Page 24 of My Secret Santa Clayton

Now, our kisses claimed each other. His hands on my hips urged me closer. I moved, lost in the moment.

“God, Grace.”

“Feels good, doesn't it?” I teased, breathless, moving with him.

“Too good,” he groaned, gripping me tighter.

We kissed again, messy and urgent. I felt his heartbeats and breaths, as if they were mine. Our playful moment turned serious. We couldn't deny it.

We craved each other.

I recalled Clay's shaky voice, “You sure about this?” His worried brow showed concern.

“Clay, relax. I'm on the pill.” My voice was breathless, hovering over him, feeling his warmth. I didn't care. We were in love and planning a future. A baby? We'd handle it.

He nodded but said, “Okay, but if there's any?—”

“Shh,” I interrupted, placing a finger on his lips. “You won't hurt me.”

His hands were gentle, hesitant yet eager. His touch soothed my inner chaos. I lowered myself onto him, feeling him fully. Our kiss muffled my gasp of relief and joy.

It hurt…then it didn't. He connected with me, unlike anything before.

The memory sparked desire. My fingers traced where his once were. I felt him again, guiding me, grounding me, his touch was vivid.

“Grace, you're beautiful,” he'd said, eyes full of sincerity. “There's no one else for me.”

In the dark, I touched myself, already aroused by the memory. I wished those stroking fingers were Clay’s.

“Clay,” I breathed, almost shouted?—

I peaked quickly, gasping. His words pulled me in. I felt his imagined touch, igniting desire.

“God,” I breathed out, feeling heavy. I wondered if he thought of me too.

Did he remember us, or bury the past in regret?

“Still got it bad for him, don't you?” I scolded myself, covering up. “But does he...would he still...?”

Despite the confusion, I knew.

I never stopped loving Clay Hawthorne.

ELEVEN

Clay

The cold air nipped at my cheeks as I tightened the last screw on the old radiator. Laura Bennet had been nagging me about the damn heating system for weeks, and I was just about ready to call it a day at Whispering Pines Inn. My hands were still greasy when I pushed through the lobby doors, the festive wreaths mocking me with their cheer.

"Clay Hawthorne," Betty Thompson's voice cut through the hum of holiday tunes. I didn't even need to look up. Her footsteps clipped towards me, the sound too perky for comfort.

"Finished with the winterizing?" she asked, but it wasn't a question.

It was a trap.

"Yep." I kept it terse, hoping to dodge whatever bullet she had loaded in that smile of hers.

"Perfect timing!" She didn't even try to hide her glee. "You're just in time for the annual Gingerbread House competition!"

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