Page 43 of His Until Christmas

Our lips barely brush again before I get brutally honest over the growl of passing traffic. “I get it. I knowallabout not wanting to rock boats.” I almost choke on admitting, “Can’t risk another capsize, right?”

Hearing that seems to help him.

We’re already linked by one hand. He catches hold of my free one, and I’m glad we exited that store too fast to put on our gloves, even if the breeze out here is bitter. It means I get to soak up his warmth while listening to his low rumble. “Didn’t mean to dump that on you out of the blue. If you ever need me to return the favour, I’ll always listen.”

Maybe I nod. All I’m conscious of is his mouth meeting mine again until he breaks off, although Reece doesn’t add too much distance between our bodies. His forehead pressing against mine spells consolation, even though he’s the one who shared a worry. And when he finally straightens, his eyes gleam—damp for a brief moment like mine were earlier—and I don’t only have to hug him again. Or kiss him. I reverse our old roles by making a single-word suggestion.

“Home?”

This time, neither of us lead nor follow.

We both hurry together.

11

I’ve never hurried backto my place with company in tow. All my past dates only ended with pond water splashing. Tonight I open the door and invite Reece in.

I’ve also never done this in my own hallway—I drop my coat on the floor like I’m as untidy as Patrick, then I get as bossy as Sebastian. He’s pushy when he can’t wait for his dinner in the same way Patrick has been extra pushy lately about me reading his daily affirmations. They will both be well on their way to Cornwall, but I still channel my absent housemates by kicking my coat out of the way before pushing Reece against the wall to kiss him again becauseomfg pls hurry i am starving.

So is Reece.

Not right away—his first reaction is surprise, like he didn’t expect me to be this fierce about him. All I can do is some affirming of my own that what Reece shared under streetlight angels means so fucking much to me.

I do it by kissing him like I mean it, all in with no hesitating, even in the confined space of this ink-dark hallway. Perhaps the lack of light should be a reminder of a darkroom I last left in ahurry. Tonight, I can only focus on Reece kissing me back like he’s drowning.

Reece even sinks as if he’s underwater, but that’s just him widening his stance and sliding down the wall a little so I don’t have to go up on my tiptoes right here between Patrick’s bike and an airer holding laundry. I’m pretty sure this location wouldn’t make it into a romantic movie either, but Reece proves me wrong. He rumbles, “Love the way you kiss,” and suddenly I’m swooning.

Swooning?

I’m also the idiot who says, “Had a lot of practice,” before my brain catches up. I admit this just as quickly. “With frogs. Threw them all back.”

He laughs, which I take as permission to get back to clutching hard at his shoulders, but he does some clutching of his own, so I guess we’re even.

That’s the difference.

Forget job titles or power imbalances. Forget the light level where we’re getting busy. Reece and Iareeven in wanting each other, and that’s a first I’m so on board with.

He cups my face with chilly fingers. They soon warm. So do I as our kiss deepens.

His tongue glides and slides like I once did across a townhouse hallway towards him.For him.Now he makes another request.

“Can we?”

He isn’t asking me to dance like he did in a starry courtyard at the start of the week, or earlier to music at a portrait gallery wedding. Tonight, I grit out a rushed, “Fuck, yes,” although I don’t sound anything like me. This gravel belongs to a stranger. “Yes, yes, Reece. Hurry.”

He doesn’t waste time by asking if I’m sure. Doesn’t bring up the subject of lines in professional sand or muddied workingwaters. I don’t have a single boundary right now for him, and he must feel it when our mouths meet again, and if he thought I’d gone all in before, he was mistaken.

This is the real deal.

It’s so good.

So is him sliding off my suit jacket and unfastening my shirt buttons, so I guess that’s an answer to hiscan Iquestion—Reece is getting me naked, and it’s all I want for Christmas.

He tugs on thin cotton, and my shirt says goodbye to my trousers, then both of his hands span bare skin, and that’s a wicked combination of soft mixed with rough. It’s also a reminder that his work can be as physical as both of his brothers’. He’s easily as strong, and finding that out when he turns me so my back is against a wall means my breath hitches.

He breaks off to check in.

“All good?”

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