Chapter 17 Valencia
Valencia
Despite our argument, my weekend with Gideon is amazing. Anal was ... I hesitate to say transcendent , because that sounds hyperbolic, so let’s just say it was really fucking good . Also ... surprisingly emotional.
Since neither of us have work the next day, I spend Sunday night at his place, too. I fall asleep nestled securely in his arms, but when I wake on Monday morning, a ball of dread settles into my gut.
Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.
Our list is almost done, and the thought of not seeing him every day already has me feeling bereft.
Look, I know I’m a lot. When Gideon suggested we do holiday shit together, he probably thought it would be one or two activities.
I planned twelve —twenty-four, if you count all the sexy prompts, too.
A lot of people might have bailed, or only wanted to do the sex stuff.
Gideon, however, has not only indulged, but expanded upon every silly whim I’ve thrown his way.
Like the banned-book ornaments. Or buying six vibrators. Or decorating his bedroom to look like the North Fucking Pole .
But then he had to go and get us matching Christmas pajamas, and that, somehow, was the thing that broke me.
Part of me wishes he’d stop being so considerate, because it’s just going to make it harder to say goodbye. The other part wants to build a blanket fort on his ridiculous leather couch and move in.
But the end of the list isn’t the only thing weighing on me.
The moment we complete our final outing in Dyker Heights, Brooklyn, where the residents go all out with Christmas lights, I’ll be on my way to Christmas Eve dinner with the Mulhollands.
Including Everett.
Talk about emotional whiplash.
Still, I’m determined not to let an anxiety spiral or thoughts of my ex ruin my morning. Not when mutual masturbation is on the menu.
When Gideon and I made the list, we went back and forth about this prompt. Would we be bringing each other to orgasm, or doing it solo at the same time? The thought of watching Gideon jerk himself off was too enticing to pass up, so I insisted on the latter.
And oh, man, was that the right choice.
I recline on his bed, propped up on pillows, my hand between my legs. He’s across the room in a plush armchair, fully naked, stroking his lubed cock with strong, sure pulls. Everything about him, from his lean runner’s build to his big hands to his heavy erection and tight balls, makes me hot.
And God, the mouth on this man. Gideon coaches me through two orgasms, delivering a soliloquy of praise, requests, commands, and fantasies. I’m trembling and sweaty by the time he comes, pumping his fist faster before spilling over his hand and onto the floor.
The reckless abandon on his face, the tightening of his muscles, the way his eyes never leave mine—it’s super sexy but also fills me with an aching tenderness.
This doesn’t just feel like a holiday hookup.
And maybe it never did.
That thought elicits a different sort of trembling as Gideon cleans himself off and joins me on the bed. Draping himself over me, he nuzzles his face into my hair.
“So soft,” he murmurs. “So pretty.” He twines the curls around his fingers one by one.
I close my eyes, and instead of worrying about tomorrow, I let myself enjoy his warm weight on me and the delicate tugs on my scalp.
Gideon has apologized repeatedly for every bad thing he ever said about my hair, which is why I now feel comfortable enough to let him see it in its natural state—and he’s obsessed .
Still, I’m planning to flat-iron it before we go to the Bronx for the New York Botanical Garden’s Holiday Train Show, and I’d rather do that at home with my full collection of hair products.
So after I nudge him off me, we take a shower—with one more quickie for the road—and head to my apartment.
I’m coming out of the bedroom with my hair sleek and smooth, like a Latina Morticia Addams, when I hear Gideon’s voice. At first I think he’s talking to Archie, but he sounds angry, and it takes a few seconds to realize he’s speaking French.
“No, Mom. Je te l’ai dit, je ne vais pas à Paris pour Christmas.”
I freeze. He’s talking to his mother. And even my basic French can decipher his statement.
I told you, I’m not going to Paris for Christmas.
My stomach lurches. On that first night we spent together, he told me his mother was in France and that she’d be coming back to New York on Christmas Eve.
Apparently, something changed.
And he didn’t tell me.
I play hopscotch over the creaky floorboards as I tiptoe toward the kitchen, where Gideon is unpacking the sushi we ordered for lunch.
The phone is pressed between his ear and his shoulder, and Archie is winding around his ankles, meowing for food.
Gideon continues to argue with his mother in French.
Why wouldn’t he go? Could it be ... for me?
The thought makes me cold. I’m torn between selfishly wanting him to stay and a pang of grief. He still has one parent left, and she’s grieving, too; he should spend the holidays with her.
He breaks off mid-sentence and lets out a frustrated huff. I suspect his mom hung up.
He doesn’t know I’m here, and I take a moment to watch him. He sets the phone down and braces his hands on the kitchen counter. His head falls forward and his shoulders hunch like he’s carrying the weight of the world.
Or maybe just the weight of his own world. His mother ... and me. Opposing responsibilities.
The last thing I ever wanted was to be a burden.
“Go to France.” I speak quietly, but he still jolts. When he spins around, his expression is a mixture of alarm and guilt. He stares at me for a beat.
“You speak French.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “I took it for three years in high school.”
“Shit.” He sags against the counter. “I forgot.”
It was one of the few classes we didn’t share. Since both of my parents spoke Spanish and I’m semifluent, I’d taken French. Gideon had taken Spanish, although I forgot it was because he’s fluent in French.
“Gideon, you have to go.” He shakes his head, but I barrel on before he can argue with me. “The list is just a silly thing we made up. I’ll be fine.”
He scowls at me. “It’s not silly.”
“Well, it doesn’t constitute a binding contract. You’re perfectly free to end it early.”
“No. We have an agreement. Effective until Christmas Eve.”
He sounds so stubborn that I scoff. “Are you going to sue me for breach of contract?”
“I’m simply reminding you that we have a deal .” The words press through gritted teeth.
I toss my newly straightened hair over one shoulder and try to sound flippant. “I’m letting you out of it.”
“Valencia, I don’t want to get out of it.”
“You should. Why stay in New York alone when you could be in Paris with your mother?”
“I won’t be alone.”
The unspoken words hang in the air between us: I’ll be with you.
But I can’t let him do this for me. And I can’t have him feeling guilty for abandoning me. That’s taking things too far.
“The list ends tomorrow night, remember? We never agreed to spend Christmas Day together.”
His eyes blaze. “Then we’ll renegotiate the fucking terms .”
I hug myself and turn away. “I’m too tired to argue. Go to France, Gideon.”
“Only if you come with me.”
“What?” That brings me up short, and I stare at him.
He’s regained his composure, and he’s wearing what must be his lawyer face. I know, because it looks a lot like mine—tight jaw, firm lips, brow smooth but somehow menacing. It’s his eyes that change the most, though. They’re impenetrable, like a wall of ice.
I attempt to chip away at it. “I can’t fuck off to France with you.”
“Do you have a passport?” he asks calmly. “I’ll buy your ticket right now.”
Lord. I can’t let this man buy me an international plane ticket, probably first class, within a week and a half of reuniting with him. Even if the fact that he offered without a second thought gives me a thrill.
“No, Gideon. Anyway, I’m expected at the Mulhollands’ for dinner tomorrow.”
His expression darkens. “Valencia, I will be damned if you visit your ex for Christmas without me.”
“And I’m not going to let you miss the holidays with your one remaining parent because of me !
” The words are torn from my throat with more force than I’d intended, but I can’t stop.
“If you knew what I would give to have one more Christmas with mine ...” I cut off that thought, shaking my head vehemently.
“I can’t let you make that kind of sacrifice for me.
I won’t . Consider our agreement terminated, effective immediately. ”
“ Valencia— ”
“Leave it alone, Noble!”
My words crack like a whip, and he stills. All emotion drains from his face, leaving his eyes the cold, hard jade I remember from our youth.
“Are we back to that, Torres?” His voice is chilly, with a slight emphasis on my last name. It’s completely at odds with the heartfelt yearning I heard a second ago when he said my first.
I’ve hurt him. I didn’t want to, but I don’t know how else to do this.
“Go to France,” I say for the third time, and my voice cracks a little. “ Please , Gideon. Just ... go. Now.”
He stares at me for a long time, but I can’t meet his gaze. Finally, he sighs. In three long strides, he’s past me and yanking his coat off the hook by my apartment door.
And then he’s gone.
I slump into a chair at my dining table, blinking at the little Christmas tree covered in ornaments he bought for me. The lights blur as my eyes fill with tears, and I think about the red envelope I slipped into his stocking just this morning.
When I hear the front door of the building slam, I pillow my head on my arms and cry.