Page 85 of The Crush of Christmas Past
“You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.” I pause. “But you’re fully in control.” She needs to know that whatever happens next is her call.
“And…what if…” Isla swallows. “What if I want you to take the lead?”
Half request. Half confession.
All gasoline.
Our eyes lock. Something snarls awake inside me. A feral kind of interest.
I clear my throat. “Is that what you like?” I ask carefully. “With…your partners?”
Fuck.
I don’t want to picture anyone else touching her. Ever. Past, present, or future.
But this moment needs to be investigated.Respected.
She dips her head, then shakes it. “I’m not sure.” A flush blossoms on her cheeks. “It’s kind of ayouthing. Anonlyyou thing.”
Shit.
My jaw tightens. I drag a hand across the muscle, trying to collect what’s left of my brain. Not an easy feat when my thoughts are exploding shrapnel, bursting in every direction.
Before I can pull myself together, she proceeds to further wreck me.
“You saw me through the worst time of my life. Helped me collect all the broken pieces and rebuild myself. Taught me to embrace my power. Iamstrong enough to stand on my own, but…” Her voice dips. “I like that you make me feel like I don’t have to.”
“God, Isla…” My chest fractures, heart cracking wide open.
Without another word, I wrap her in my arms. “I’m honored you trust me to take care of you.” I haul her closer and press a kiss to her temple. “Only me.”
All at once, every version of her—past and present—engulfs me.
Isla at eighteen, dragging herself out of darkness and blazing like the damn sun in the wake of tragedy. Isla at nineteen, presenting her heart to me with trembling hands, staring down fear with unflinching bravery. Isla at twenty-five, wearing my name across her chest like a brand as she offers herself to me.
Quietly—painfully—a part of me aches for Isla of the future, too.
One I haven’t earned yet. One I’m eager to make mine.
When I pull back, she pins me with a devastating look and runs a finger over my handwriting.
Theo’s.
A label she’s testing. A prophecy she’s about to fulfill.
“Put it on,” I order in a low, smooth command. “I want to make you come wearing my name. Screaming it, too.”
She smirks. “Fine. Only because you’re beingsucha gentleman.”
Gripping the hem of her knit dress, she peels it off with the kind of calculated boldness that makes my pulse riot.
Even in surrender, my girl is purefire.
Soft, bare skin greets me, freckles glowing under the lamplight like scattered stars.
Her lingerie is a muted rose color that matches the blush covering her from head to toe. The material is silky and simple, edged with the faintest trace of lace.
