Page 44 of Christmas With the Jerk

She’s trying to build something honorable and separate from the dark legacy her family created.

I lie here, trying to wrap my head around everything she's just told me. I can't imagine what it must be like to walk away from all that, to turn your back on your family because they’re involved in things you can’t stomach. And the comfort and security of what that kind of money could bring.

It’s different from my life, but in some ways... not that different.

I clear my throat, shifting on the bed beside her. “You know,” I start, the words coming slowly, “it’s not the same, but I get it. The pressure. The feeling that you’re trapped in a life that’s been decided for you.”

Woodley looks up at me, her expression softening. She doesn’t say anything, but I know she’s listening.

“I’ve spent my whole life trying to prove I’m more than just my family’s money,” I continue. “People think I’ve been handed everything. Hell, they’re not entirely wrong. But I’ve always felt like I needed to earn something on my own. That’s why this account was so important to me. It wasn’t just about the money or the deal. It was about proving that I could do something without my father doing it for me.”

Woodley watches me closely, her gaze softening. “You’ve always seemed so confident. Like you were the big shot and you didn’t care how you got there.”

I laugh, a short, bitter sound. “Yeah, well, that’s the act, isn’t it? Confidence, arrogance... it’s just a way to cover up the fact that I’ve never felt like I’m enough. I thought if I could nail this account, I’d prove to myself—and maybe even to my father—that I can do it. That I’m not just some trust fund kid skating by.”

Her eyes search mine, and I can see the understanding there. Maybe for the first time, we’re seeing each other clearly. No more walls, no more pretending.

“It’s not easy,” she says softly. “Trying to break away from something so big.”

“No,” I agree, my voice quiet. “It’s not.”

We lie there quietly. The air between us feels alive. After everything that’s happened on this trip, the weight of it all seems to settle differently now.

Woodley turns to face me, her eyes meeting mine, and for the first time, there’s something in her gaze that isn’t guarded. It’s not just the absence of tension, but the presence of something else, something real.

Respect. Understanding. And I suspect, something even deeper.

We’ve spent so much time pushing each other away, that now, with everything out in the open, it’s like we can finally see each other for who we really are. And I like what I see.

It feels solid, grounded in more than just attraction. We actually care for each other now, and that changes everything. No walls. No distance. Just us, here. Together.

I reach out, almost without thinking, and brush a stray lock of hair away from her face. My fingers graze her cheek, and she leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

When she opens them again, my entire body is reacting to her closeness: my hands are sweaty, my toes are tingly and my heart is nearly beating out of my chest. I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. But she doesn’t.

Our lips meet softly at first, a gentle kiss, but it deepens quickly, as if all the tension and understanding we’ve built is being poured into this moment. It’s not about desperation or exhaustion this time. It’s not about filling a void. It’s about us. Here, now, and everything we’ve come to understand about each other.

When we finally pull apart, we stay close, our foreheads resting together, both of us catching our breath.

“You’re special, you know that?” I murmur, my thumb brushing lightly over her cheek. The words come out before I can stop them, surprising even me. I’ve never felt the need to say something like this to anyone before, but with her, I can’t help myself.

She smiles at me and runs her hand across my chest.

I trail a path of heated kisses down the smooth slope of her breasts, taking my time, savoring the softness of her skin against my lips.

My hands follow, cupping the weight of her, my thumbs teasing over her hardening peaks. I flick my tongue over one, then the other, relishing the way she gasps and arches into my touch.

There's a particular satisfaction in the sharp, needy yelp I coax from her when I gently twist them between my fingers.

My lips travel lower, tracing the delicate lines of her ribcage, the gentle swell of her stomach, my tongue dipping briefly into her navel. I glance up to find her watching me, her hazel eyes dark with desire, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

I reach the apex of her thighs, and the scent of her arousal is intoxicating. I nudge her legs further apart, making room for myself between them. Her body quivers in anticipation, and I can't help but smile against her skin. I want to know every inch of her, commit her taste to memory.

My tongue parts her folds, and I'm greeted by the sweet, musky flavor that is uniquely Woodley. I explore her with long, languid licks, teasing and tasting, my fingers joining in, stroking and circling, slipping inside her with ease.

She's slick and hot, her hips bucking against my hand as I find the rhythm that makes her moan.

The feel of her under my mouth, the sounds she makes, the way she writhes and grips the sheets—it's all driving me wild. Pleasuring her like this, feeling her come undone because of me, it's a high I never want to come down from.

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