Page 102 of The Crush of Christmas Past
What transpired between us was so much more thanfucking, but I stop myself from elaborating. Any hint ofmore, and Iwouldn’t put it past Isla to start cutting a hole in the floorboards cartoon-style.
“Still…” She chews her lip, glancing toward the door. “I should get out of here before someone notices. I don’t want—”
I catch her chin between my fingers. “Isla.”
She blinks up at me. “What?”
“My entire family loves you. Always have. Always will.”
Her lips part on a shaky inhale.
Maybe it’s my emphasis onentire, but her gaze starts swinging around the room like she’s casing escape routes in a heist.
When her eyes linger on the window, I tighten my hold, dragging her attention back to me.
“Don’t even think about it. We’re high enough for you to break your neck.”
“Then how do you usually sneak your girlfriends out of here?”
As soon as the question slips out, she staggers back. Jaw dropping, her hands twitch at her sides like she wants to snatch the sentence out of the air and cram it back down her throat.
I smirk. “Girlfriends?”
“Yourgirlfriends. Yourgirlfriends. Your…girlfriends!” Each echo lands with a different distress-flavored emphasis. “Real girlfriends. Not—” She squints, clears her throat, and waves a hand over herself like a malfunctioningPrice is Rightmodel. “Not me. Obviously.”
Too deep in her spiral to notice, she doesn’t fight me when I hook one arm behind her knees, curl the other around her back, and scoop her up.
By the time she whisper-squeals a flustered objection, I’m lowering her onto the bed, sliding in beside her, and dragging the comforter over both our heads.
“Shh,” I murmur, swiping a few loose pieces of hair away from her face. “You’re safe, Sunshine.”
Adrenaline has sunk its claws into her with a vise-like grip. Nervous shivers rock her body, every muscle pulled so tight her usual softness is nowhere to be found.
She huffs little breaths against my bare chest. Even in the low light, with her face tucked tight to my heart, I don’t miss the flush blooming on her skin.
My only instinct is to touch her.
I keep it slow. Tender.
Chaste.
Fingers twining through her hair. Smooth caresses along her spine. A gentle skim over her hip. Palm pressed to her chest, where her heartbeat drums beneath my name.
My hand drifts to her jaw, tracing the corner of her mouth as her rattled breaths even out.
“That’s the first time I’ve had condoms in my nightstand,” I murmur, mapping the plush curve of her bottom lip. “No one has ever been in this bed but you.”
Her head jerks back a fraction. “What?”
I shrug one shoulder. “I moved out at eighteen. Before that, I was too jaded for high school hookups. A real broody bastard.”
“Broody bastards aren’t exactly repellents for teenage girls.” She shoots me a skeptical look. “Especially broody bastards with brains and biceps.”
I shake my head, grinning at her play on words. “Yeah, but I wasn’t the stews-in-his-feelings-and-writes-sad-poetry kind of broken. I was a selfish prick who torched bridges in the name of self-preservation. An angry one, who mouthed off through therapy sessions to avoid hearing the truth. Basically, I was an idiot who had no clue how to be worthy of others.”
Or myself.
“For the first few years of my life, it was my mom and me against the world, enduring my father’s wrath. When we finally got out, there was no freedom. Just survival. Things changed once Graham came into the picture. A year later, Asher arrived. Then—even more kids. Suddenly, I was living in a place brimming with loud laughter and even louder affection. A house that looked like a home. Smelled and sounded like one, too. But it never felt…mine.”
