Page 39 of My Secret Santa Daddies

She starts to stand, but my instincts are taking over.

Don’t let her walk away again, they scream at me. Not this time.

My hand slides up, cupping her cheek, my thumb brushing the curve of her jaw, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my touch. She leans into it, just barely, and the feel of her, so close, soreal, sends a rush through me, something wild and urgent.

Her eyes search mine, wide and unguarded for once, like she’s trying to figure out if this is real or just some dream she’s about to wake up from. I don’t know how to tell her that it’s real, that it’s always been real. So instead, I tilt my head, and close the last few inches between us.

My lips brush against hers, tentative at first, like I’m giving her the chance to pull away. But she doesn’t. Her breath mingles with mine, and she lets out a soft exhale that sends a shiver through me. I press a little deeper, tasting the hint of her lips, the lingering warmth of the fire.

And then, like something inside her snaps, she kisses me. It’s not gentle, not careful—it's all heat and urgency, like she’s been holding back for as long as I have, and now that the dam’s broken, there’s no stopping it. Her hands find the front of my shirt, fisting the fabric, pulling me closer, until there’s no space between us, just the press of her body against mine, the heat of the fire wrapping around us both.

Time seems to slow, like we’re suspended in this moment, the two of us, caught in the glow of the firelight and the falling snow.

My fingers edge up that sweater, feeling the softness of her skin.

She arches into my touch, her lips leaving mine to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down my jawline, and a moan escapes me before I can stop it. Fuck.

The fire roars in the background, sending shadows dancing on the old walls. Her breathing quickens, matching mine.

I want her.

God, I want her.

I always have.

I don’t know how long the kiss lasts—maybe a moment, maybe a lifetime. All I know is that when she finally pulls back, breathless and flushed, her lips are swollen and red from the heat of it. I’m left feeling like the ground beneath me has shifted, like the whole world’s tilted on its axis.

She stares at me, her chest rising and falling with each quick breath, and for once, the mask is gone. It’s just her, raw and vulnerable, her eyes searching mine like she’s looking for an answer to a question she never asked. And I’m right there with her, feeling like I’m on the verge of something that could change everything, something that could break us both open if we let it.

“Sierra,” I murmur, my voice rough with all the things I can’t say, my thumb still brushing the edge of her jaw. “I?—”

She presses a finger to my lips, stopping me, her touch featherlight, but her expression is serious, almost fragile. She shakes her head, just a little, and for a second, I think she’s going to tell me this was a mistake, that she doesn’t want this.

But instead, she whispers, “Just... don’t make it mean more than it does.”

She pulls back further, her eyes shadowed, and then she stands, stepping away from the warmth of the fire, from the space where our breaths mingled. I let my hand drop back to my side, feeling the loss of her warmth like a blow, but I stay quiet, watching as she retreats back toward the darkened stairs.

She pauses at the bottom step, and glances back at me, her expression unreadable in the dim light. “Goodnight, Wyatt,” she murmurs, and then she’s gone, disappearing up the stairs like a shadow slipping through my fingers.

11

CODY

The next morning, the storm still hasn’t let up. Snow piles high against the windows, thick drifts bury the driveway and cover the lodge’s porch. The wind howls through the trees, shaking the pines like they might snap at any moment

I stand in the kitchen, clutching a steaming mug of coffee, staring out at the whiteout conditions beyond the frosted glass.

“This storm doesn’t seem real.”

Wyatt’s beside me, working his way through his third cup of coffee, looking like he’s still got half the night’s sleep clinging to him.

“Storm of a century, they’re calling it.”

“Hope the rest of town is alright.”

Griffin leans against the counter, his jaw tight. “Most of them are used to it.”

It’s the same story as last night—heavy snow warnings, gusting winds, and the promise that the storm isn’t going anywhere for at least another twenty-four hours. Maybe longer. They’re throwing around terms likehistoricandrecord-breaking.

---