Page 51 of The Crush of Christmas Past
When she climbed onto my lap, I lost every ounce of composure. The way her body molded to mine—like she belonged there—sent my self-control plummeting. As she shook in my arms, something primal tore through me.
I can never undo the past or erase the sorrow carved into her heart. But for one fragile, borrowed moment, she let me in and allowed me to hold her pain. I became her shelter—not the storm.
And I’d do anything to give her that feeling again.
Not just for a night. Not only for this week.
For fucking ever.
With a sharp exhale, I shut off the water and step out of the shower. The temperature was too cold to fog the mirror, but I don’t need to see my reflection to know what’s written all over me.
Frustration. Fixation. Fraying restraint.
And another far filthier F-word my body isn’t exactly being subtle about.
I dry off on autopilot. The water, at least.
The shame stays put.
Towel knotted at my waist, I step into my room—and freeze. Isla’s Santa shirt greets me, neatly folded over the back of my desk chair. Innocent in appearance. A loaded weapon in disguise.
What would I have done if she’d comeasking for it?
Whatwouldn’tI have done?
Heat barrels down my spine at the memory of walking in on Isla, sprawled across my brother’s bed, lost in a moment of unfiltered pleasure.
Fingers buried between her thighs. Lips parted. Chest rising with ragged gasps.
It was everything.Shewas everything.
But it was my name tearing from her throat as she came that did me in.
She didn’t just moan it. Sheownedit.
I’d imagined that sound many times before. Fantasized about earning it. Nothing could’ve prepared me for the shock of hearing it.
It took every ounce of restraint not to storm into that room and make her say my name again.
Pant it. Whimper it. Scream it on repeat.
The thought has me painfully hard in an instant—a brutal reminder of everything I’ve kept caged. Years lost in longing. So much time spent fighting the urge to make it real.
To make her mine.
“Shit.” I drag a hand over my face in a vain attempt to shake off the image.
But it lingers.Shealways lingers.
I will not touch myself to thoughts of a girl so far off-limits.
A woman who clearly wants nothing to do with me.
Last night, she shut me down with the Asher card. Then she proceeded to ignore the open-door invitation gift-wrapped in a Santa shirt. At breakfast, her entire soul belonged to a plate of pancakes. On the mountain, she glued herself to the bunny slopes with Jovie, determined never to be alone with me.
I don’t regret letting her go. But I hate how long I’ve let her stay gone. Especially these past few years. She offered slivers of hope, and I let them all slip through my fingers.
Now she’s out of reach. And I’ve got no one to blame but myself.
