Page 13 of Starstruck with the Krampus

“All right,” I agree. “My bed is too small for you anyway.”

With that, I twist away from him and saunter for the door. He catches up to me and offers me his arm, then leads me out into the hallway.

“What are you planning, Miss Marino, that requires a bed that’s larger than yours?” he murmurs to me as we pass a line of people queueing for the bathroom.

I glance around, but I’m not brave enough to say the words out loud. Then it hits me—I don’t have to. I peer at him from the corner of my eyes and paint a picture in my mind. Of me, putting on a fresh coat of lipstick in front of the mirror, then turning on my heels to face him. Of him, tugging my hair back as I sink to my knees…

He groans. “Gianna. Stop this.”

I grin, shimmying with glee. “Ooh, this is going to be so good.”

“Speech, speech,” the crowd choruses suddenly.

Blinking, I take in the scene in front of us. I didn’t even notice that we’d rounded the corner and returned to the spacious living room. The guests are stillhere, still partying like the incident with Brandon had never happened—which, to their knowledge, it did not.

“Fuck.” A growling curse beside me is punctuated by a heavy arm slung around my shoulders. “Why are there so many people here?”

I plaster myself to his side, not even caring that someone might see. Stacy would cheer me on—and she’s the only one here whose opinion I care about.

“There’s no way we can leave now without drawing attention to the fact that we’re escaping. Come on, we can hide behind this tree.”

I tug on Dominic’s jacket, and he follows me to the corner of the room, into the shadow of one of the tall Christmas trees that the Webbers have put up. I squint at the decorations, little candles burning on the branches.

“Surely this is a fire hazard,” I whisper.

My Krampus chuckles darkly. “Mrs. Webber is a fire witch. You’re perfectly safe.”

Ah. That would explain the torches and brazier in the driveway, as well as her idiotic offspring’s heated grip.

Somewhere behind the green tree branches, the ornaments, and the wall of people, a woman—Mrs. Webber, presumably—begins a speech. I squeeze my legs together, uncomfortable. My thigh-highs are slipping down my legs, which I should have known would be an issue in a room this warm. I hope they don’t slip too low. I would die of embarrassment if people from the office saw the lacy edge of my stockings.

“Are you all right?” Dominic murmurs.

He’s leaning down, and his minty breath brushes over my cheek, sending my thoughts into a tailspin. I need to taste him again—and get out of this party, stat.

“Gianna?” he prompts when I don’t answer him.

The crowd cheers, and I clap politely without knowing what’s happening. I think it’s Mr. Webber who takes up the speech, but I don’t care.

I glance at the tall man standing by my side, and for a moment, I consider lying to him. But I can’t. I’m physically incapable of telling him even a white lie, which should be concerning, but instead, I just feel safe. No matter how much bigger and older he is than me, he gives me a sense of comfort that no one else has ever achieved.

So I lift on my tiptoes and wait for him to crane his neck down to me, then whisper, “My tights are sliding down my legs. I shouldn’t have put on lotion, but I wasn’t thinking very clearly when I got ready tonight.”

A shudder goes through him. Maybe I’ve shared too much? But he moves to stand directly behind me, then tugs me a step backward, then another, until we’re completely hidden behind the Christmas tree.

“What—?” I gasp as his fingers skim the hem of my dress. “What are you doing?”

He lets out a low hum, almost a purr. “I’m fixing the issue. Now be good and keep facing forward so people won’t notice what I’m doing here.”

“Dominic…”

He slips his hands under my skirt. Then a claw trails the line on the back of my thigh. There’s a strange disconnect between what I see—the glamoured Dominic,almosthuman, and the touch of his clawed hand. My skin erupts in goose bumps, and at his low growl, I barely hold back a whimper.

Dominic pinches the lacy edge of my left stocking and tugs it up gently, as if he’s being careful not to rip the delicate fabric. “Like so?” he asks.

I jerk my chin down in a nod.

He hums in approval. “You smell so fucking good.”

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