Page 16 of Unholy Night
"Tell me," I whisper, fingers threading through his hair.
"I love you." The words tear from him like a confession under torture. "Christ, I fucking love you, and that scares me more than any bullet."
The admission hangs between us, raw and unexpected. I can feel him start to pull back emotionally, regretting the vulnerability. But I won't let him retreat.
"Look at me," I demand, and when his dark eyes meet mine, I let him see everything. "I…"
But I can't say it yet. The words stick in my throat, too big, too dangerous. Instead, I pull his mouth back to mine, kissing him with all the devotion I can't voice.
"Tell me you're mine while I'm inside you," he demands, his control snapping as he drives deeper. "Let me hear it."
"Yours, Tomas. Today, this Christmas, I'm only yours."
We move together with desperate intensity, the tenderness giving way to something darker, more primal. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, marking me in ways that will last for days. His cock fills me completely, each thrust making me cry out against his shoulder. My pussy clenches around him, drawing him deeper, never wanting this connection to end.
When we finish, we stay entwined on the rug, neither willing to break the spell. The scratch of his morning stubble against my breast makes me shiver as he traces lazy patterns on my skin.
"The pancakes," I finally murmur.
"Fuck the pancakes," he says, but there's a smile in his voice. "We'll order Chinese. Do crosswords. Call it a new tradition."
My laugh surprises us both. "Christmas Chinese food and crosswords. My grandmother would be scandalized."
"My mother would be thrilled I'm doing anything normal." He kisses my forehead, gentle as snow. "Stay. Not just through the storm. Stay after."
The choice should be impossible. My life, my career, everything I've worked for is in the city. I know this is career suicide, that I'm betraying every oath I took. But lying here in his arms, I realize I've already chosen.
"Yes," I whisper, and feel him exhale against me like I've just given him absolution. "Yes, I'll stay."
An hour later, we've managed the pancakes despite several flour-related incidents that required immediate shower intervention. Now we're sprawled on the couch, sharing sections of his crossword puzzle book, the perfect picture of domestic peace. His gun sits on the coffee table between us and the door, always between us and the door, a constant reminder of what he is.
"Seven letters, starts with D," he says, pencil tapping against his lips. "Christmas song."
"'Drummer,' as in 'Little Drummer Boy.'"
"You're ridiculously good at this." He fills in the squares with his precise handwriting. "Though I suppose lawyers need word games."
"Prosecutors," I correct, then catch myself. "Former prosecutor, I guess. Pretty sure sleeping with the enemy violates several ethical codes."
"The best things usually do."
He pulls me closer, but his eyes drift to the window again, checking. Always checking. Something's making him nervous, some instinct I don't understand yet.
"We should decorate," I announce suddenly, trying to ease his tension.
"With what? My weapon collection?"
"It's Christmas. This cabin needs a tree."
But he doesn't protest when I drag him outside to cut pine branches from the surrounding forest. He insists on going first, walking the perimeter before letting me follow. We fashion a small tree from what we gather, propping it in a corner of the living room where, I notice, it doesn't block his view of either the door or windows.
"You're destroying Aurelius," he points out as I fold a paper star from one of his philosophy books, his voice carrying that wild edge even in amusement.
"I'm transforming him into joy. He'd approve."
"He literally wrote that joy is a symptom of prosperity, not a cause."
"And yet here you are, prosperous in all the ways that matter, experiencing joy." I hang the star on our makeshift tree nervously as his intensity seems to ratchet higher. "Seems like he was wrong."
