Only One Bed

7. Abbie

Abbie

Abbie

After all that, barely another word passes between us on the way back. Me, because I’m utterly wiped out—emotionally, physically. Reed, because his leg is hurting him. Not that he says so. But he seems completely focused on reaching the cabin.

I’m not so focused. I’m drained, but my thoughts are all over the place. I’m also…lighter. Not like I was before, when I first stepped outside and it felt as if that heavy weight retreated for a while. This time, it feels as if I’ve left that weight behind. Maybe because I unloaded on Reed. But considering everything I discovered, shouldn’t I be sad and grieving? Or angry? My mom lied to me, betrayed my trust, and used me. But beyond the initial shock and hurt, mostly I feel relief .

I don’t know how or why. But maybe I’ll eventually talk to Reed about it.

Talk to Reed Knowles.

Who even am I now? I can hardly comprehend the one-eighty that I’ve gone through with him. Am I really such a sucker for a bit of kindness? I don’t think I am.

Regardless, I can’t regret anything I said to him.

I probably should have talked to someone about all of this before. Putting my experiences into words ordered so many of my thoughts and helped clarify so many of my emotions. The irony is, at work I see the benefits of counseling all the time. Yet I never considered it for my own situation. Whenever I articulated my complaints to myself, the issues always sounded so petty and ridiculous—and I feared being told that I was too sensitive or thin-skinned, especially when so many people have actual, serious problems. Because what would I say? I’ve got an older sister who picks on me. I’ve got a mother who volunteers too much. It seemed too embarrassing to describe to anyone else how much they’ve hurt me. Just like it was too embarrassing to ever tell anyone else how much I hate going home. So I never mentioned any of it to anyone else.

Yet I wasn’t embarrassed while telling Reed. And with my memories laid out for me to examine all together, the hurt didn’t seem so petty or ridiculous after all.

It also made me realize how much more hurt I am by Lauryn than my mom. Perhaps because I simply don’t have as many good memories of my mother. But my sister and I used to be closer. Lauryn wasn’t always so negative. Not when we were kids or teenagers. Then there was a period of about seven years—which included graduations and college, and me moving out of my mom’s house—when we didn’t see each other very often. Either Lauryn wasn’t as bad during those seven years or I didn’t notice how judgy she’d become because our meetings were so infrequent. It wasn’t until after she moved in that the endless negativity and criticism began wearing me down.

And the thing is, I understand a lot of it. The world is shitty in so many ways. I understand the anger, the discontent.

But there are also so many people who can’t push back against the shit. Because they don’t have time or money; or they don’t have the spoons, emotionally and mentally and physically. So they can’t devote themselves toward changing things. But Lauryn could.

She just doesn’t. And I’ve judged her for it…but I’ve never asked myself why she doesn’t. Not to excuse her, but to at least understand.

Until today, I’d forgotten how she’d been considered my dad’s kid, while I was my mom’s. And although I’ve always thought of us both as having been abandoned—by my dad leaving and my mom not making the effort—in a way, Lauryn was more abandoned than I was. My mom had her plans for me, and from Lauryn’s perspective, that must have seemed like positive attention. Perhaps it’s no wonder that Lauryn tries so hard to do what’s right and good. She might have been trying to gain a little bit of the attention my mom spent on me.

I don’t think she’s trying to get my mom’s attention now. That ship has sailed. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t learn some things from our mother—including the negativity and nitpicking. My mom is just more subtle about it.

But my mom also projects this image of (goody goody) perfection. She does everything for the right reasons. She tries to do what’s best for everyone else. She always sacrifices her own time and interests on behalf of a greater cause. And I can see Lauryn trying to do what’s right and to be perfect in her own way.

Doing right is one thing, however. Trying to be perfect is another. One of the first things I learned from my art instructors was that perfection is the enemy of progress. No piece would ever be finished if it had to be absolutely perfect. It would be an endless toil of trying and trying and trying, yet never reaching the goal.

Maybe that’s what happened to Lauryn. Maybe she’s paralyzed by the impossibility of being perfect. Maybe the pressure to do everything right means never taking a step for fear it might be the wrong one—as if there’s a pitfall waiting behind every shining door. And I suppose there is. Because nothing is ever completely, perfectly right.

Maybe she’s so worried about stepping wrong in her quest to do right, she’s lost sight of what truly matters—which is the people around her.

Then again, maybe that’s only what matters to me , not to Lauryn. I hope that’s not true. Because it’s what frustrates me most about her—feeling as if she completely forgets about people. Both the people who need help and the people who are helping. She’s so focused on pointing at all the wrong things in the world, it’s like she’s blind to the efforts people are making to right those wrongs. And when she’s not blind to the effort, she criticizes the effort because the results aren’t perfect (maybe another thing she learned from our mom, because we were never perfect and she let us know it.) Maybe that’s what makes me so angry with Lauryn now. To see so many people working, and trying, and doing their best, and to have her dismiss those effort as shit. As never good enough.

Because I’m also doing my best. Yet I’m never good enough for her. For my own sister. Who’s been where I’ve been, who has lived through much of the same shit as I have, the same grief and loss, who grew up with the same mom. Everything I do isn’t enough for the one person in the world who should understand me.

It’s also bewildering to realize…that one person in the world might actually be Reed Knowles.

Who will kiss me tomorrow. If I want him to.

But not just a kiss. I know that. Reed must, too. It wouldn’t ever stop at a kiss. Not with the two of us stuck in the cabin together. Not when there’s only one bed. Not when I keep thinking about his dick. Just kisses might last…a day? An hour?

Five fucking minutes?

It’s almost unfathomable that kissing him is even a question. A day ago—hell, only this morning—I wouldn’t have considered it. Not for a second.

Yet I see him so differently now. Even the worst thing I thought about him—the bulldozing of my mother’s house—seems a little more understandable after hearing that my mom spent years suing his dead mother. Honestly, I’m not sure there’s much difference between how awful our surviving parents are. They each wanted to destroy everything the other one had. Reed’s father just happened to be more successful. Though my mom didn’t make out too badly, either (except I’d bet anything that four hundred thousand isn’t as much as my mother thought she deserved, so she probably does feel that Knowles cheated her).

Pushing all that old family feud crap aside, however, the only reason I disliked Reed Knowles was because of the shit he’d said to Harris. There was no excuse for that. But I am impressed with how he’d owned it and apologized.

Am I too easily impressed? Are my standards too low? I don’t think so. If he’d really been as terrible as I believed he was, then yes—my forgiveness came too easily. But on top of everything I discovered today is the undebatable fact that I did not know him . I essentially met Reed Knowles the night he stumbled into the cabin. What I’ve learned of him since…I like. A lot.

I also like his declaration that he’d never intentionally hurt me.

But should I trust it?

I think I might. Because I don’t know Reed well, but I do know my boss. Harris O’Neil doesn’t keep friends unless he respects them—and Reed is his closest friend. I’ve known that for a long time…yet I dismissed how their friendship suggested that Reed wasn’t as bad as I’d believed him to be, because it didn’t fit the narrative I knew was true.

Except it turns out I knew nothing at all.

By the time we reach the cabin, only one thought remains in my head. Not Lauryn, not my mother’s lies, not Reed and whether to (not just ) kiss him. No, that one thought is: food.

Thanks to my multiple tumbles into the snow, my fleece-lined leggings are wet up the ass. I strip naked in the bathroom, hang my underwear and leggings to dry, and change into my coziest sweats. Reed must have also done a quick-change. When I come out, his pack is open and he’s wearing faded jeans with a red fisherman sweater. The sweater’s sleeves are pushed halfway up his forearms, which is utterly freaking ridiculous. How dare he? All he needs is a pocketknife and an apple and I’d be in a drooling puddle at his feet. Luckily for me, he’s got a bow saw and a tree bough instead, and I’m so hungry that it doesn’t matter how mouthwatering his hands and forearms are. My belly needs fed.

The charcuterie board takes a little longer than usual to assemble, probably because I’m cramming half of everything into my mouth before it reaches the platter. By the time I set it on the table, my belly beast has been tamed, and Reed has dismembered half the limb.

Overall the broken section of the bough is about the length of a tall Christmas tree, but the secondary branches extend out flat on two sides instead of all around. Only those smaller branches are bushy with needles, so Reed saws his way down the broken bough like he’s removing ribs from a spine. When done, he drags the denuded limb outside, and if my mouth wasn’t full of cheese, I’d have joked that he managed to whittle a bear-hunting spear after all.

He returns just as I’m pulling the mini sausage rolls from the oven. Like a dumbass, he snatches one up, then hisses and tosses the hot weenie from hand to hand waiting for it to cool.

So stupid. But his forearms are still exposed by his pushed-up sleeves, and his hands are so big—and the flex of tendon and muscle so mesmerizing—I can almost forgive the dumbassery.

Finally he pops the sausage roll into his mouth, then gestures to the pile of greenery. “Do you want help decorating?”

“I don’t need help,” I say, hoping he doesn’t have his own festive vision of how the cabin will look. “But do you want to help? If so, you can.”

“I won’t pretend it’s a favorite pastime, but I will help you. Happily.”

That response allows me to fully forgive the dumbassery. “Then no, I’d rather do it myself.”

“All right. But if you need me to hold something in place, I’m your man.” Reed’s a quick learner, apparently, because he goes for the not-piping-hot charcuterie board next. “Do you mind if I write while you decorate?”

“Not at all.” Those sleeves are still up, so watching him type while I labor away will be an extra Christmas Eve treat.

He heads for his pack. From it he pulls a pair of over-the-ear headphones, then casts an apologetic glance my direction. “White noise helps me focus.”

Ah. So he’s letting me know that his intention isn’t to be a rude asshole like I was yesterday with my earbuds. “All right.” A thought strikes me. “Are they noise cancelling? Do you care if I play Christmas music?”

“Go to. If you need anything, just wave in my face.”

I practically skip over to grab my bluetooth speaker and phone. By the time I’ve got it set up, Reed has loaded a plate and is settled down at the table in front of…something that’s not a laptop. Not a typewriter, either. I don’t know what it is. It almost looks like a wide, giant calculator—but instead of a number pad, it’s got a full-sized keyboard.

I wave my hand in front of his face. Eyebrows raised, he pulls the headphones down.

I point. “What in the holy name of Radio Shack is that?”

Reed grins. “This is my baby,” he says, and actually caresses the dark green casing. “It’s an AlphaSmart Neo.”

“It looks as old as I am.”

“Not quite. Though maybe close. They stopped making them more than a decade ago. I bought this one online the first time I came out here to the cabin, and I’ve picked up a few more since then, in case it dies. This one has lasted me about eight years so far, though.”

“But…why not a laptop? Or a tablet?”

“Because this gets seven hundred hours of run time on three AA batteries.”

“Hours? Seven hundred hours?”

He nods. “And it’ll hold about two hundred pages—around half of one of my books.”

Oh. “So out here in the middle of nowhere and with no electricity…”

“I can spend a few weeks. I do have a laptop with me so I can clear out the Neo’s memory and back up my work, but I save that battery just for the transfer.”

I shake my head, cringing inside at the thought of trusting some ancient machine that was discontinued years ago not to erase half a book. But it’s apparently worked for him this long. Although… “Is your head healed enough now to read on that tiny display?”

“I only had to change the settings a bit.” Turning the device toward me, he shows me the little LCD screen…and the enormous font.

Oh shit.

Suddenly he looks entirely too pleased with himself. “You almost laughed.”

“But I didn’t.” I snag a jalapeno popper so that I’ll have something in my mouth to stifle my giggles if I think about that font size again. Breezily I add, “You may carry on now. Thank you for indulging my curiosity.”

“My pleasure,” Reed says, smiling as he puts his headphones on again.

I get started on the decorations, humming along with the carols—sometimes singing quietly since he can’t hear me—and nearly high on the fresh scent of pine. Most of the branches end up on the fireplace mantel, but I hang others above the shutters and door—then save one for the bathroom, because Hot Biscuit Slim seems to be over his digestion issues, but that little space can use the extra pine odor protection.

All of the greenery gets draped in cranberry and popcorn garlands. By the end, the cabin is ridiculously festive and cheery, and I absolutely love it. I settle into my armchair to bask.

Then I remember Reed’s forearms.

He’s very, very focused on that little screen. Now and again he’ll grab a bite from his plate without looking away, rub his fingers on a napkin, and get back to typing. I don’t know what he’s working on, exactly, but his expression makes fascinating changes as he goes—as if he’s subconsciously mirroring whatever his characters are thinking or feeling as he writes them down. And his posture isn’t tense , yet he sits forward in the chair, and instead of letting his feet rest flat on the floor, his lower legs are balanced on the balls of his feet, as if he’s on the verge of standing. Overall there’s just an intensity to Reed’s whole being as he works that I find incredibly appealing. Before too long, my fingers itch to dig out my sketchpad and capture him in long, strong strokes.

Or…I can paint. He promised not to say anything to hurt me. I either trust that or I don’t.

I do. Mostly.

I set up my easel behind the armchairs—which is also the small open space at the end of the bed—where he’d have to deliberately come looking to see what I’m working on. No accidental peeks from this angle. Not that he’s noticed what I’m doing. The man truly does focus. But when I haul a canvas out of my large tote, that gets his attention.

His headphones come down around his neck. I say nothing.

Reed watches me lay out my brushes on top of the dresser—which turns out to be a very convenient workspace—and as I squirt paint onto my palette. Finally he says, “You know I want to look. But I’ll wait for an invitation.”

That was the kindest, sweetest thing he could have said. But I only reply, “You’ll be waiting a while.”

He grins. And doesn’t return to his work. He just stares at me.

“What?” I ask warily.

“You smiled.”

“No, I didn’t.” Oh god, maybe I did. His reply truly made me happy. “Did I?’

“You did.”

Shit. But I shrug. “It’s another Christmas miracle, I guess.” And at least I didn’t laugh.

“Another?”

Reed saying ‘thank you’ was the other miracle. That seems too petty to tell him now. “You making it here alive seems like one.”

His grin widens. “You wouldn’t have called that a miracle a few days ago. More like a curse.”

“I’m trying to be nice. Since it’s Christmas Eve. Now hush your mouth and let me paint.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Up go his headphones, but he’s still grinning and casting glances my way.

I try to ignore him. But oh, it’s hard. Because he’s big and intense and smells like pine—and he’s kind. So who wants to climb him like he’s a giant Christmas tree?

Surprise, surprise. It’s me.

The end of the day comes early and hits me hard. By the time I’m out of the shower and dry my hair, my entire body is dragging. Reed’s taking his own shower when I finally crawl under the covers…where I lie awake, shivering and utterly exhausted, but with my brain in the grip of nervous anticipation. Because although there won’t be any kissing until tomorrow, the blood rushing through my veins apparently can’t tell time. Add in the knowledge that he’ll soon be in bed with me, there’s no hope yet of sleeping.

Then he comes out of the bathroom, and the blood in my veins says the time should be now. Right now.

Because he shaved. Shaved. I’d bet five bucks that he usually lets his beard grow wild when he’s at the cabin. But instead he shaved his jaw smooth. As if he’s planning to do something with his face soon and doesn’t want his stubble tearing up delicate skin while doing it.

I’m not sleepy anymore. I might never sleep again. I know Reed won’t go back on his timeline. Not when he’s worried about taking advantage of me. Nothing will happen until tomorrow.

But he’s preparing for something to happen. And I can’t tell him that my body is already ready. I wouldn’t mind torturing him, but I don’t want to torture myself.

Watching him is torture enough. Wearing only pajama pants, he makes his way around the cabin—checking the stove, throwing more wood on the fire, flipping the deadbolt (as if another abominable snowman will find his way to the door.) The flickering firelight dances over his skin as he returns to the bed, illuminating his rough hairy body and his hard smooth jaw, turning every part of him into a delicious play of textures and angles, light and shadow.

Maybe he assumes I’m already sleeping, because he doesn’t say anything before climbing in. I’m lying on my side facing the center of the bed, watching as he settles back against his pillow and closes his eyes. Not even a glance in my direction.

Well…fuck him.

I screw my eyes shut. Everything’s quiet.

Then out of nowhere he says, “Next time, I’ll make you laugh.”

Which makes me laugh. I try to stop it, burying my face in my pillow. Too late.

“YES!” Reed crows, coming up onto his elbows. “I win our battle of skill and wits.”

It takes me a second to remember what he’s referring to. Of course I can’t give an inch. “That’s only in a fight with friends. Not enemies.”

With a disgruntled “Dammit, Abbie,” he flops back down and turns onto his side, arm cocked and head propped on his hand, biceps flexed, eyes narrowed. “After everything you learned today, why do we still have to be enemies? None of your reasons had any solid factual basis.”

“You did say that shit to Harris.”

“You forgave me.”

“Did I?” I’m trying so hard not to smile.

“Yeah, you did,” he says confidently. “And not that it made any difference, since he knew I was being a dick and hired you anyway. What do you do for him?”

“I’m the Director of Community Engagement and Development.” I say the job title like a grand pronouncement before adding, “Which just means I’m in charge of the organization’s messaging and social media—and finding new avenues for donations. Though I don’t have to do the face-to-face fundraising myself, thankfully, because I’m not that personable.”

“Because you’re too blunt? Or because you like making enemies out of perfectly harmless men who interrupt your solitary holidays?”

“Probably the first.” And he’s got me smiling again. “I do develop the talking points for the others to use while they’re fundraising, though.”

“So, marketing.”

“That’s what my degree is in.”

His brows draw in, as if he’s contemplating a puzzle. His eyes search my face through the flickering darkness. “And do you enjoy that? Marketing?”

“I do. I like figuring out what makes people interested or invested, and working out how I can convince others to care. But mostly because it involves so much graphic design—which was my other major.”

“Ah,” he says, as if something clicks into place. “And the painting—is that something you do professionally or just for fun?”

“I have a side gig. That’s what I’m working on here. But it’s not for the money, because there’s not much money in it. I just enjoy it,” I say, then sigh.

Reed’s beginning to read me too easily, because he asks, “But not enjoying it lately?”

“Not at home, no. I’m told how pointless and silly it is—and that I’m not good enough to make a career of it, so why bother?”

A soft growl sounds in his throat. “Even if it’s silly as fuck and never makes a cent, I have no patience for anyone who shits on what other people enjoy. Especially when those things aren’t hurting anyone else.”

“Oh, you need to talk to Lauryn. We are hurting people by selling our work. All art and intellectual property should be freely distributed to everyone, so even if I do create something pretty now and then, I shouldn’t feel entitled to be paid for it.”

He groans. “She’s one of those ?”

I have to laugh, because the pain is real. “You get them, too, with your books?”

“All the time.”

“And told we’ll be replaced by artificial intelligence?”

“Even worse.” He reaches out, and my heart thunders as he brushes the side of his thumb down my cheek. “Are we truly still enemies?”

How can he keep blindsiding me like this? “We should be,” I answer breathlessly. “Tradition, and all that. I can’t befriend a Knowles man. After all these years, it’s almost…blasphemy. And you know I’m too goody goody to sin.”

His gaze slips down to my mouth. “Maybe we’ll find out tomorrow how goody goody you?—”

He jerks back, sucking air through his teeth in a curse as Hot Biscuit Slim claws his way onto the bed, not caring that Reed’s bare skin is in his path.

Reed catches him. “Fucking Christ. I ought to throw you into a snowbank, you mangy rat!”

I’d take that a little more seriously if Reed wasn’t already sitting up, cradling the cat against his broad chest and rubbing his ears. Hot Biscuit Slim, of course, is purring. Loudly.

The traitor.

“He actually likes you, you know.” And it doesn’t make me jealous at all . “He never curls up on my lap like he does yours.”

“You can curl up on my lap anytime, too. Whether you like me or not.”

Leaning forward, he sets Hot Biscuit Slim down near our feet, then stretches out on his side again, but closer—and at exactly the same time I’m stifling a yawn against the back of my hand.

His dark gaze sweeps my face. “Did you sleep last night?”

I shake my head, already yawning again.

“Me neither. I spent all night thinking that I should have apologized for what I said to Harris. I should’ve just talked to you.”

“Not sure I would have answered you yesterday,” I admit drowsily. “I hated you too much.”

He huffs a short laugh.

I eye him. “What?”

“You always say what you mean. I like that about you. I like it a lot.”

“Even when what I’m saying isn’t so nice?”

“Maybe especially then. Because you’ve made me rethink some things, Abbie Walker.”

“What things?” I ask and have to cover my mouth again.

“I’ll tell you later, because that’s the fourth time you’ve yawned in as many minutes.”

“I am tired,” I confess. “Someone crashed his snowmobile really far away from the cabin so I had to hike miles and miles through the snow.”

“Uphill both ways?”

“Seemed like it.” Without forethought, I turn around and snuggle back against his chest. “Is this okay? You’re really warm and it feels nice.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly, his voice deeper than before. “Is this okay?”

His arm drapes over my side and he pulls me in tighter.

I sigh contentedly. “It is. Although if tonight is anything like the other night, we’ll both roll around. We might end up where we ought to be.”

“Where should we be?”

“Apart. Like enemies.”

“You don’t believe in keeping enemies close?”

“No. Though I do believe in using my enemies to protect my tits from Hot Biscuit Slim.”

A short laugh rumbles from him. Then he seems to slowly go still behind me. As if bracing himself. “Did you decide for tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Yes.”

That stillness recedes. He drags me even closer, spooning his full length behind mine—and although I’m a teaspoon and he’s a big serving spoon, somehow it works. “So there’s no mistaking, I dying to get my mouth on you now . Not tomorrow. But I won’t take advantage when you’re exhausted, either. Not the first time.”

His words shiver over my skin…but I have to admit to some disappointment. Because I can feel him behind me, the bulge of his cock—but he’s not erect. Semi-hard, at best.

I wiggle my ass against him. “Honestly, I’m not getting interest from you. Certainly no dying.”

Wryly he replies, “Probably because I jerked off in the shower.”

Oh. Well, okay. That’s much better. “Did you?”

“Twice.”

“Twice?” Impressive. His shower lasted maybe fifteen minutes. “So you have decent recovery time.”

“Only because I have a very strong imagination, and I can’t stop thinking about getting inside you.”

My inner muscles clench. “I see. Is now a good time to confess that I masturbated while you were sleeping beside me the other night?”

“It’s always a good time to confess something like that.” He exhales a long breath, then seems to hold the next. “Were you thinking of me?”

“You might have been pounding me into the mattress at one point, with my ankles somewhere in the vicinity of my ears. And if I wasn’t so tired, I’d rub my clit again. Right now. I’d get my pussy all nice and wet, then make you watch me come.”

“Fuck,” he groans the curse—and to my delight, he’s stiffer than semi-hard now. Because I’m truly not opposed to torturing him, and his very strong imagination can have a field day with the little I just gave him.

“Anyway,” I tell him, closing my eyes. “Good night.”

He groans again before laughing. “Sleep tight, Abbie girl. Because I’m going to kiss you everywhere tomorrow.”

Everywhere. Anticipation fills me again, until I’m like a little girl lying in bed on Christmas Eve and hoping to hear the clippity-clop of reindeer hooves on the roof.

I fall asleep while waiting for Santa to come.

I’m not sure what wakes me. It’s dark, telling me the fire has died down, so at least a few hours have passed, but it’s not yet freezing cold in the way it gets nearer to dawn.

And I’m not spooned anymore. I must have rolled over onto my belly. My leg still touches Reed’s, but that’s it.

Reed’s still asleep, each breath deep and even, his body radiating luscious warmth. I scoot oh-so-slowly closer again, trying not to wake him.

Maybe I don’t try hard enough. Or maybe he senses me moving, because his steely arm hooks around my middle and with a drowsily mumbled “C’mere,” Reed drags me bodily up against his chest, no longer spooning but front-to-front. He nuzzles his face into my hair with a sleep-slurred, “Smell s’good.”

That wakes me up a bit more, though I’m not sure about him. Once he’s got me close, his hold around my waist relaxes and his breaths even out, each exhalation warming my ear and cheek.

Then, although he doesn’t move, his body doesn’t seem as relaxed anymore. As if tension and awareness are seeping into his extremities. His inhalations deepen.

“Reed?” It’s hardly a murmur, so I won’t disturb him if he is still asleep.

“I’m here.” His quiet reply still has a bedtime thickness to it, but not a hint of drowsiness. “Do you need me to move over or let you go?”

“No, I— It’s after midnight.” And in case my meaning isn’t clear, “So…it’s tomorrow.”

When he intended to kiss me. Perhaps he would have, if I’d given him the chance.

But I kiss him first. Well, first I launch myself at him, bowling him over onto his back, then climbing aboard. I straddle his stomach, take his face in my hands—his shaved jaw only slightly rough under my palms— then kiss him. Rather hungrily, in truth.

Thankfully, Reed is hungry, too.

And, oh, it’s such good kissing. Not the rote kissing that always happen when a lip-lock is nothing but the expected first step on a path farther south. Truthfully, I assumed kissing Reed would be like that, too. I only saw the decision to kiss him as a first step toward what was inevitably next, knowing it would never just be a kiss. Even when I jumped him, the purpose of kissing him was mostly to get the engine started.

But now that I’m here, I could do this for hours . Kissing Reed is such a pleasure in itself. Stroking my tongue over his. The soft suction on my lips. The delicious wet slide of our mouths. The massaging grip of one large hand on my ass, the other curled firmly around my nape. Drawing back for air and feeling his smile beneath mine. Angling my head and going in for more.

I go in for more so many times. Then after—I don’t know how long it’s been—I finally come up for air again, resting my forehead against his, my breathing harsh and my whole body feeling hot and shivery.

Honestly, I’m a little blindsided. Again.

Straddling him as I am, I ride the rise and fall of his own quickened breaths. His fingers tighten around my nape, his thumb in the little hollow beneath my ear. I didn’t know how good a thumb feels right there. How strangely comforting and yet possessively demanding, all at once.

Reed gently nips my bottom lip. “I like it when we aren’t enemies.”

“No,” I say, “we still are.”

“Dammit. Still?”

“Oh, don’t grumble. I’m a complicated person. We’ve been enemies all our lives, you think that disappears in a poof? I’ve got twenty years of baggage to unload before I can clear you as a friend.” I grin against his mouth, then go in for a lick across the edge of his teeth. “For tonight, though, I’ll pretend you aren’t my enemy.”

“That’s acceptable.” He squeezes my ass then runs his hand up my back. “So what would you like your not-enemy to do to you?”

So much. But there’s one leeetle problem. Leaning in close, I whisper hotly in his ear, “I want you to tell me that you’ve got condoms in your pack.”

“Oh, fuck.” It’s too dark to make out his expression, but by his tone, I have to imagine a comical portrait of abject uncertainty and horrified dismay. “Fuck. Do I?”

“Go check. You’ve been lucky so far this holiday.”

“My luck’s not running out now.” Determination fills his voice and he rolls us over, then leaves me in the middle of the bed. “I’ll hike to the nearest town if I have to.”

The sudden glare of an LED lantern almost blinds me. I pull a blanket up around my shoulders and sit huddled, watching as Reed grabs his pack, throws it down to the floor. He drops to his knees and begins searching through it, dragging out items and tossing them aside. No kid on Christmas morning ever put more energy into tearing away wrapping paper and ripping into a box, praying that Santa brought him the one gift he wanted more than anything else, than Reed does digging into that bag.

“I’ve thrown all kinds of shit in here over the years,” he tells me, as if the collection of stuff accumulating around him wasn’t already proof of that. We could live for weeks off the number of protein bars he carries around. “I think I tossed condoms in here at some point. And I’ve got no idea what might be in some of these pockets— FUCK YES! ”

Triumphantly he emerges from the pack’s uncharted depths with what used to be a black box. Now the packaging is flattened and tattered at the edges. Abruptly the triumph drains from his expression. He carries the box over to the lantern, where he squints and brings the package nearer to his face.

He casts me a grim look. “They expired a month ago. And they were out in below-freezing temps for a few days.”

Oh god. Lust wars with caution. I bite my knuckle. “Is it worth it? What do you think?”

While contemplating, he turns the box over and over in his hands. But considering the tentpole in his pajama pants, I’m not surprised when he decides, “If they seem all right when we open them, I’m game. You?”

“Yes. I also have an IUD.” I don’t have a tentpole but I can talk myself into almost anything. Of course, birth control isn’t the only concern. “Are you usually protected?”

“Always. And it’s been a while. A long while,” he adds with a note of chagrin.

“Nothing wrong with that. And me, too. Been a while, always protected.” I blow out my cheeks. “All right, then. How many are left?”

“The full dozen. I haven’t used any of them.” He swiftly detours to the fireplace and tosses in more wood, then a few long strides carry him back to the side of the bed. He doesn’t turn off the lantern. “How many days until we leave?”

“Eight days. Unless the snow doesn’t melt.”

He pulls the strip of condoms out of the smashed box. “Then we’ll have to ration these until we’re sure it’s melting.”

“So it’ll be like the Twelve Days of Christmas, but it’s twelve fucks, instead.” As he tears one off, I sing, “ On the first fuck of Christmas, my enemy gave to me…a cock in a latex sheath! ”

My voice is as terrible as always. But he doesn’t cringe, doesn’t cover his ears.

Instead he laughs and leans in to kiss me, still standing beside the bed while I’m in the center of it. Pulling back, he catches my gaze and tucks a loose curl behind my ear. “I’m going to work hard to find out what you like, but is there anything I should stay away from because it’ll ruin this for you?”

I blink at him in surprise. But I guess there are a few things. “Well, if you go down on me?—”

“When,” he interrupts. “Not if . The only thing that’ll stop me is if you say now you don’t like it.”

My heart skips a little. “ When you do, I don’t like being spit on.”

“No worries there. If I can’t get you wet enough, I’m doing something wrong.” His hand slips under the blankets and strokes up the length of my thigh, making me shiver. “Anything else?”

“I like dirty talking but— Do you usually?” Maybe it won’t even be an issue.

“I do. I can’t help it, mostly. My head gets in there and just takes over.” His eyes crinkle at the corners and he still hasn’t taken his gaze from my face. “If you want anything specific said, at any time, just let me know. And that’s where my head will go.”

I’m fascinated and a little distracted by the idea of his head taking over instead of simply leaving the building while he’s fucking, but I don’t want to forget the important part. “Not something specific to say, but not say. I don’t like being called a slut or whore just because I’m eager.”

“All right.” His thumb slides along the elastic edge of my panties. “Anything else?”

“I don’t mind rough or a spank on my ass. But I don’t like my tits slapped—or my face, even if it’s not a hard slap.”

His expression hardens, his fingers stilling their soft caress. “Who—?” He bites off the question, his eyes closing. “No. Not now. We’ll discuss that later. Anything else?”

“I can’t think of anything now.” I’m starting to lose the ability to think at all. “What about you? Is there anything you don’t like?”

For a long second, Reed merely looks at me, his brows drawn. “No one’s ever asked me that before. Hold on while I think.”

He means ‘hold on’ literally, because he scoops me up and sits on the side of the bed with me straddling his hips—lowering me carefully, I realize, not so he doesn’t crush his erection but to make sure I don’t land on the bruised muscle of his thigh. He wraps a forearm around my back, as if to hold me in place.

His free hand begins undoing the buttons of my pajama shirt. “I prefer that you don’t call me James while you’re coming.”

“Say what?”

“It happened once.”

I study his face. His focus is on his fingers—and maybe on everything that he’s revealing beneath my pajamas—but I can’t read his expression. “Is that a sad story or a funny one?”

“Funny.”

I’m glad. It’s so strange, the realization that I don’t want to think of Reed being hurt. Especially if he cared enough for another woman to be hurt. “I’ll try not to forget your name, then.”

“I don’t think it was a matter of forgetting, but pretending she was with someone else. I suppose it’s a sad story for her.”

Sounds like one. “I’m not pining for anyone named James or otherwise, so we’re in the clear. Any other dislikes?”

“Just one.” Finished with the buttons, he cups my face, rubs his thumb over my upper lip. “Don’t fake anything with me, Abbie girl. Make me work for it if you’re not enjoying it.”

Heart pounding, I nod. “Anything else?”

“No.”

“Then I’d like you to get to work now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says and hauls me in, claiming my mouth in a kiss that’s good, still so good, but one that seems to take everything he discovered in our kisses before and spins it into a new purpose.

I can’t smile against his mouth anymore because I’m too busy hanging on, withstanding the new onslaught that is Reed’s mouth. Before there was hunger and sweetness and fun but now there’s fire, searing everything, stealing all of the oxygen and leaving me gasping, pulling him closer, trying to get more. My hands push into his hair—and he winces into our kiss, because I forgot. I forgot that he’d gotten whacked.

I blather a “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“S’alright, Abbie.” His lips reddened, looking somewhat dazed, he pulls back—and I’m so sorry then, until he lifts my breast and dips his head. Then there’s fire again, drawing my nipple into the heat of his mouth, burning me straight through.

And I want more, more, more. I arch back against the iron bar of his forearm, offering him better access—and that movement rocks my center against the rigid stand of his cock. He moans around my nipple, a sound that rumbles over his tongue and injects into my blood, because the fire spreads downward and I rub again, and again, my knees digging into the bed on either side of his hips, using that leverage to ride his full length, pussy-soaked cotton against cotton pulled taut over hardened flesh, the friction over my clit so maddening but so unbearably delicious.

Groaning, he releases my nipple and presses his face into the softness of my breast. His hand grips my ass, slowing me just a little, meeting each rock of my hips with a subtle lift of his own. “It was hot as fuck when you did this the other morning. I wanted to fill you with my cock right there.”

A laugh escapes through my ragged breaths. “I shouldn’t have been so surprised to wake up that way. I saw your dick when you got into bed. It took me hours to stop thinking of it. But then apparently I dreamed of it.”

He looks up at me, eyes narrowing. “I’ll have to fix that.”

“Fix what?”

“You stopped thinking of it. I’ll make it so you never do again. I’ll get so deep into you, you’ll always be feeling it. But let’s get you wet enough, first.”

I’m pretty sure that I’m already wet enough, but I’d be the last person to protest when Reed flips us around, goes down to his knees and drags my ass to the edge of the mattress. His fingers hook into my panties and he strips them off, then pushes my thighs wide.

“Christ. Look at you.” His voice is deep and reverent. His hands cup my knees, holding me spread, and he bows his head to kiss the soft skin halfway up my inner thigh. “Such a sweet little cunt. I should get my fill of looking in now, before I’ve wrecked it.”

My body’s trembling too hard to laugh again, but I manage a gasping sort of snort. “Aren’t you full of yourself?”

“You’ll be full of me, too, Abbie girl.” His mouth skims higher; his hand slides up my other thigh, using his elbow now to hold me open. With no hesitation, he slicks his thumb up my slit and over my clit, forcing me to bite my lip against the desperate mewling sound that I almost make. His thumb returns to my entrance and gently presses his way in. “You saw my cock. You know what you’ll be trying to take into this little hole. I know I should go easy with a pussy so sweet. But I don’t think I’ll be holding back.”

“You won’t need to.” I hope he doesn’t even try to. “It’s not my first rodeo, rough rider. And a funny thing about vaginas: they bounce back.”

“Thank fuck for that. And for this sweet, resilient little pussy.” Abruptly he spreads me with his fingers and dives in for a hot, swirling lick. Then another. He has to hold me down when I writhe upward, biting the back of my hand, feeling nothing but the rough and the slick of his tongue.

He pauses, looking up at me. I can almost breathe. Then a suckling kiss to my clit rips away all the air and I’m gasping, flailing.

Until he pauses again.

Testing. Or teasing. I’m not sure which, but he’s murdering me.

“Reed.” I pant his name.

“Hmm?” he hums, rubbing his thumb over my clit, his tongue slipping down to my entrance.

“I need to come. Please. Save the torture for round two.”

And, oh god. Because it turns out that Reed eats pussy just like he kisses. As if it’s the most important thing he’ll ever do. As if there’s nothing in the world he enjoys more. His fingers push deep and his mouth covers my clitoris, taking me over inside and out with each lick, each thrust, each time he sucks on my clit and flicks his tongue. My last surviving brain cell remembers that I can’t fist my hands in his hair and rub my cunt all over his face so instead I rip at the blankets under me, making gurgling noises in my throat that probably aren’t normally made by anyone living. Then Reed groans, as if he loves what he’s doing to me (god help me, I love it, too), and his fingers bend and his knuckles rub in just the right spot, and he does another of those swirling kisses. I come like some crazed feral creature, clawing the blankets and wailing his name ( not James, what an absolute fool that woman was.) When my convulsions stop, I ease back down—gasping, maybe crying a little, covering my face with my hands and trying to recover. But Reed doesn’t make it easy, spreading me wide again and slowly licking me up, then placing a gentle kiss against my still-quivering belly.

“So fucking beautiful, Abbie. You taste so damn good. If I go down,” he scoffs at the memory, then kisses higher, higher. “I’m going to do that again and again.”

My head turns to the side and I notice Hot Biscuit Slim, curled up and sleeping at the end of the bed. As if the most cataclysmic orgasm in the history of humanity hadn’t just taken place three feet away from him.

How could he sleep through that?

Then I forget my cat, because Reed’s kisses reach my breastbone. The single brain cell I have left remembers that I can touch his shoulders, his chest. So I do as he rises over me, scraping my fingers through the hair covering his pecs, dragging my nails down his sides, glorying in the solidity of him, the warmth.

He kisses me slow and deep before putting his mouth to my ear. “You want to be fucked, Abbie girl? Want me to fill up the hot little cunt that I just made wet enough to take me?”

My reply is a frantic nod as I bring his mouth to mine again. And his strength is really something ridiculous, because while kissing he casually picks me up and deposits me in the center of the bed. He only draws back to shuck his pajamas—oh my, he’s a show-er and a grow-er. Long and almost obscenely thick, more meaty than veiny.

I’m not at all upset about that.

He rips open the condom packet and carefully rolls it on.

“Does it look all right?” Please, Santa, let it be all right.

“All good so far.”

That applies to more than just the rubber. “Credit where it’s due—you are exceeding yesterday’s anticipation. No disappointment yet.”

“Told you I’d prove you wrong.” He grins when I huff, then crawls up over me, hooking my right leg over his left elbow as he goes. “You okay like this?”

“I’m flexible,” I tell him breathlessly, my anticipation cranking up to high again as he settles between my thighs. My teeth dig into my bottom lip when he takes his shaft in hand and furrows the broad tip through the folds of my pussy, lodging against my entrance.

“Good,” he says, breath ragged. “Because I want to watch this little cunt stretch around my cock.” A groan rips from him as he pushes in and slides deep, deeper. “Just like that. Look how you take me, Abbie girl. Fuck, you feel so damn good.”

So good. I can’t think. Can’t feel anything but how full I am. It burns a little. Aches a little. It doesn’t hurt , but I’m so acutely aware that he’s inside me, the penetration is a little overwhelming.

Then a lot overwhelming, all at once. Not just how good it feels, but how right it feels.

It’s almost terrifying.

Reed’s mouth briefly finds mine before he tries to catch my eyes. “All right?”

I need him to move. I’ll be all right if he moves. I’ll process everything else later.

“I’m okay,” I tell him, then wrap my free leg around him, digging my heel into his ass, urging him forward. “But move. Move move move. And say dirty things.”

Anything to pull me out of my own head.

Slowly he withdraws, so thick that the friction against my inner walls is insane, despite how slick and aroused I am. My eyes roll back and I take a gulping breath. Then his cock pushes inside me again, and the pleasure finally bursts through the overwhelming fullness, and it’s all I can do not to scream.

“You’re taking me so good, Abbie girl. So hot and wet, just sucking me in.” Reed grunts when he bottoms out, then angles me up higher. “You didn’t imagine this, did you? When I came in through that snowstorm. You never thought your sworn enemy would have you in this bed, spreading your legs so he could stuff you full of his cock.”

Oh god. “I didn’t.”

“I’d have known right away, if my head wasn’t bashed in. If I’d gotten here with my brains intact and saw you—so vibrant, so sexy—I’d have known how much you needed to be fucked.”

“So much,” I say, then cry out on a deep thrust.

“I know exactly how it would have been.” He pulls back and begins rubbing my clit, before slowly sliding back in, making me stretch for him again. “I’d have seen you, then I’d have fallen to my knees, begging for a taste. Would you have let me suck on your clit, Abbie? Would you have let me worship your cunt?”

I gasp out a “Maybe”— I can’t believe I might come again, I might come again —“if you begged enough.”

“For this soft little pussy? I’d have begged.” His thumb slides faster, while his cock begins short, deep digs. “I’d have done anything if it meant you let me inside you. I’d have crawled across the floor to you just for the hope of getting between these pretty thighs. But I wouldn’t have had any condoms that night. Would you make me stop or would you let me fill you up with my filthy cum?”

My head gets in there and just takes over. And I understand now. Because he’s taking over mine, too. Painting the scene in my brain. Sharing his imagination with me so that it’s like I’m being fucked twice—inside my body and inside my head.

“I’d have let you.” Over and over again. “I’d have let you fill me up.”

“Fuck, Abbie,” he groans, pushing deep again. “You just squeezed me so tight. You like that thought—of me coming in, taking you to this bed? While you’re still hating me? I’d have to be so rough with you.” His thumb slicks a wet trail up from my clit, then he presses down, right above my pubic bone. I suck in a strangled breath, bucking beneath him, the pressure inside unlike anything I’ve ever felt before as his cock rubs back and forth, working my G-spot better than any toy ever has. “Because you’d be fighting me, wouldn’t you? Fighting how much you want it. But do you want it, Abbie girl? This fat Knowles cock? Your enemy’s cum?”

“Yes! Oh god oh god.” I’m not fighting him but I can’t stop moving, can’t stop this frantic twist of my body and thrust of my hips. “Reed!”

“I’m here, Abbie. I’m here. Let go.”

His thumb slides down to my clit again and then I’m arching back, spine bowed and crying out the orgasm barrels into me.

“That’s it. Fuck, oh fuck. The way you come around my cock.” The deep reverence in his voice is becoming strained by tension, his shaft still rhythmically fucking into me, his words slowly piercing my euphoric haze. “You’re so beautiful and so tight. I can’t hold back. But do you need me to hold back? Abbie girl, do you need longer? Need to come again?”

“Reed.” Fiercely I take hold of his face between my hands and draw his mouth to mine. “You worked so hard for this. And you promised to wreck it.”

“Oh thank fuck,” he heaves out on a laugh. Roughly he kisses me, then reaches up to grab the headboard, shoving forward until I’m almost folded in half with my knees pressed into my shoulders, his thrusts as hard and erratic as his words. “Like it was made for me. So goddam tight. This sweet cunt. So perfect. Abbie. I?—”

His mouth crushes mine, but he only groans against my lips, not kissing. His thick shaft spasms within me, and I can’t help but squeeze my inner muscles to intensify the sensation. Aside from my own orgasm, this is my very favorite part of sex. That moment when he loses all control. Of knowing that it’s all for me—and Reed is giving more and longer than any before. He pushes against me again, as if trying to get deeper as he comes.

“Just like that, Knowles.” My voice is a purr. “I’m such a bad girl, being so mean to you, calling you my enemy. But now you’ve fucked me and filled up my pussy with all your hot cum.” Another twitch of his heavy flesh inside me. I rock beneath him, my inner walls clutching him tight. “And you made me love it, Reed. You made me love the way you fucked me and now I love the feel of your big cock coming so, so deep inside me.”

His hips jerk again. Then with a final agonized grunt, his rigid body seems to collapse over me—though he’s still gripping the headboard and doesn’t crush my body beneath his. With a satisfied smile, I wrap my legs around his waist. Not letting him go yet. Even softening, he feels so good inside me, and I love that heavy full feeling.

“Fuck.” Between heaving breaths, he kisses me and says again, “Fuck. You’re amazing.”

“You’re all right, too.” I pat his sweaty chest. “You did a good job.”

He laughs then hangs his head. “I’d love to stay inside you like this, but I need toss the rubber.”

“Then we’ll meet back here, because a UTI while we’re snowbound is not my idea of a good time.”

He gives a grunt of agreement and carefully withdraws. I hie off to the bathroom, pee and clean up. By the time I’m back out, he’s got the lantern off, his pajama pants on, and the covers smoothed out again. The bed’s missing a grumpy orange cat.

“Hot Biscuit Slim?”

“Probably hiding underneath,” Reed says. “I felt him take off when things started shaking.”

“What a ‘fraidy cat. Any breaks in the condom?” As hot as it is to think of his cum filling me up, I’m not quite ready for the reality of it.

I’m not quite ready to consider a lot of what happened inside me tonight.

“All good. Unless the latex broke down at a microscopic level and we’re both diseased.”

“You really are good at coming up with horrifying scenarios,” I say. Reed only grins while he absently scratches his hairy chest, and I know I’ll keep talking myself into this without any effort at all. “I guess we’ll continue taking that risk, though. Eleven more times. We’ll say that we’re testing post-expiration condom integrity.”

He turns down the covers and climbs in after me. “So we’re fucking in the name of science?”

“Of course. And we can send the results to my mom later. ‘Hey, here’s my science fair project from when I was out at Harris’s cabin. Aren’t you proud of me?’”

First we’re laughing, then kissing, then I’m sighing happily while he pulls me back to spoon with him again. I close my eyes—and remember the most important thing about yesterday becoming tomorrow.

“Reed?”

“Hmm?”

“Merry Christmas.”

He holds me tighter. “Merry Christmas, Abbie girl.”