Within moments we are under the patchwork quilt my Gran made for me when I was in the seventh grade with Marcel’s cock nudging my upper thigh, already dewy with his arousal. The wind howls outside, rattling the attic window, but up here the world feels small and safe. He kisses my shoulder and neck and I laugh.
He gives me an odd grin. “What’s funny?” He settles in closer and his stiff cock is now laying across my belly.
I gesture around at the slanted ceiling, the little shelf lined with old paperbacks, the tiny window that still frames the stars.
“This was my whole universe when I was a kid. I always dreamed of having a boy in my bed. I’d think of him climbing up to the attic to rescue me from—well, I didn’t have anything to be rescued from really, but I always wanted him to sweep me off my feet.”
That was my childhood fantasy, but honestly, having Marcel’s tall muscular body next to mine in my tiny bed is sort of a dream come true.
There’s something vulnerable in his eyes that I don’t expect. “And he never came.” Marcel sounds sad.
“I mean, he’s here, and he is sweeping me off of my feet at the moment. But he’s not going to take me anywhere and he will be gone soon. But like I said, I don’t need saving.” I sigh, because maybe I do. I look at Marcel and I think for a moment he’s having the same thoughts.
Marcel cups my face, his thumb tracing the edge of my cheek. The storm roars outside, but all I hear is his voice, low and rough. “Juliet ...” Then he kisses me with a hunger that steals my breath.
The quilt is soft between us and the creak of the old mattress mingles with the storm outside as Marcel positions himself over me. There isn’t much space in my bed. If he lays beside me, his butt is probably hanging off the mattress.
“Maybe we should do this in your bed?” The guest bed is full-sized at least.
“I like it here,” he says as his fingers dance around my nipple. “The bed is small, but I can imagine you sleeping here with all your romantic notions and childhood dreams, but more importantly, it forces us to be—close.
His touch is sure but gentle, and his gaze searches my eyes for permission. He moves with an intensity that leaves me trembling, but every motion feels like a question, an offering. He listens to my breath, my small sounds, adjusting as if my comfort is his only goal as he starts to trace his hand over my body.
He dips his head to my breast and sucks on a nipple, not hard, like he had on the plane, but with a soft, warm tug. He does the same on the other side and I feel myself grow slick.
He checks between my legs and smiles. “You like me being here too,” he says, feeling my arousal as my heartbeat quickens and I struggle to breathe.
“I guess I do,” I breathlessly confess.
The world outside disappears. There is only the warmth of his body against mine, the familiar scent of cedar and snow lingering on his skin, and the quiet reverence in the way he whispers my name.
“Juliet.”
It sounds like a prayer.
“You are a beautiful person inside and out. Show me your world, here in your room and outside, where life is harder. I want to see Christmas and the community through your eyes.”
As the wind lashes against the house, pelting more snow, I bury my face against his neck and he holds me as though he can shield me from the storm, from the world, from everything.
“Perhaps it is a brighter place than the world I see through my own.”
I look at him and know he means it. “Does this mean I get a few more days with you?”
“A few.” He gives me a flirty smile and tickles between my legs.
“Oh, I have condoms,” I say diving to the bedside table. After seeing Marcel at work, I picked a package up on my way home, slightly hopeful.
“Do we need them?” He gives me a curious glance as he takes the little foil package.
“Just in case. Who knows how many Whos the Grinch has gotten into,” I tease.
“You’re the only Who I plan on opening this Christmas, but we can never be too safe.” He puts the condom on and returns to his place between my legs.
We lie tangled beneath Gran’s quilt, my head resting over his heartbeat. His fingers draw lazy circles on my tit, and for a fleeting moment, I let myself believe this could be us, one day for real. That maybe even a man who swears he’ll never trust again can find his heart.
Chapter Fourteen
Marcel
