The knock at the door comes too soon, but he drapes the sheets over me and grabs a robe for himself. I watch as he wheels the trolley inside. The aromas hit me immediately. Rich, savory meat and buttery pasta. We dive in right there on the bed, feeding each other bites between kisses. He spears a ravioli on his fork, the lobster bursting juicy and tender as I close my lips around it, sauce dribbling down my chin. He licks it clean, his tongue tracing a path to my neck, sucking lightly until I shiver and arch into him.
Full and sated from the meal, the wine warming my veins like liquid velvet, I push the plates aside and straddle him again. His cock stands rigid now, veined and flushed, the head glistening with pre-cum as I wrap my hand around its base, stroking slowly from root to tip. He hisses through his teeth, hips lifting to meet my touch, but his hands come up to cup mybreasts, thumbs flicking over my nipples until they're taut peaks aching for more.
I guide him to my entrance, sinking down inch by inch, the stretch delicious and full, his thickness filling me completely as my walls clench around him. We move together, unhurried at first. My hips circle, grinding my clit against his pelvis with each downward thrust, sparks building into flames. His fingers dig into my thighs, guiding my rhythm, and he sits up to capture a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, teeth grazing just enough to send jolts straight to my core.
The pace quickens, my breaths coming in pants as I ride him harder, the wet slap of our bodies echoing in the room. He thrusts up to meet me, deep and relentless, one hand sliding between us to rub frantic circles over my clit. Pleasure coils tight, then shatters. I cry out, muscles contracting around his cock as waves crash through me, leaving me trembling and slick.
He flips us without pulling out, pinning me beneath him, his weight a welcome anchor as he drives in deeper, the angle hitting that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. Sweat slicks our skin, his mouth claiming mine in a bruising kiss, and I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him on. He comes with a roar, buried to the hilt, hot pulses flooding me as his body shudders.
We collapse in a heap, laughter bubbling up from both of us, now exhausted. Euphoric giggles turn into soft kisses and whispered promises. The fire dims and for the first time in forever, Hope Peak feels like it can wait.
Chapter 14
Graham
The day drags in that slow way where anticipation gathers under my skin like a living thing. I move through my meetings, calls, and project notes. None of it lands the way it usually does. Everything feels muted, except my thoughts of Willow.
I keep replaying yesterday and last night in my mind. Willow in my arms. Willow beneath me. Willow looking at me like I was something she finally let herselfwantinstead of something she had to fight. Now, I’m only thinking about tonight.
♥♥♥
By mid-afternoon, I’m walking through Hope Peak’s historic shopping district, the cold biting at my face. I pass a small antique-gift shop with a pine garland draped over the window and a carved wooden sign swinging gently in the wind. Something pulls me inside this unusual shop with its warmlamplight. A bell tinkles above the door as I enter. I notice almost every business in town has these.
I’m not ten steps in before I see it … a velvet-lined display box near the counter with an ornate key inside. It seems to be made of brass. It’s beautifully aged with decorative cutouts at the head. You can tell it was hand-forged, a relic of a long-forgotten era of craftsmanship.
It looks like something Hearthstone Lodge would have used decades ago. It could have been the key that unlocked one of the suites or the manager’s office. Perhaps, it unlocked a room guests were never allowed to see.
“Back from the 1940s,” the shop owner says. “Found it in an estate sale. Lodge keys used to look like that.”
I turn slowly. “Hearthstone?”
She nods. “That’s the rumor.”
I swallow a breath. This isn't a coincidence. This is timing rising up to meet me.
“I’ll take it,” I say.
She smiles. “Beautiful piece. Want it boxed?”
“Yes, and …” I pause, imagining Willow’s eyes softening, the way her breath catches when she feels something deeply. “Tie a red ribbon around it.”
She beams. “Simple and elegant. You’re a Christmas romantic. I like your style.”
I almost laugh. My style. If she only knew how deeply I’m improvising.
“So,” she says as she wraps it carefully in tissue paper and nestles it in a small box, “who’s the lucky recipient?”
“Someone who deserves something meaningful.”
“I’ll add a bow,” she says, tying a thin strip of dark red satin. When the box is done, she hands it over like she’s giving me something sacred. And maybe she is.
Before I leave, I drift toward the back of the shop, where toys sit neatly organized on shelves — wooden trains, stuffed animals, dolls, craft kits. Most are still here despite the season.
I stand there for a long moment taking a mental inventory of the vast amount of toys here so close to Christmas. When the owner walks over, I ask, “How many of these do you have? Are there more in storage?”
“This is all of them.” She glances at the shelves. “Business has been slow.”
“I’ll take the lot.”
