Not just for those poor trapped women and girls… but for us, our story within the story. Julian could still turn on us. He could still hate us both when all this is over.
“It doesn’t matter,” he whispers huskily.
“It does–to me.”
He grits his teeth.
“Say it,” I whisper, a daring note in my voice. “Just… just say it, Damian.”
“I never thought I could have a future.”
A gasp punches out of me.
“But you do now?”
“I’ve been off the dating market for too long. I thought I was going to die alone. And I’d made my peace with that. But with you, my head does funny things.”
I know what he’s talking about. We’ve been through so much, with tension running high, we’re bound to say things that would seem ridiculous if we were just two regular people dating.
“What’s this future, huh?” I say.
He hesitates.
I put my hand on his chest and feel his heart thundering against my palm. “Hypothetically, then…”
“Hypothetically,” he murmurs, “I can imagine having children, a family. I never thought I’d want that, never thought I deserved it. I can imagine Christmases and cocoa and decorations, and even if it makes me think of my parents, I’d put my family’s happiness before my own…”
“Grumpiness?” I offer.
He smiles sadly. “Yeah, exactly that. When I’m with you, being grumpy doesn’t feel as effortless as it did once upon a time.”
I shift in his lap, feeling his firmness, feeling how badly he wants to let go. But he doesn’t give in to the desire.
Inappropriate wetness gathers between my legs, my body aching the more time we spend close together, his hand squeezing my leg and the other braced on my back. I squeeze my legs together in an attempt to control myself.
I shouldn’t want this–not now, not after what I’ve lived through, not with Julian sleeping upstairs.
But I also know that being with him would mean I can forget about what happened for a while. We could disappear into each other and pretend none of that evil exists.
“What was Christmas like?” I ask. “Before the crash?”
His smile changes shape. “It was… it was wonderful. What?”
“What?” I echo.
“You’re looking at me like I’ve grown another head.”
“I just never thought I’d hear Mr. Grumpy use the wordwonderfulto describe Christmas.”
His hand trails over my back, tracing my scar. “My personal Christmas elf has strange effects on me…”
“So?” I prompt, the tingles intensifying.
Neither of us addresses the fact that he’s rock-solid as he pushes against me. It’s like a background hum of aching desire that we’re afraid to acknowledge… because then we’ll have to do something about it.
“It was magic,” he says. “Mom would gather us in the living room, and we’d argue over what decorations went where on the tree. Then they’d drink eggnog, and we’d sing Christmas music on the karaoke machine.”
“Yousang?”
