Chapter Five #2
"That's it," he encouraged, his thrusts getting harder, more urgent. "I can feel you getting tighter. Come for me again."
His free hand slid up my back, pressing me down slightly, changing the angle just enough that I saw stars. My fingers moved faster, chasing the building pressure.
"Bart—I'm—"
"Come. Now."
I came apart with a sharp cry, my inner walls clenching around him rhythmically. He groaned, thrusting hard twice more before finding his own release, his fingers digging into my hips.
We stayed like that for a long moment, both shaking, his chest pressed against my back, our breathing ragged.
"Kitchen sex," I finally managed. "That's new."
"Good new?" He pressed a kiss to my shoulder.
"Very good new."
By the time we finally decorated the cookies—after cleaning ourselves up and laughing at the state we were in—it was past midnight. We packaged them in tins, both of us exhausted and sticky and satisfied.
"Never again," Bart said, surveying the destroyed kitchen.
"Liar. You had fun."
"I had you coming on my tongue and my cock in my kitchen. The baking was tolerable."
Heat flooded my face. "You're terrible."
"You love it."
I started gathering dishes, but he caught my wrist. "Leave it. We'll deal with it tomorrow."
"Your kitchen is destroyed."
"Don't care." He pulled me close, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Come to bed before you fall asleep on your feet."
We made our way upstairs to his bedroom, flour dusting his hair and both of us still smelling sweet, too tired and happy to care about the mess we'd made.
DREW WOULDN'T STOP trying to contact me.
My phone buzzed constantly with notifications I didn’t want to address. Comments on my Christmas Wishes posts: Looking good babe, we should reconnect. Direct messages I deleted without reading. Calls that went straight to voicemail.
I didn't tell Bart. Didn't want to give Drew any time, any space in what we were building. But the worry lived in the back of my mind—what if he actually showed up here? He was impulsive enough, ego-driven enough, especially if he was having regrets over breaking up with me.
I pushed the thought away and focused on the work. On Bart's sexy smiles. On wish lists getting checked off one by one.
LATE ON THE TWENTY-first, I set up my phone in the barn after the last volunteer had left. The space looked amazing—shelves packed with beautifully-wrapped items, everything organized and labeled, ready for Christmas Eve delivery.
I tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear and hit record.
"Hope Peak, you've shown up in the most incredible way.
" I gestured to the packages behind me. "We've raised over eighteen thousand dollars in community donations—and every penny has been matched by our benefactor.
Christmas mornings will be filled with joy instead of disappointment because this community has heart. "
I talked about the enthusiasm of the volunteers, the delivery routes being finalized, the holiday just days away. Let my genuine emotion show through without worrying about my image. The kind of content that actually meant something.
When I turned off the ring light, Bart was watching from his usual corner.
"What?"
"You're different when you film now—revealing your true self more. Not like those early videos."
I crossed the barn and dropped into his lap without asking. His arms came around me instinctively, and I pulled out my phone out of habit. "Five hundred ninety-six thousand. Up from four-eighty-seven when I got here."
"Over a hundred thousand in two weeks."
"Yeah." I stared at the number, oddly disconnected from it.
"The weird thing is, I check less and less.
Used to be every five minutes, obsessively refreshing.
But this—" I gestured around the barn, at the myriad lists and boxes and supplies, "—this feels more important than any follower count ever did. "
Bart's grip strengthened around me. "Thank you for all of this."
"Thanks to us." I turned to look at him. "We make a good team."
"Yeah. We really do."
Side by side in that peaceful quiet, space heaters humming, music playing softly from his speaker. The kind of silence that didn't need filling.
After a while he stirred. "Come on. Let's get you home."
Home. He'd said it so naturally, like his place had become mine without either of us deciding it.
Maybe it had.
THE FOLLOWING EVENING after another long day of final preparations, I couldn't hold the question in any longer.
We were on his couch, some action movie playing that neither of us was really watching, when I blurted: "Does the seventeen years bother you? Really?"
Bart tensed beneath me, then shifted so he could see my face. "What brought that on?"
"I keep thinking about it. You're forty-two. I'm twenty-five. That's—"
"A significant gap. Yeah." He cupped my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "I thought about it. Wondered if I was being selfish, if I was taking advantage even though you're clearly an adult who makes your own choices. But you're not some kid, Candi. You're a woman who knows what she wants."
"I want this." The words came out fierce, certain. "I want you. I'm falling so hard for you it terrifies me."
His expression shifted—vulnerable and heated together. "Me too. So damn hard."
"How hard are we talking?” I grinned, feeling brave and reckless.
His pupils dilated. "Bedroom. Now."
He chased me upstairs, both of us stripping off articles of clothing along the way.
"I can't get enough of you."
"Then don't stop."
He backed me toward the bed and followed me down, the weight of him perfect and grounding.
"Tell me what you want," he said against my neck, his voice rough with need.
"You. However you'll give me."
His hand trailed down my body, between my thighs. "That's a dangerous offer."
"I trust you."
Something flickered in his eyes before his mouth claimed mine again.
He took his time working me up, hands and mouth everywhere, until I was writhing beneath him and begging. When he finally slid inside me, we both groaned at the sensation.
"On your knees," he said, pulling out suddenly.
I scrambled to comply, and he positioned me on all fours, one hand on my hip and the other between my shoulder blades.
"Like this?"
"Just like this." He pushed in slowly from behind, the angle completely different, deeper. "God, you feel incredible."
He set a rhythm that had me clutching the sheets, each thrust deliberate and controlled. His hand slid around to find my clit, his fingers moving in circles that made me gasp and moan.
"That's it," he encouraged, his other hand gripping my hip hard enough to leave marks. "Let me hear you."
I couldn't hold back the sounds spilling from my throat as my whole body tightened around him.
"You're close," he said, reading my body perfectly. "Come for me. I want to feel it."
His fingers moved faster, his thrusts deeper, and I shattered around him with a cry that probably carried through the whole house. He followed moments later, groaning my name as he found his release.
We came apart in a sweaty, satisfied sprawl.
"That was—" I started.
"Yeah," he agreed.
I laughed, curling into his side. "We should probably get up."
"In a minute." His arm tightened around me. "Let me enjoy this first."
"Enjoy what?"
"You. Here. In my bed." He pressed a kiss to my hair.
My chest swelled—too full. Like something was trying to break through that I wasn't ready to examine yet.
"I am happy. Happier than I can remember being.”
"Me too."
We lay there in contented silence until our breathing evened out and sleep pulled us under.
THE MORNING OF THE twenty-third dawned with nervous energy thrumming through my veins.
We spent the morning doing final checks in the barn. Everything was ready.
"We did it," I said, surveying what we'd accomplished.
"You did this." Bart wrapped his arms around me from behind. "The promotion, the volunteers, the organization—it wouldn't exist without you."
"We did it together." I leaned back against his chest. "I can't believe it's actually happening tomorrow."
"Nervous?"
"Excited. And yeah, a little nervous." I bit my lip. "What if something goes wrong?"
"Hey." He turned me to face him. "We've got this. Everything's set. We've planned for every contingency. Tomorrow we're going to make Christmas magic happen."
The certainty in his voice eased my nerves. "You're right. We're ready."
That evening we made a simple dinner of chicken and roasted vegetables. Bart opened a bottle of wine he'd been saving, and we ate in the dining room while snow fell softly outside the windows. My worry about Drew tried to surface—I knew I’d have to deal with him eventually—but I pushed it down.
Christmas was about hope and community and what Bart and I had been building together. I wasn't going to let Drew's bullshit ruin that.
"You're quiet," Bart observed, refilling my wine glass.
"Just thinking about how many lives we're going to touch."
"It's going to be incredible."
"Yeah. It really is."
After dinner, we cleaned up together, moving around his kitchen with the easy rhythm we'd developed, then went to bed early. Exhausted from two solid weeks of preparation yet wired with anticipation for what the next day would bring.
I nestled against him, his arm secure around my waist, listening to his steady breathing.
"This is going to change everything," I whispered.
"Good everything," he murmured against my hair.
"The best everything."
I drifted off wrapped in his embrace, dreaming of grateful tears and children's laughter and the way I felt right now.
Tomorrow we’d deliver Christmas to people who needed hope.
Tomorrow everything we'd worked for would come to life.