Page 58 of Holly Ever After

I swear I almost moan out loud as a shiver rakes through me.

This is dangerous, my inability to walk away from this man when he’s looking at me like he’s found the Holy Grail.

He shouldn’t look at me like that. I’m not sure if I want to kiss him or strangle him with some tinsel.

He runs his thumb over my lips, his other hand already working the buttons of my jeans.

For fuck’s sake, Holly, it’s not too late to walk away from this.

Once is dangerous. Twice is nuclear.

“Cold?” he asks as his hand slips into my panties, his finger instantly rolling circles on my clit.

Fuck it. We’re going nuclear.

My eyes roll, my hands reaching out to grab his biceps. “A little.”

“Well then,” he says, his arm caging me in at the side of my head as his other hand works me into a frenzy. He slips a thick finger inside me, and my legs lose the ability to hold me upright. “I’m making it my personal responsibility to see that you’re warmed up.”

The room temperature soars. Lists, snow, and everything else momentarily fade away. My ability to think or speak coherently is officially compromised, and I don’t think I’ll ever run out of inspiration for my books again.

Twenty-Two

Sean

“You kept it,” I note as my fingers trace the amateur carvings on the small wooden decoration. The edges are rough, the design slightly asymmetrical, and Holly's name is etched into it, the letters jagged from the hand of a fourteen-year-old boy who barely knew what he was doing.

Back then, things were tough. Ma and I were scraping by, and the idea of Christmas gifts was more of a luxury we dreamt of rather than a reality we lived. So, I made this. I remember the embarrassment like it was yesterday, the burning in my cheeks as I handed everyone their individual decorations, crudely crafted pieces of wood.

And now, here it is. Years later. She kept it.

The realization does something strange to my chest, like my heart's trying to fight its way out or maybe just swell to keep all these emotions inside. I'm not sure which.

Holly steps beside me then, two cold beers in hand, her presence a familiar comfort. She's quiet for a moment, her gaze following mine to the decoration. I feel her take a breath, maybe to say something, but then she stops. Even in the dim light, I can see the pink tinting her cheeks.

She shrugs, a small, sheepish move. “It was a gift,” she says, her voice quiet. “And it's beautiful. In its own unique way.”

I turn to her, my hand leaving the ornament to take one of the beers she's offering.

She grins, but it falters, and she looks back at the tree, at the ornament. “I’ve always loved it.”

After a sip of her beer, she glances around the room, taking in the flickering candlelight and the fire I've managed to keep alive. “You know, you did a pretty good job with this place.”

I rear back mockingly. “What’s with the compliments? You sick?”

“Shut up, Sean,” she retorts, but she's smiling as she says it, and that smile is enough to make me want to pick her up and carry her back into the bedroom. We’ve hardly left it all day, but I don’t think I’ll ever get enough.

Whatever dreams of mine she possessed over the years weren’t anything like this. They were mundane compared to reality, and I’m afraid it’s already too late. She’s ruined me. I’m an addict.

We each take another drink of our beers before moving over to the couch. She sits down first and pulls a blanket over her lap, settling into the cushions. I can't help but think she's trying to put layers between us—like a simple blanket would do her any good.

That makes me smile. It's a cocky smile, and I'm aware of it, but I can't help it. Now that I've had her, no amount of blankets, physical distance, or mental barriers is going to protect her from me. Not while we’re in this house. Not when we've crossed a line I never thought we'd cross, one that's shifted the ground beneath me in a way that's as terrifying as it is thrilling.

I sit down next to her, close but not touching, and it takes everything in me not to close that small gap. Our eyes meet over the rims of our bottles.

Blushing, maybe from the beer or the tension or both, she suddenly blurts out, “Let's play twenty questions.”

I scoff. “What are you? Twelve?”

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