“I do.” The smile drops from my face. “But it’s cold as a witch’s tit out here and I’m worried about your feet.”
“Yeah.” She turns to give the river one last yearning look and that delay, that one moment, is when I know we’ll last forever.
I can’t explain it. It’s not something my brain gets, it’s a knowledge that slips in and wraps around my heart. It’s the bittersweet way she looks at things, so full of joy, but also the sadness of the inevitable goodbye. Even now, in this moment, she feels pulled in two directions. Stay or go. Enjoy this or the next thing.
It’s such an odd feeling to step back from this moment and see myself in a week, a month, a decade, and realize that, in the never-ending ebb and flow of life, I could be a constant. A rock.
For her.
It’s not aplaceshe needs, it’s a home.
“We can stay if you want,” I tell her, well aware that my insides have shifted in some inexplicable way. “Give you my socks.”
“Would you?”
“In a heartbeat.”
She blinks up at me, looking stunned, her smile wiped away. “That’s…the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Well, you haven’t seen my socks.” I give her a peck on the red tip of her nose, which leads to a kiss that deepens. I tighten my hold and she molds herself to me with that little whimper I already love. We’re halfway to spending the bloody night out here when something cold and wet hits my forehead, followed by another light plop on my nose.
I wipe it off and lick into her mouth, which tastes like cinnamon and sugar and—
“Oh my God,” she pulls away, looks up, and squeals. “Is it snowing?”
My eyes focus out over the river, where a boat’s just chugging by, all lit up and full of couples dancing, then above it, to where the air is studded with a million tiny moving pinpricks of white. It smells like water on wet pavement and…snow. “Looks like it.”
“Think it’ll stick?”
I shrug. “Got no idea, have I?” A cursory look at the sidewalk shows a wet sheen that’ll be murder on those shoes. “Come on. Don’t want you slip-sliding all over. Let’s get you home and out of those heels, shall we?” We start back across the street, Jules with her head thrown back, her mouth wide open to catch the snowflakes. I tighten my hold on her hand and make sure she doesn’t fall, drag her up when she starts to slide, and keep an eye out for other dangers, such as cars or curbs or the ground.
Occasionally, she’ll giggle and throw a look my way, sharing a hint of all that delight, and I’ve never once felt as blessed as I do right at this moment.
She’s an angel. I should sing songs to her or twirl her about. I should wrap her up in cotton wool and make sure nothing ever hurts her again.
But no matter what the tale says, you can’t reform a real Scrooge in one day. So, when I lean in and tell her what I’m going to do to her, it’s got nothing to do with fairies or sunshine or sugar frosting and everything to do with my prick.
“Let’s get you home, sweetheart, slip that lovely dress off, and see how those lips look stretched around my cock, shall we?”
When she moans, kicks off her shoes in a rush, and sprints down the cobbled alley towards our building, I decide that I have, indeed, finally met my match.
With a happy sigh, I gather up her absurd little shoes, and follow her home.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
Jules
I’m gasping for air by the time we make it to his door. Five flights’ll do that, after a race down a bunch of uneven, cobblestoned alleys. And no way was I risking the elevator at this point. Been there, done that, got the hickeys to prove it.
The climb was worth it, though, totally. In a flash, he unlocks and shoves open his door and we stumble inside. By the time he’s turned back from locking us in, I’ve dropped to my knees.
“Fuck me. Are you for real, love?”
“Are you?” I pant, grabbing at his zipper.
It’s down, his cock springs free, bobs forward with a weighty thunk, and my lips are on him.
“Oh, fuck, you naughty girl,” he says, his voice low and melodious in a way I’ve never heard it. “Look at that tiny mouth. So fucking adorable.”
