "Yes, ma’am."
