Page 46 of The Twelve Days of Christian
He reaches across, cupping my chin, turning my head in his direction, forcing me to meet his eyes. Mine dart back and forth, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. But his expression is kind, and I let out the breath I was holding.
He’s so beautiful like this. The hard angular line of his bearded jaw softened by his lips, plump and bruised from our frantic kisses. His blue eyes that can flash with ice now gaze upon me, soft as faded denim. His dark hair sticks up, dishevelled from my fingers threading through it, and I can’t help it. They find their way back, sinking into the lush thickness, as I coax his mouth against mine.
“You know I want you,” he murmurs into the kiss, his voice low and raspy. “But not only like that.” A swallow ripples down his throat. “And I hoped you might want me for more than that, too.”
I draw back with a gentle nod. I get what he’s saying. Christian is an object of lust. Women desire him; fantasise about him. But they don’t know him. I admire the way he’s set this standard for himself. He’s decided he deserves better than an unthinking hookup based on raw physical attraction, or someone taking the opportunity to grab a celebrity trophy. Even though he knows that’s not what drives me into his arms, still he’s asking for more before we cross the line.
“I do want you for more than that,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. I think so much has happened this last week, and then today—I got a bit carried away. Overwhelmed.”
I haven’t had sex with a man since Jack. Haven’t even wanted to for almost a year. I’ve fobbed them off, choosing the safety of satiating my own needs behind my bedroom door, alone in the dark with only my pretty mauve vibrator for company. But tonight, my desperate body said yes. Perhaps it knows what my heart doesn’t:going down this road with Christian is not going to leave me cruelly dumped. He’s a better man than that.
“Haley, don’t apologise. It’s OK,” he says, brushing a strand of tangled hair away from my face. “But I figure we should take it slow. After all, I’ve learned to be very patient where you’re concerned.” His mouth tips up at the corners. “There’s no need to hurry. We’ve got all the time in the world to see where this goes.”
I want to say we haven’t. That by the time he leaves this house next week, I need to know where this is going. If it’s even going anywhere at all.
There will certainly be speculation; most likely criticism, and not only from strangers who think Christian’s fame gives them the right to an opinion. People close to us, especially Ollie, will be shocked by this sudden pairing. It could be a rough ride, and not one I’m sure I want to take unless I know it’s worth surviving for the sake of this relationship. But I stay silent, not wanting to give voice to the pressure I feel from the deadline hanging over us.
Instead, I place one last delicate kiss on his mouth and snuggle into him. Taking it slow never felt so good as his body, hard muscle yet tender softness, wrapped tight against me, his grip protective.
Yes, I often push back against those who only want to care for me, fearful they’ll stifle the person I’m working hard to become. But somehow, with Christian, it feels more equal, as we both find refuge in each other’s arms.
I’m like a puppy, soothed by the ticking of a clock in its basket, as I relax into the rhythm of his breathing and the steady beat of his heart. My own matches it, slowed from the wild thumping of minutes ago. We lay face to face on the wide couch, me with my cheek tucked into his shoulder. His broad arm drapes around mywaist and, bit by bit, I dissolve into sleep; no fear of falling, no fear of anything.
I’m so deep in, I don’t even hear the tapping of dog feet in the middle of the night. I stir a little as Christian unwinds himself from me. There’s the nudge of a wet nose on my hand and I attempt to sit up, but he holds me back, whispering against my ear.
“I’ll go.”
He clambers over me, pulling the patchwork quilt back up to my chin. A treasured gift from my Gran, with its hand-stitched blocks of Christmas stars in red, green and gold, it’s also super warm. I snuggle beneath it. The fire is now a faint glowing heap of embers, but the central heating on its thermostat has kicked up a notch, and the gentle hum of hot air fills the room. Still, it feels good to huddle under the blanket now Christian’s warm body is no longer pressed against mine.
I listen to their footsteps; his muffled by socks, soft and even; the dogs’ a noisy random staccato. The back door rattles open and a trickle of cold air drifts up the passageway.
“Hurry up, girls. It’s fucking freezing,” I hear him hiss before pulling the door closed with a thud. The thought of him out there, watching over them, like he watches over me, even when it’s the middle of a winter night, tugs at my heart. This man.
My mouth tips up in a smile at how easy this feels. Christian, for all his chaotic current situation and his patchy past, blends into my life with an unexpected ease. But I’m still wary.
I lie in the half-dark, moonlight slanting through the bay window, bouncing off the gleaming tinsel on the tree. Will I be like that tree—at the moment, a bright shiny thing, glittering and alluring—yet underneath, come January, when you strip it all off, just something ordinary with nothing special to offer? Something to discard until next year’s new one comes along?
Christian has been obsessed with the idea of me for a long time. Conjured up an image of me in his mind, based on a few sparse encounters where our lives have brushed up against each other’s, woven with second-hand knowledge of me from my brother. He’s fantasised about this. But I’m no fantasy princess, just an ordinary girl. How can I even hope for the reality of me and what this is, this ordinary life, to measure up to his imagination?
Still, maybe I can indulge in his adoration for a while, even if it doesn’t last. As long as I prepare for the possibility of it being a short flash of something, bolstering me through what has been a tough time. God knows, it’s certainly taken my mind off the Jack and Paige show. Tucked in this cocoon, Christian and I can explore in safety. If it dissolves into nothing at the end of these twelve days, no one will know except us.
We won’t have to deal with Ollie going all overprotective. He suggested taking a hit out on Jack when he found out about the wedding, and I’m not sure he was joking. Ollie’s unlikely to be quite so extreme when it’s Christian, but it’s still safer if he doesn’t know until we’re certain. I’m not going to be the one who unnecessarily drives a wedge between my brother and his best friend.
Sam and Rachel both know Christian’s here. It’s probably better if they continue to think he’s simply a surprise house guest, a roommate who’s become a friend. While they are both more trusting of my judgement, neither are likely to consider a sudden impulsive hookup wise, especially when my emotions are extra fragile around the wedding. I’m not in the mood for even a gentle suggestion that this is a bad idea.
We are sheltered from prying media or lurking paparazzi desperate to thrust our tentative relationship into the spotlight or revel in its demise. There’s no way I’m ready for that sort of exposure, and I wonder if I ever will be. There are huge consequences in joining my life to Christian’s. But I don’t have to deal with those at the moment.
Even if Christian is destined to become a fond memory to look back on as we go our separate ways, I can enjoy this while it lasts. And, if, although perhaps unlikely, it should become more, then it will be better than what I hoped for.
The returning dogs crash towards me, each offering a quick lick as I extend a hand. They climb back onto the armchairs, and are settled into furry balls, noses tucked between paws by the time Christian arrives. I hear the swish of him rubbing his hands together and huffing breaths on them.
“Snowing yet?” I ask.
“A few flakes,” he says. “It’s like ice out there. See.”
He lays his mouth on mine, his lips chilly.
“Get back under the blankets,” I mumble against them. “I’ll warm you up.”
