Page 47 of Tied Up In Tinsel
I kept my eyes fixed on the glass.
“Annie.”
Just my name. Firm, commanding, cutting through my silence.
I knew the second I looked at him, I’d fall apart. There was something about Brooks—about the steadiness in his gaze, the quiet patience in his touch—that made walls crumble before I could reinforce them. He had this unshakable presence that coaxed honesty out of me, even when I wanted to hide behind practiced smiles.
Part of me wanted to fight it. To hold on to the fragments of control I had left.
Another part—the exhausted, aching part—wondered if maybe, just maybe, it was safe to let go here.
So, I did.
I looked directly at him and just as I feared, the tears came. They slid down my cheeks in quiet streams, but I sat tall, letting them fall into my lap instead of hiding them.
Brooks reached out, his hand steady and open. I slipped mine into his, and in the next heartbeat I was shifting onto my knees, setting my wine glass on the table, and falling into him. He opened an arm, strong and sure, and I fit perfectly against him, like I’d been there a hundred times before.
He was solid, warm, the exact comfort I didn’t realize I’d been aching for. His chest rose and fell beneath my cheek, the steady rhythm soothing me more than words could.
I laced my fingers with his, lifting our joined hands into the faint firelight. My gaze traced over his tattoos, the ink curling and wrapping across his skin like a map of places and stories I didn’t know yet.
“Tell me about them,” Brooks murmured, his voice low and gentle.
I shook my head. My throat closed, heavy with everything I wasn’t ready to let out. “I can’t.”
The words landed between us, fragile but final.
“I just don’t like to feel,” I admitted softly, almost ashamed. “I don’t like to fall apart, especially now. Especially for Ruby. This time of year should be about magic, not… grief.”
His hand flexed in mine. “I know. And for the record, you do a damn good job of keeping it together.”
A dry laugh escaped me. “Maybe too good.”
“This year’s been different though, hasn’t it?” His tone was easy, but there was a pull beneath it, like he was tugging me toward something he wanted me to say.
My head rested against his broad chest as I tilted my chin, meeting his gaze. His blue eyes pinned me in place.
“I’ve been able to hold it together much longer.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’ve had the perfect distraction,” I confessed.
Brooks smirked, shaking his head. “So you’re using me?”
“Maybe.”
His hand slid up, cupping my jaw as he pulled me to him. His kiss was long, firm, unapologetically deep. Heat flared inside me, burning away the edges of sorrow.
“I like it when you use me, Red,” he murmured against my lips.
Warmth rushed through my veins, the kind of warmth that left no room for grief. I melted into him, kissing him lazily, hungrily, while the fire crackled. His hands roamed, strong and certain, gripping me like he didn’t intend to let me go.
I wanted more. Needed more.
Shifting, I swung a leg over him, straddling his waist. His breath hitched against my mouth, but he didn’t stop me.
Kiss after kiss, I leaned into him, grinding slowly against the growing hardness pressing up beneath me. My tights did nothing to dull the sensation—if anything, the thin barrier only made me crave him more.
