“Yes. Oh yes.” Her pussy squeezed my dick, and I swear to God, I’m coming again.
We ride out the pleasure, until she collapses onto my chest, her breath warm against my neck.
"Going to uncuff me now?" I need to touch her. Hold her.
She raises her head, mischief dancing in her eyes. "I don't know. I kind of like you this way."
"Just remember," I say, grinning up at her, "payback's a bitch."
Her laugh fills the room, and I know with absolute certainty that whatever comes next, we’re going to be okay. It might be hard. We might butt heads. But we’re going to make it.
OLIVIA
I wake to the scent of pine and cinnamon drifting through the air.
Christmas morning. For the first time since Dad died, the day feels special.
The bed beside me is empty, but warm. I rest my hand on my stomach, thinking about next Christmas when our baby will be here.
"You're awake." Dom stands in the doorway, holding two mugs of something steaming. His smile makes my heart skip.
"Merry Christmas," I say, sitting up against the pillows.
For years, Christmas was just another day to get through. I'd keep the TV on for background noise while I sorted through case files, ordering Chinese takeout and opening the obligatory gift basket from the office. Dad and I used to make Christmas special, pancakes shaped like reindeer, silly gifts, watching old movies together. After he died, celebrating felt like a betrayal.
But Dom has transformed his home into something from a holiday catalog.
A massive tree stretches to the ceiling downstairs, covered in ornaments.
Garlands wind up the staircase.
Last night, we hung stockings by the fireplace, mine next to his, like we've been doing this for years instead of a couple of weeks.
"La Corona Christmas starts at three," Dom says, handing me a mug of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream. "We have all morning to ourselves.”
He sits beside me, his free hand finding mine. I lean against his shoulder, savoring the quiet moment.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For making Christmas feel like Christmas again."
It's been two weeks since I killed Blackwood.
Two weeks since I watched a man I'd trusted for years point a gun at me with the intention of ending my life, even knowing I was pregnant.
The memory still jolts me awake some nights, but Dom is always there to wrap me up and make me feel safe again.
"You're thinking too hard," Dom murmurs, pressing his lips to my temple.
"Just processing," I reply, taking a sip of hot chocolate. "It's strange how quickly everything changed."
When Dom first suggested using his "people" to handle the Blackwood situation, my FBI training screamed in protest. I'd spent my career believing in systems and protocols, not backroom deals and off-the-books solutions.
But watching Dom's detective friend, a decorated detective who apparently has been on the Vitale payroll for years, handle everything with meticulous care showed me another side of Dom's world.
The official story: Special Agent Blackwood attacked me during an investigation, and I fired in self-defense.
