Page 112 of The Holiday Heartbreaker

What was good. What was bad.

What made him good or bad.

Because he didn’t have an answer. To which it was.

He knew one thing, though. He knew that he wanted her, and right now, he had her.

And that was enough. It had to be enough. Because it was all he damn well had.

The fierce pleasure of her body closed around his, the deep satisfaction of being buried inside her. Of listening to her cries of pleasure even as he sought his own.

He had that.

And it was good.

She was good. He was certain of that. Of all the things in this world he couldn’t make sense of, he knew this for sure.

She whimpered, and he reached down and pinched her nipple, and he felt her climax ripple around him. And he chased his own, unable to hold back. Unable to stop himself.

“Lizzie,” he said, the name fractured on his lips, fractured in his soul, a jagged mirror reflecting pieces of himself that he wasn’t ready to see.

But he needed her all the same.

Even if he wasn’t ready.

That was the problem. He wasn’t ready for her.

He didn’t think he ever would be.

But here they were.

Here they were.

He lay with her under the tree. Looking up into those lights and dark green branches. Something he imagined kids did. Kids who didn’t have ogres for fathers and absentee mothers. Kids who hadn’t been in foster care and never felt like the home they were in wasn’t theirs.

Kids who were comfortable. Secure and safe.

Except, nothing about him felt childlike at the moment.

He was glad of that. And as he drifted off to sleep beneath the Christmas tree, he thought this was probably a singular moment. To feel thoroughly debauched and thoroughly innocent, all at once.

And he thought it was probably only Elizabeth who could ever make him feel that.

He was looking forward to Christmas.

He couldn’t remember ever thinking that before.

He fell asleep with his lips curved into a smile.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SHE WOKE UP EARLY, with Brody still tangled around her. On the floor, of all things.

She was half out of that wild outfit that she had worn for him last night. It made her feel so confident. So... Not her. And it had been wonderful.

And then somewhere, midway through making love to him, she realized she did feel like herself. The self that was emerging through this whole affair. Much more confident. Sexual. A woman designed to feel pleasure, not just serve other people. Who actually enjoyed her body.

It was a gift. He was a gift.

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