20
WE DON’T TALK about Beckett again. But we do walk what feels like every square inch of the farm. We stroll through the fields with hot chocolate from the bakehouse, past the “sleigh” and through the Hidden Gumdrop Forest.
Evelyn laughs when she sees the cluster of trees decked out in bright, colorful lights. It’s another surprise for families to stumble over, with a tunnel in the middle constructed out of old barrels for the kids to climb through. Layla calls it our tiny Lincoln Tunnel. Evelyn twirls around the trees, fingertips glancing over red, blue, and yellow lights.
“This place makes me feel like a kid again,” she says.
“Everyone should get to feel like a kid this time of year.”
It’s nice spending so much time in the fields. Once winter hits, I’m usually chained to my desk answering emails and handling the paperwork. I like the quiet, the stillness, the cold brush of winter air on my cheeks. I make a promise to myself to do this more often. Lose myself in the trees.
As we walk, we talk. An informal interview, I guess. Evelyn asks me about the farm, about why I bought it. All the changes I made last year and how I brought on Beckett and Layla. Luka is mentioned often, not in any sort of way to convince her of our romantic story but because he’s been with me through it all. I tell her how he brought me a bottle of champagne the first night I owned the place and we wandered out to the farthest pastures, laid flat on our backs beneath the stars, and drank ourselves silly. He told me that night he was proud of me, that he couldn’t imagine anything better than me here, doing this.
“He was right,” she tells me. “You’ve thought of everything. I know I’ve said it already, but this place is incredible. I can’t believe what you’ve
managed to accomplish in a year. I didn’t see what it looked like before, obviously, but you’ve got something special here.”
Pride warms me to the core. All I’ve ever wanted to do is make a little magic.
Talking to Evelyn is like talking to an old friend. It’s comfortable and easy, quick to dissolve into laughter. We wander through the pastures until our feet are numb with cold, bellies grumbling with the promise of a warm dinner. I can see smoke rising from the chimney as Evelyn loops her arm through mine, and we trudge down the last hill before the cottage.
“I never want to leave this place,” she says on a sigh, burrowing her face into the collar of her jacket.
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like,” I say, chin tilted up to the sky. The sun’s long since set, shorter days well and truly upon us. Tonight’s sky looks heavy with clouds, a different kind of stillness settling over the trees. “Open invitation.”
“I think the finalists I’m supposed to visit next week might have a problem with that,” she laughs.
“Do you like what you do? The traveling?”
“You know, I think you’re the first person in a while to ask me that.” She smiles at me, her eyes crinkling at the corners where they peek out from behind her scarf. The thought makes me sad, and I wonder how many people around her are close to her just for a taste of her influence. “I do like it. I like telling stories. That’s why I started all this.”
I’ve been following Evelyn for a while. She started on Instagram, posting photos of ordinary people with no filters, no editing. Sharing their stories and thoughts and dreams, even when it was uncomfortable. That slowly morphed into highlighting small businesses and then transitioned into what she has today. She showcases the hidden beauty up and down the coast, revealing places that people might not know exist. Small-town coffee shops, independent bookstores, nonprofits that help families put food on the table.
Those are the stories I love the most, the ones where a community comes together to support their own.
“But lately, I don’t know. It feels like some of my stories are written before I even take a look.” I know what she means. Most of her stuff these days is sponsored by companies trying to tap into the social influencer market. “I try to be discriminatory in who I work with, but social media is—I don’t enjoy it most days.”
“You mean you didn’t dream of being a social media influencer?”
She laughs and shakes her head. “I wanted to be a journalist. For a while, I thought social media was the best way to do that. But now I don’t know. I feel like I haven’t told a real story in a while. I just want to help people.” She knocks her shoulder into mine. “People like you, just trying to get their dream off the ground.”
“You’re helping me,” I tell her. Already our followers have tripled, more booking inquiries for reserved time slots than we’ve ever seen before. And Evelyn hasn’t posted the bulk of her content. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
“Everyone deserves to experience this place,” she says. A gust of wind lifts her hair, and she smiles, bright and disbelieving. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
I look up to where she’s looking, head tilted up. A light snow has begun to fall, fat snowflakes drifting silently from the heavy clouds above. The first snow of the year.
“A real-life North Pole,” she mutters faintly, a hint of awe in her voice.
I smile and look up at the sky. A perfect moment of holiday magic.
WE WALK IN the door of the cottage to a blast of Christmas jazz from the kitchen, the smell of warm butter and garlic and something sticky sweet.
Luka appears in the hallway with an apron on, a wooden spoon tucked in the front pocket. I have no idea where he found that thing, a dark midnight blue canvas material with SANTA’S LITTLE HELPER printed over the chest. He looks
ridiculous.
“Hey, good timing.”
He doesn’t budge from the entrance to the kitchen as I wander over, rubbing my hands to chase some of the chill away. When I arch an eyebrow at his blockade, he points silently above our heads, a sprig of mistletoe that definitely wasn’t there this morning. I snort a laugh and lift up on my toes, pecking a kiss on his cheek.
“Cheater.” He chuckles and catches my hips with his hands before I can slip away, ducking down and pressing his mouth to mine in a short, sweet, scorching kiss. He sucks briefly on my bottom lip and then deposits me back on my feet, brown eyes amused when I wobble on unsteady legs.
The line defining fiction and reality is obliterated. I have no idea if that was because Evelyn is behind me or because it’s something he wanted to do.
He gives me a wink, and I find I don’t really care.
Enjoy it, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Layla whispers in the back of my mind. Don’t overthink it.
“Is that butternut squash?” Evelyn exclaims from her spot hovering over the stove. She’s kicked off her shoes and her jacket, an oversized sweater with a wide neck artfully draped over one shoulder. “Oh my god, is this
pumpkin pie?”
She sounds suspiciously close to tears.
“Garlic bread is in the oven,” Luka adds. “Should be out in a few. Go. Sit.
Have wine.” He nods toward the table, where two bottles of red are waiting.
He’s turned on all the decorations in the cottage, the small, cozy space filled to the brim with fresh pine and lights and handspun garland made from old tartan. Candles in every window and a full balsam fir in the living room bursting with lights and ornaments and tinsel that hangs just right. I watch as Evelyn takes it all in, wide eyes lingering on the row of miniature houses above the cabinets, lit up in an almost perfect replica of Inglewild.
She grabs the bottle of wine and pours herself a hefty glass. “Fuck, this place is perfect.”
Dinner is a dream, my tiny house filled with laughter for the first time in a long time. Luka is charming and kind, telling silly stories about the kids in his mom’s class, that time he and Beckett crouched in the fields for close to
four hours when they were trying to catch the teenagers having illegal ragers.
How I had dark green face paint on my hand towels for months after.
None of this feels like faking or pretend. I don’t have to act at all when Luka winks at me over his wineglass, foot nudging mine beneath the table. I don’t feel dishonest at all when I clear the plates from the table and drop a kiss on Luka’s head as I pass by, his fingers catching mine with a gentle
squeeze.
“How did you guys start dating?”
It’s the first question she’s asked about our relationship, and I fumble one of the serving dishes, the spoon clattering to the floor. Luka takes the lead while I collect myself.
“My mom moved here about ten years ago. I think Inglewild had a tourism campaign at one point, something like Little Florence, I don’t know.
I think she saw an ad in the paper and decided to move here. She misses Italy.”
I laugh at the sink. It must have been a shock when they arrived and not a single thing resembled the picturesque Italian city. “Stella had lived here a while. We ran into each other when she was leaving the hardware store.”
I know this story well. But Luka surprises me with a detour.
“I thought she was so beautiful. She was—she was wearing a bright yellow dress with little daisies at the bottom edge. I couldn’t stop looking at those daisies. I thought about that yellow dress for days after I left. Every woman I saw in a yellow dress in New York . . .” He trails off and clears his throat. “And when I came back to visit my mom again, I went—” His eyes glance over to me at the sink, standing with my back to the faucet, dirty dishes forgotten. “I took so many long walks around town, just trying to run into her again.” He laughs. “My mom thought I was suddenly into power walking. But I eventually ran into her, coming out of the bookstore this time.
I don’t remember what she was wearing, but I do remember she smiled at me.
A big, full Stella smile.”
That was my smile, he had said when Caleb was in my kitchen. Evelyn and Luka share a laugh, but I’m busy having a medical event at the sink. I turn off the water and dry my hands on a towel.
Evelyn scoots around in her chair, looping her arm around the back of it and eyeing me with a grin. “And what did you think of Luka? When you first met?”
I still remember with startling clarity the moment I slammed into his chest, even though I was buried in a fog of grief so dense I could hardly manage to put one foot in front of the other.
“Luka isn’t just using a figure of speech when he says I ran into him outside the hardware store. I practically tackled him to the ground.” I fold up the kitchen towel and look over at Luka, his long legs kicked out under the table, a glass of red wine in his hand. “My mom had just died, and I was . . . sort of floating along. I stumbled off that step, and he caught me, made sure I had my footing. He’s sort of been holding me steady ever since.”
I wonder if they can hear all the things I’m not saying. That I don’t remember what he was wearing, but I do remember he smelled like fresh orange slices and basil. That I could hardly catch my breath the whole time we were sitting in the tiny bakery eating our grilled cheese. That I’ve liked him forever and loved him just as long.
“I’ve never told you this,” I say to Luka directly now. “But I had no reason to be in that hardware store. I was just—I was just sort of wandering around. Trying to convince myself to be productive. And when I ran into you —” I suck in a sharp breath and blink up at the ceiling. It’s no surprise that the lady who owns a Christmas tree farm is sentimental. Luka puts his wineglass down on the table and sits up straight, concerned. “I don’t know, I’ve always sort of thought my mom delivered you to me. I don’t think I had ever stepped into a hardware store before in my life and—I don’t know. I guess I just like to think that.” I shrug. “It’s silly.”
I don’t believe in fate or kismet or any rule or reason to the universe and all its random, wonderful, terrible happenings. But I do believe I found Luka when I needed him the most, and I like to think my mom played a part in that.
It’s a comfort. Like she’s still looking out for me. Still holding my hand.
Luka stands from his chair and takes three long strides across the kitchen. He wraps me in his arms, my hands clinging tight to his sides.
“La La,” he says, rocking me back and forth. He presses a kiss to the side of my head, and I clench my fists into the back of his button-down. This might not last beyond this week, and I might never tell him how I really feel,
but he deserves to know this.
Everything he’s given back to me.
THERE’S A HEIGHTENED awareness between us after that. Luka’s eyes linger on me as I finish washing the dishes, his gaze discovering new inches of me.
The skin just above my wrist, the hollow between my collarbones, the small of my back when I reach to put a plate away on one of the top shelves. He smiles when I roll my eyes at him over my shoulder, tongue peeking between his teeth, hands clenching and unclenching on the arms of his chair.
Evelyn leaves shortly after another round of wine and pumpkin pie, calling our town’s single Lyft driver. Luka snoops over her shoulder at her phone, laughing when he sees where Gus is coming from.
“I guess Gus and Mabel are still a thing.”
I join him, and we watch the little car animation leave from the direction of the greenhouse. Luka settles his palm at the small of my back, his thumb slipping low to slide under the hem of my sweater. I shiver.
“So he drives the ambulance and does Lyft?” Evelyn pockets her phone with an amused grin. “Small towns are so funny.” She tilts her head to the side and the grin slips from her face. “Wait, he’s not picking me up in the ambulance, right?”
Gus does not pick her up in the ambulance. He picks her up in his very sensible Toyota Camry, honking twice at Luka and me as they disappear back down the road. We stay on the porch together as they rumble down the driveway, watching as the snow continues to fall in big fat flakes. It melts as soon as it touches the ground, everything too warm for it to properly stick.
But there’s a fine layer on the trees, a little dusting of white. Like someone’s shaken up a snow globe and left everything to settle.
I turn to head back into the house, but Luka stills me with his hand. He tugs once until I turn to face him and then again to get me down on the top step of the porch. I laugh and curl my hands around his, head tilted toward the sky. Like this, with the glow of the light from inside burning warm through the windows, the snow almost looks like tiny pieces of glitter. I smile as a flake lands on my nose.
“What’re you doing?” I laugh, another snowflake tangling in my lashes. I brush it away with the back of my hand, and the laughter catches in my throat when I look at Luka.
His eyes glow amber in the light spilling from the house, a smile tilting his lips. It’s a secret smile, this one. One I haven’t seen before. I want to trace it with my fingers and feel the weight of it against my skin. I want to lean up and catch it on my tongue like a snowflake, see what it tastes like. His smile grows into something bigger, snowflakes landing in his hair. He looks divine like this. Utterly mine.
“I want to kiss you,” he says, nice and easy, like the look on his face isn’t one step away from absolute hunger. He ducks his head closer until his nose brushes mine. “Isn’t it magic to kiss someone in the first snow of the year?”
If it isn’t, it should be. Because it feels like magic when I lean up and catch Luka’s bottom lip between mine. He whispers out a sigh, a breath, and wraps his arm around my back, pulling me closer, tugging me up and into him until our hips knock together. His knuckles brush at my collarbone while he kisses me slowly, his hand skimming up, his thumb pressing a melting snowflake into my skin. I feel every single fingertip as he trails his touch up my neck to the soft skin under my ear. I’ve never thought that to be a particularly sensitive part of my body, but Luka’s made it one. Of course he has. He lingers there with soft circles until I gasp into his mouth, his tongue tangling against mine just as his fingers curl into my hair, cupping the back of my head and tilting me back so he can lick deeper, hotter. I’ve never been kissed like this before, with the night sky pressing down on me and Luka everywhere else. Snowflakes touching my skin in tiny pinpricks of cold.
“Did you mean it?” he whispers into the same space below my ear he was discovering with his thumb, my head collapsing to my shoulder to give him
more space. His palm maps the bare skin of my back under my sweater, the material bunched at his wrist. “What you said?”
I don’t even know my name right now. Luka tastes like red wine and cinnamon, and I don’t want him to ever stop kissing me. “What did I say?”
He peels himself away from me and rests his forehead against mine with heavy, panting breaths. Each one is a small cloud of white between us, twisting up into the night sky with the snow and the stars. “That I’ve been holding you steady,” he says. He dips his head back down and nips at my bottom lip once, like he can’t quite help himself.
“Of course I meant it,” I say and curl my fingers through his belt loops. “I can’t believe you need to ask that.”
He exhales, long and slow, and pulls his hand from the back of my shirt. I shiver at the loss of his warm skin against mine and gaze up at him, my chin on his chest. I want to remember this moment forever, my snow globe moment. Luka with desire on his face plain to see, a wayward lock of hair just starting to curl behind his ear, cheeks flushed with cold and with
wanting.
Magic.
“Let’s go inside.”
He says it like a promise, his hands urging me up over the top lip of the porch, too impatient for me to take the action myself. I let him guide me back into the cottage, the door shutting firmly behind us, the snick of the bolt locking into place. Half of me expects to be pressed against it, lifted until our hips can match just right, but Luka just toes out of the boots he never bothered to lace, smiles, and makes a sweet sound when I kick mine off in the same general direction. He bends and straightens them into a neat line, the back of his hand skimming my calf, my knee, my thigh as he straightens.
There’s still Christmas music playing in the kitchen, softer now, a quiet croon from Ella Fitzgerald about a merry little Christmas. I watch his silhouette in the darkness of the hall, the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulder.
“Listen, Stella. I’m going to be honest here.” He drags his fingers through his hair, caramel brown strands a chaotic mess. “I’m having trouble holding myself back right now.” I swallow and step closer, wanting to watch all that
careful composure slip out of him. I want messy Luka, panting breaths and half-bitten curses.
“Are you feeling what I’m feeling?” he asks on a whisper, and I nod, stepping into him, my hand around the back of his neck as I tug him down to me. For all the energy lighting me up like a—well, like a Christmas tree—it’s a gentle kiss. A sweet caress of his lips against mine. Then I tangle my hand in his hair and pull, and it’s not so sweet.
Luka groans out a rough rumble of a noise and bends at the knees, palms smoothing from my waist down over my ass to the backs of my thighs. He grabs and lifts, earning a squeak from me that he smiles into, the curve of his lips delicious on mine.
“That’s an interesting sound,” he notes, wandering through my living room and bumping into every single piece of furniture I own. He grunts when his shins hit the coffee table.
“Shut up.” I laugh into the skin of his neck, peppering small pecking kisses down the line of his throat. I undo the first button of his flannel shirt as he tries to navigate my cottage like he’s never been here before in his life, and I press a deep sucking kiss to the edge of his collarbone, the hollow of his throat. He makes his own set of interesting sounds and drops me abruptly onto the arm of the couch, hands underneath my sweater and on the clasp of my bra before I even realize we’ve stopped moving.
“Fuck, Stella,” he whispers, filling his hands with the swell of me. His thumbs brush over my nipples, and I wobble on the edge of the couch, curling my legs around his hips to hold myself steady. If kissing him in the snow was magic, then this is—this is sugarplum fairies and toffee brittle crunch on top of dark chocolate cupcakes. I fumble with the buttons on his shirt, abandoning the top to start from the bottom instead when he noses my head to the side and starts sucking at my neck. His thumbs caress, swirl, and tug, and I am mindless.
I lose all patience and pull at his shirt, trying to rip the thing in two. “Off,”
I say, wanting his skin against mine more than anything.
“But I’m busy,” he says, trying to stretch the collar of my sweater wide enough for him to get his mouth where his hands are. He bites at my shoulder
in frustration.
“Luka.” I laugh and slip another teeny tiny button free on his shirt. When did flannel get so complicated? “C’mon.”
“Ask nicely,” he retorts into my skin with a smile, and I laugh again, wiggling my butt on the arm of the couch and pushing him back with my palms flat against his chest. He gives me a pout when his hands slip out from underneath my sweater, his fingers lingering over the top of my knees instead, his thumbs gliding back and forth at the line of my inseam. I pull my sweater over my head, and the pout disappears, a hunger settling instead, tongue at the corner of his mouth.
I reach up to the strap of my bra, ready to twist out of it and throw it in the general direction of my bedroom, but he shakes his head, steps forward into the cradle of my legs and slips his forefinger underneath the delicate strap.
It’s a plain, soft cotton, the same as the one I was wearing that night on the couch, but he looks at me like I’m in Italian lace. He drags his finger up and down the strap, toying with it, his knuckles glancing along my skin.
“Do you remember that music festival we went to in Philadelphia? The one with the Roots?”
“Um, I guess,” I say, distracted. It’s hard for me to think when his hands are on me. He switches his attention to the other strap, plucking at it with his fingers. He pulls it over my shoulder and back, my chest rising and falling with every careful touch.
“You were wearing this pale pink dress with the thinnest straps I’ve ever seen,” he tells me. I remember that dress. It had been so hot, and I liked the way it flared out around my legs when I spun around.
He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing in the column of his throat. I’m stuck there, watching how his body moves when he’s painted with desire. His thumb slips down to the cup of my bra and he traces the skin just above it, mesmerized. “You were dancing in front of me, and they kept falling down.”
He looks back up to me and presses his palms against my collarbones, fingers fanned out, pinkies tucked under each strap. He pushes his hands down slowly, taking the material with him until the straps are stuck at my elbows,
the cups of my bra just barely covering me. He exhales a shaky breath, a half smile curling his lips. “I wanted to kiss you so bad.”
I shiver. “Is that all you wanted to do?”
His smile eases into a grin, a wicked gleam in those brown eyes. “No.”
He dips two fingers into the center of my bra and pulls the fabric away, leaving me topless on the arm of the couch. I resist the urge to cover myself, the lights from the tree painting my skin in tiny half moons.
“Wanted to do this,” he says, settling closer, hands cupping my bare breasts. His mouth finds my collarbone and sucks—long, wet pulls against my skin. “I thought about slipping my hands in the top of your dress.” His mouth brushes over my nipple. “I thought about putting my mouth on you.”
“Please,” I beg. I had meant for it to be teasing, silly, but I hear the need in my voice. Luka does too, if the way he starts fumbling at his shirt is any indication. It’s a bit of a rush after that, both of us frantically discarding the rest of our clothes, trying to get as close as possible. I watch as his golden skin is revealed inch by inch, my eyes eagerly following the dark smattering of hair on his chest as it narrows into a thin line that disappears beneath his belt buckle. I busy my hands with that while he tries to pull down my jeans, practically pulling me off the couch with the force of his grip.
I laugh and hop on one foot, holding on to his shoulders while he pulls them down with a grumble, bringing his face back to mine for a kiss. He moans into it when I wrap myself around him, warm skin against warm skin.
Finally.
Little hiccups of reminders keep hitting me as we stumble our way down the hall to my bedroom, stopping every few steps to touch and tease. I slip my hand into his boxers, stroking hard and tight, and have to remind myself that this is Luka gasping into my shoulder, my very best friend. It’s Luka curling his hands into fists against the small of my back, chasing my touch with a roll of his hips, a grunt low in his throat. Luka grasping my wrist and tugging my hand away, marching us to the bedroom and tossing me onto the bed.
Pillows topple, and I swat them away as Luka crawls on top of me, his hands bracing over my shoulders. I’m eager to see him like this, his bare skin
and flexing arms, the freckles on his skin muted in the moonlight.
“Hold on,” he says, and he tucks his arm under me, guiding me up until my head is on the pillows and my knees are tipped open, my chest rising and falling with every shuddering breath. I can’t seem to catch it, a frantic need burning through me. My lips feel swollen from his kisses, my skin tingling from the rough brush of his stubble against my skin.
“There,” he says, and then he drops his body into the cradle of mine, skin scorching, the heavy thickness of him pressing against the wet softness of me. He rolls his hips down once and everything in me pulls tight. I gasp into a pale pink pillow in the shape of a crescent moon and wonder how it’s possible I’m having the most intense sexual experience of my life with my underwear still on.
Luka slows the movement of his hips until he’s still above me, his fingers catching in my hair and sifting through the dark strands. He arranges it carefully until it’s not trapped by my shoulders, an artful halo of tangled dark curls. His gaze trips over my face, lingering I think on the curve of my lips.
He sighs out, a little wistful, and I smile at the sweetness of it.
“What?” I ask. He’s looking at me with a careful consideration that’s beautiful in its honesty. He’s saying a million things with that look. I just can’t hear what they are.
“Nothing,” he says, and his eyes trail down to the heavy swell of my breasts, the soft skin beneath. The flare of my hips and the dip of my belly button. I feel it like a fingertip at my sternum. He leans up on his knees between my spread thighs and tucks his thumbs into the material at my hips, dragging my underwear down an inch and then all the way when I move my legs to help. He gusts out a deep breath when I’m bare before him, his hands skimming over my knees.
“Thought about this too,” he says. “When that pretty pink skirt brushed up against your thighs.”
He finds the place where I’m almost embarrassingly wet, and I give in to the pleasure of his touch, my head tilting back into the pillows as everything within me rattles and groans. Same, I want to say, a little hysterical. I’ve imagined this a hundred ways, a million different possibilities.
“Fuck,” he says, and I slit my eyes open to watch him touch me, one hand moving between my legs, the other sliding over my stomach to trace the bottom curve of my breast. He pulls at my nipple and I moan, thick and throaty. I have never once been touched like this.
“Fuck,” he repeats, darker this time. His eyes blink up from between my legs to my face. He changes the angle of his hand between my legs, palm grinding down. I make another whimpering sound. “I could come just like this, Stella. Just by watching you. Hearing you.”
My whole body tightens. But it’s not what I want, to finish like this.
Maybe later we can explore that particular idea, but right now I want to feel him pinning me down into the mattress, my arms around his neck and his mouth on mine. I want him desperate and panting into my skin, the both of us moving together.
I tell him this in a garbled breath, his laugh a little breathless as he pulls back from me.
“You don’t need to worry about that,” he mumbles, hands pulling down the waist of his boxers. “M’plenty desperate.”
I reach for the drawer of my nightstand where I threw the box of condoms Layla delivered last week. She dropped them off at my doorstep with an obnoxious bow and a bottle of wine. I’m grateful none of the farmhands wandered by my cottage to spot the Costco-sized box of Trojans on my welcome mat. I pull out a whole strip and toss them at Luka, distracted by the sight of him in the moonlight filtering in through my window.
Long legs, solid chest, the dip and cut of his hip sharp in the muted light.
His biceps flex as he tears a condom off the strip and rolls it on, the rest placed safely on the blanket chest at the foot of my bed.
“For later,” he says with a wink, and I laugh, pulling him up and over me.
I sift my fingers through his hair. “That’s presumptuous,” I tease, like the thought of more doesn’t send a thrill through me. I’m greedy for him and his touches, his sighs whispered into my skin.
He huffs a laugh and settles above me, a kiss dropped between my breasts, his mouth distracted by the swell of soft skin. He trails a meandering path over my chest until I’m gasping and arching beneath him, my hands in
his hair guiding him harder against me. He’s dragging just right between my legs, pressure everywhere I need it. I could come like this, and I tell him so, his answering groan rough and broken.
“It’s been almost ten years of foreplay.” Luka rises on his palms above me, arms flexing. “I don’t think once is gonna cut it.”
I’m the one who is impatient now, my hips dancing beneath his, my mouth tasting any skin I can reach. I bite at his ear, the curve of his jaw. I hungrily kiss his bottom lip and the tip of his nose. My hands grab at his shoulders, his forearms. It’s like every moment of banked desire is spilling out of me in a cascading rush. I can’t get enough of him, can’t move fast enough for everything I want. Every suppressed thought, every hesitant touch, every half truth and daydream buzzes under my skin, making me antsy and frantic.
“It’s okay,” he soothes and cups the back of my head with his hand, tilting my chin up until he can kiss me slow and sweet, easing the tempo of my heart with long languid kisses. “Slow down a sec.”
“I want—”
“I know. I want it too.”
He calms me with gentle hands, guiding my legs wide and dragging his palms up and down until I relax back into the mattress. He smiles at me, eyes crinkling at the corners, and then steals the breath right out of my chest with a slow press of thick heat between my legs. I don’t know if it’s because it’s been a while or just because this is—this is Luka, but my whole body comes alive with the pressure, the delicious fullness. He settles inside me, and I hiccup a moan, high and tight in the back of my throat. I feel like I can’t catch my breath, the air stolen from my lungs by Luka. My blood thrums hot, a delicious shiver working its way from the place where Luka is clutching at my thighs with bruising fingertips to the slant of my shoulder blades against the mattress. I curl my hands around his biceps and squeeze, whisper out a breath when his hips shift against mine.
He drops his forehead to my collarbone and rocks his head back and forth once. “Stella,” he says, no beginning or end to the thought, just the pleasure of saying my name into my skin.
I smooth my hands across his back and lift my hips, a shallow movement that doesn’t do anything but frustrate me. “Luka.”
He brushes a chaste kiss to my temple, hums low in his throat, and then he begins to move.
He starts slowly, picking me apart piece by piece. He’s watchful, learning, every hitch in my breath cataloged, put to use. He squeezes my thighs and I sigh. He bites at my neck and I arch my back. He changes the angle of his hips until my left leg twitches in his grip, my foot kicking out against his shin. The laughter in his eyes becomes a low burn of determination, his eyebrows furrowing, tongue between his teeth. He shakes his head once and repeats the same motion, a slow drag and circle of his hips that I squeeze my eyes against.
“Don’t do that,” he rasps, hand cupping my neck gently, thumb stroking once over the hummingbird flutter of my pulse before settling in the hollow of my throat. “Don’t hide from me.”
“Feels so good,” I mumble, wishing I could be more eloquent. Wishing I had the words to tell him how it feels like I’m breaking apart into tiny bits of stardust. I feel incandescent, iridescent, every fucking light on the Christmas tree blown out. But his hips are moving faster now, and he’s angled himself slightly up on his knees, the hand not on my neck reaching between us to touch just above where we’re joined. It only takes a few rough strokes of his thumb, his hips losing their finesse in favor of a desperate grinding movement that has me shifting up the bed, my hands braced above me on the headboard as more pillows tumble around us.
“Luka,” I gasp as the sharp frustration of not enough turns into the perfect pull of exactly right, a rough shove off the edge into my release. It starts low in my belly and spreads down my thighs, settles in the backs of my knees and the press of my arms above my head. It steals the breath from my lungs as I chase it with rocking hips, stretching me out like taffy. Luka’s hand on my neck twitches and then slides above me to tangle with mine, his one hand pressing both of my wrists into the mattress. I manage to open my eyes just as he tips over the edge too, his teeth biting down into his full bottom lip.
He’s beautiful like this. Another secret discovered.
Luka collapses on top of me, hair damp with sweat, nose nudging at my cheek. I welcome his weight and curl myself around him, ankles hooked over his. He squeezes at my hands and sighs, content. Like a jungle cat. Or a sleepy sexed-up boy.
“We should have been doing that for years,” he murmurs, voice drowsy.
He adjusts his position and groans. “Or maybe not. I’m not sure I would have survived it. I think you killed me. I’m dead.”
“You’ll be my favorite ghost of Christmas past, then.”
I try to stretch beneath him, a warm and heavy blanket of Luka covering me from head to toe. I wiggle my toes and feel a brush of cotton, a sleepy, amused hum tucked into his collarbone.
“You’re still wearing your socks,” I point out. All I get in response is a snore, Luka curled possessively around me. I give in to the weightless pull of sleep, holding him just as tight, and let my dreams take me.
For once, I think reality might be better.
