Page 91 of Never Kiss a Krampus
“A very short red skirt.”
“It’s Christmasy.”
“It matches the ribbon in your hair.”
“Festive coordination.”
His laugh was dark and delicious. “You’re not fooling anyone, little light.”
“Not trying to fool you. Trying to seduce you.”
“Consider me thoroughly seduced.” His tail wrapped around my thigh, the touch making me gasp. “Now let me show you what happens to naughty wives who tease their husbands all day.”
“Please.”
“Oh, this isn’t going to be nice.” He kissed his way down my throat, my collarbone, the valley between my breasts. “This is going to be thorough. Detailed. Possibly excessive.”
“Promise?”
“I’m a creature of tradition and ritual, Mrs. Krampus.” He looked up at me through dark lashes, eyes burning. “I take my punishments very seriously.”
And he did.
Later—muchlater—I lay sprawled across his furred chest, boneless and satisfied and possibly incapable of ever moving again. His claws traced lazy patterns down my spine, careful even in the aftermath of thoroughly delivered punishment.
“I take back what I said about being exhausted,” I managed.
His chest rumbled with laughter beneath my cheek. “Oh?”
“I’ve ascended past exhaustion into some kind of blissed-out transcendental state.”
“Eloquent.”
“I used all my words earlier. These are the spare words. The discount words.”
“I quite like the discount words.” He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “They’re honest.”
Outside, snow began to fall. Big, fat flakes that caught the fairy lights and turned the night into something from a snow globe. Our street. Our shop. Our little corner of the world where magic had decided to settle in and stay.
From the nursery, a small sound. Not quite crying. Just the restless fussing of a baby checking that her parents were still nearby.
“I’ll go,” Bastian said, already shifting me gently off his chest.
“You sure?”
“She’ll want her father.” Pride colored his voice, warm and new. “She always does when she wakes at night.”
He pulled on a pair of sleep pants—concession to parenthood—but kept his true form. Horns and all. Because our daughter didn’t care about any of that. She just wanted the deep voice that rumbled comfort and the strong arms that made her world safe.
I watched him go, my monster husband with his infinite patience and terrible soft spot for one tiny human who’d stolen his ancient heart the moment she’d been placed in his arms.
This is my life. This impossible, ridiculous, perfect life.
A few minutes later, he returned, our daughter cradled against his shoulder. She’d settled immediately, her small hand fisted in his fur, her breathing evening out as he paced the room in the slow rhythm that always worked.
“She just wanted to know we were here,” he murmured.
“Smart girl.”
