Page 17 of Christmas With My Ex

Clothes become a barrier, a nuisance to be rid of. We're a tangle of limbs and desperation, each piece of fabric that hits the floor a small victory. His shirt, my sweater, our hands are everywhere, rediscovering terrain we once knew by heart but now find new and exciting.

I fumble with his belt, the leather rough against my fingers, and he chuckles darkly, a sound that's both foreign and intimately familiar. "Eager?"

"Always," I admit, my voice husky as I succeed in pushing his pants down, my palm grazing the hardness beneath his boxers.

He groans, his head falling back as I explore him, the sound pulling at something deep within me. My jeans are next, discarded with haste, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my underwear, dragging them down my legs.

We stumble towards the bed, a dance of lips and hands and need. The bedding is a mess beneath us as we fall, a testament to the wildness of our reunion. His body covers mine, the weight of him both a comfort and an excitement.

Our eyes meet, a silent acknowledgment of the hunger that drives us. It's not gentle, not this time. It's a reclamation, a fierce repossession of something we both thought lost.

I arch into him as he enters me, a single, perfect moment where time seems to suspend, and it's just him and me, skin on skin, breath for breath, heartbeat for heartbeat.

"You feel like home," he whispers, his voice breaking on the last word as he starts to move, each thrust driving the breath from my lungs, each roll of his hips igniting a fresh wave of pleasure.

I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper, wanting to feel the burn of him tomorrow, a brand to remind me that this wasn't just a fever dream. "Harder," I demand, my fingers digging into his back, and he complies, his control slipping as he gives us both what we need.

Our cries fill the room, a symphony of gasps and moans, punctuated by the slap of skin on skin, the headboard thumping rhythmically against the wall. It's primitive, this dance, and I meet him thrust for thrust, our bodies moving in a rhythm as old as time.

The world outside fades to nothing, the looming storm just a whisper against the tempest we've created in this room. There's nothing but us, the heat of our bodies, the slickness of our skin, and the unspoken promise that tonight, we belong to each other.

Sunday,December 24

7:01am

The first thingI feel is warmth—his warmth, his presence.

My eyes blink open slowly, the morning light creeping through the cracks of the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. I don’t move at first, not wanting to face the reality of whathappened last night. But the weight of it presses down on me, suffocating in its clarity.

Nicholas is still here. His steady breathing fills the silence, his arm draped loosely around my waist. It’s comforting, and utterly terrifying at the same time.

What the hell was I thinking?

I stare up at the ceiling, my heart hammering in my chest as the events of last night come flooding back. The text. The knock on the door. The dessert. And then...

The way I pulled him in, I must think I'm some sex kitten from a television show. What the fuck was that?

I knew where this would go if I let him come up here.

The second I saw him standing there with his crème brûlée, a brilliant carrot to get his foot in the door, I knew.

I could have said no… I could have stopped it… I could have not answered his text in the first place.

I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I threw gasoline on the fire.

So, this isn't on him by a long shot.

Then, I remember my leg. It doesn't feel too sore, not like I expected, but I'm aware it will betray me if I try to stand, certainly if I try to run, both literally and figuratively.

I close my eyes, trying to block it all out. The regret is already there, crushing me, making me experience every single bit of the mess that is my life right now.

It is almost like I wanted to think we could just hang out like old friends, that I could keep things casual, detached.

The sheets rustle beside me, and my breath hitches. I turn my head slightly, just enough to see him. His handsome face, his long, dark eyelashes, are almost too perfect for words. It shouldn't be fair for one man to be so good looking.

Nicholas is still fast asleep, and his arm now rests lazily at his side. His light brown hair is tousled, and there’s this relaxed, peaceful look on his face that twists something inside me. I can't square the dichotomy between how much I am drawn to him physically and emotionally and how much my heart is warning me to run.

The smell of him, soap and something deeper, something distinctly him, fills my senses, and I curse myself for how much I’m still drawn to him, even after everything.

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