“Let’s go home, and I’ll show you what I’m thinking,” he says.
Home. The word brings me joy, and the word brings me sorrow.
It’s only our home for a little over a week more. Only that short time left to decorate Christmas cookies with Belle. To wrap the last of the gifts. To make Ronan smile and laugh and to learn to decipher all his moods. Only that short time left to feel like I have a home and family of my own.
And that’s the part that’s so dangerous. It’s not my home. And it’s not my family. I’m deceiving myself to think of these people as mine. I’m just a girl who is in between lives. And I’m pretending that this role I’ve stepped into is real.
But it’s not.
It is real. A stubborn, rebellious part of me insists, though.
Itisreal. It’s temporary. But it’s real.
And deep in my heart, I believe it, despite it all. My love for Ronan is real, my love for Belle is real, for the things they do for me and the way they make me feel. And I’m going to hold onto every bit of it for as long as I can.
CHAPTER28
8 DAYS TO CHRISTMAS (STILL)
Ronan
Tonight.
We’re going to make love tonight.
Make love.I’ve never said—or thought—those words before now. I’m not a manwhore like Sebastian, but I’ve fucked. Many, many times. That’s what sex has always been for me.
Now, it’s all different. Because Poppy is different. And I’m different. With her.
I’ve imaginedmaking love, having sex, fucking Poppy a thousand times in the last few months. And I’ve thought about this moment all night. The moment I would get her alone.
I imagined us barely making it past the front door before I unzip her dress and watch it pool around her in a puddle of Christmas red.
How she’d step out of it, in just her heels, wearing the panties I bought for her today. Underwear custom embroidered with only one word.Saturday.
That was one scenario I imagined for the night.
Or, I pictured us making out in the car, like we were kids in high school, because we were too impatient to wait.
Or perhaps I’d carry her to the bedroom, kicking the door open and laying her spread out on the bed. A feast for me to devour.
But it’s not like any of that.
When we pull up to the house in the car, I curse the historic home’s lack of a covered garage.
The snow falls in earnest now, and the pathway to the door is covered in icy snow. Poppy’s new heels aren’t up to the job, so after a few minutes of her slipping, I sweep her into my arms and carry her up the steps.
After her initial yelp of surprise, she clings to my collar and buries her head in my chest. “You smell good,” she murmurs throatily.
Lust slams into me, and I can’t wait to get her into the house so I can take her against the door.
But when I insert the key, turn the handle, and the door swings open, I cross the threshold with her in my arms, and everything changes.
We enter the dark house in silence, in something approaching reverence. It feels almost like a wedding night. Her in my arms, the anticipation of making love for the first time.
It should freak me out. But it doesn’t. It’s just right.
And the only thing that feels wrong is that this isn’t the first night in a lifetime. I’ll have to give her up in a week. But I push aside this thought.
