Page 35 of Santa Daddy
We were only a foot apart, breathing like we’d just run instead of verbally sparred. I could see his pulse beating in his throat. Feel the heat of him even through the layers of coat and silk. My own blood roared loud enough to drown out whatever common sense I had left.
He reached up.
Slowly. Deliberately. Giving me all the time in the world to duck, slap his hand away, ask what the hell he thought he was doing.
I didn’t move.
His fingers brushed my cheek. Callused pads dragging a line of fire across my skin as he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
I wanted to bite his hand.
I wanted to drag it down my body.
What was wrong with me.
My breath hitched. Anger didn’t drain away; it just mixed with something darker until I couldn’t tell which was which anymore.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, thumb tracing my jaw. “Say no. I walk away.”
Say it.
Say no. Say stop. Say you’re done lighting yourself on fire for a man who carries matches for fun.
Mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
The word sat there, heavy and useless, lodged in my throat. Because despite everything—the murder, the kidnapping, the dinner with men who thought “liability” was a polite way to say “problem to erase”—I didn’t want him to stop.
I wanted him to keep touching me like I wasn’t an accident. Like I wasn’t just “useful.” Like I belonged to something other than my own fears.
Logical thoughts flickered like dying Christmas bulbs.
He’s killed more people than you can imagine.
He controls every inch of your existence right now.
And when his hands slid from my jaw down to my waist—slow, deliberate, claiming—every one of those reasonable thoughts went up in smoke.
His palms landed on my hips, heavy and hot through the thin silk. He squeezed, pulling me closer until my chest brushed his coat.
For a heartbeat, I let myself lean into it. Into him.
Let myself imagine what it would be like to stop fighting the gravity between us. To let go and just fall, even if the landing broke every bone in my emotional body.
Then reality slammed back through my skull like ice water.
Image: him in the tree lot. Snow underfoot. Blood splattered across green needles and fake cranberries. Gun in hand, face blank. The mechanical way he’d checked for a pulse. The cool calculation in his eyes when they’d found mine and he’d decided whether I lived or died.
He was a killer.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Professionally.
Beautiful, dangerous, and absolutely capable of putting a bullet in me if I stopped being useful.
I shoved him. Hard.
Two palms to his chest. Every ounce of strength.
