Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
Kyra
"Merry Christmas Eve," Victor murmurs against my ear, his voice still rough with sleep. His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me back against the solid warmth of his chest.
I stretch luxuriously in his arms, feeling deliciously sore in all the right places. The lamplight has been replaced by pale winter sunlight streaming through the windows, casting everything in soft gold. Outside, fresh snow blankets the mountains in pristine white—a perfect Christmas Eve morning.
"Mmm," I hum contentedly, pressing back against him. "It's beautiful."
"You're beautiful." His hand trails down my spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I can feel him hardening against me, his interest unmistakable even in the early morning light.
"Already?" I tease, though my body is already responding to his touch.
"Can you blame me?" His lips tace along my neck. "Waking up next to you, feeling your naked body against mine... I'll never get enough of you."
His hand slides around to cup my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple until it peaks under his attention. A soft moan escapes my lips as arousal builds between my thighs.
"Victor," I breathe, already arching into his touch.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, his hand trailing lower, skimming over my ribs to rest on my hip. "Tell me how you want Daddy to start Christmas Eve."
The word sends a familiar shiver through me, and I arch against him. "I want you inside me. I want you to fuck me until I can't think about anything else."
"Such filthy words from my sweet girl," he says with dark approval, his hand sliding between my thighs to find me already slick with need. "Still sore from last night, but already soaking wet for me."
I gasp as he slides two fingers inside me. "I can't help it. You've made me insatiable."
"Good," he growls, his fingers curling inside me in a way that makes my back arch off the bed. "I want you to crave me every second of every day. I want you to need my cock like you need air to breathe."
"Please," I beg, my hips moving against his hand. "I need more. I need you to fill me completely."
"Greedy little slut," he says with satisfaction, withdrawing his fingers and positioning his cock my entrance. "But I love how desperate you get for me. Love watching you fall apart the moment I touch you."
He pushes inside without warning. "Fuck, you're tight," he groans, starting to move with slow, deliberate thrusts. "No matter how many times I take you, your perfect little cunt always grips me like a vice."
"Harder," I demand, my nails digging into his shoulders.
His thrusts become more forceful, more punishing, taking me with the kind of raw possession that makes my toes curl.
The bed creaks beneath us. Living in my apartment, I was never brave enough to be loud like this.
Here in the cabin in the middle of nowhere, I could scream Daddy until I lost my voice and no one would hear. And I planned to.
He snarls against my throat, his teeth scraping my skin. "Every inch of this body belongs to me. Say it."
I gasp, my body already climbing toward release. "God, Daddy, I'm yours. Only yours."
"That's right." His hand slides between us, finding my clit and working it with ruthless precision. "My perfect little fucktoy. Taking everything I give you and begging for more."
The combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless rhythm of his cock sends me over the edge faster than should be possible. I scream his name as the orgasm tears through me, my body convulsing around him.
"Fuck, yes," he groans, his rhythm faltering as my climax triggers his own. "Come on my cock like the good girl you are."
He empties himself inside me with a growl that sounds purely animalistic, marking me once again as his. We collapse together, both breathing hard, my body still pulsing with aftershocks.
"Perfect way to start Christmas Eve," I murmur against his chest when I can finally speak.
After a few minutes of comfortable silence, he presses a gentle kiss to my temple before pulling out of me, his come leaking in a warm gush. "Though I should probably make you some actual coffee before you waste away to nothing."
"In a minute," I say, curling against his side. "I'm not ready to leave this bed yet."
"Actually," he says, a strange note entering his voice, "there's something I want to show you downstairs. Something special for Christmas Eve."
I look up at him, every look makes my heart skip. "What kind of something?"
"You'll see." He sits up, reaching for his discarded clothes. "Get dressed, sweetheart. I have a surprise for you."
When I'm ready, Victor takes my hand and leads me downstairs to the main living area. I gasp when I see what he's done.
The Christmas tree is alight. Tiny white lights twinkle like captured stars, and beneath the branches, wrapped packages create a small mountain of silver and gold.
On the coffee table near the tree, he's set out crystal flutes and a bottle of champagne chilling in an elegant ice bucket. Fresh orange juice sits beside it in a cut-crystal pitcher, and I can see the makings for perfect mimosas.
"Victor," I breathe, taking in the romantic scene. "When did you do all this?"
"I've been up for a while," he admits, guiding me toward the couch. "I wanted our first Christmas Eve to start perfectly."
He pops the champagne, the sound echoing festively through the cabin. The golden liquid bubbles as he pours it into the flutes, adding just the right amount of orange juice to create perfect mimosas.
"To new beginnings," he says, handing me a glass.
"To Christmas magic," I counter, touching my glass to his.
The mimosa is crisp and perfect, bubbles dancing on my tongue as I take a sip. Everything about this moment feels surreal—the beautiful tree, the intimate setting, the man beside me who's thought of every detail.
"I thought we could make breakfast together after," he says, settling beside me on the couch. "But first, I have something for you."
"It's not Christmas yet," I protest, though anticipation flutters in my chest.
"This can't wait until tomorrow." He stands and moves to the tree, retrieving a small box wrapped in elegant silver paper. "Besides, it's Christmas Eve. That counts."
My heart starts racing as he returns to the couch and hands me the box. It's small and square and feels significant in a way that makes my hands tremble as I unwrap it. Inside is a velvet jewelry box, the kind that makes you catch your breath before you even open it.
"Victor?"
"Open it," he says softly, and when I look up at him, I see something vulnerable in his expression that I've never seen before.
I open the box with trembling fingers, and immediately gasp at what I find inside.
The ring is stunning beyond description. A massive center diamond surrounded by smaller stones that catch the Christmas tree lights like captured fire. It's the kind of piece that belongs in museums, the kind of ring that speaks of serious money and serious intentions.
"Kyra," Victor says. "These past few days with you have been the most real, the most alive I've felt in years. What started as... well, what started as something else has become something I never expected."
He takes the ring from the box, and I see that his hands are actually shaking slightly.
"I know how this all began," he continues. "I know the circumstances that brought you here weren't exactly natural. But what I feel for you, what we've built together—that's real. That's true."
"Victor," I whisper, my own hands trembling now.
"I love you," he says, meeting my eyes directly. "Not the idea of you, not the fantasy I built up over three years, but the real you. The brilliant, stubborn, incredible woman who challenges me and surrenders to me in equal measure."
He shifts position, and suddenly he's kneeling beside the couch, the ring held between us like a promise.
"Kyra Sinclair, will you marry me?"
The words hang in the air between us, weighted with everything we've shared, everything we've become. The tree lights twinkle above us, casting rainbow shadows across his face, and I can hear the soft crackle of the fire in the background.
This should be impossible. Before this, I thought I was in love with his son.
I was heartbroken and desperate and completely lost. Now, looking into Victor's eyes, seeing the vulnerability there alongside the determination, I realize that none of that matters.
What matters is the way he makes me feel safe in the best possible way.
What matters is that I love him. Completely, desperately, against all logic and reason.
"Yes," I whisper, the word slipping out before I can second-guess myself. "Yes, I'll marry you."
Relief floods his expression, almost painful to witness. His hands shake as he takes my left hand, sliding the ring onto my finger with infinite care.
It fits perfectly, substantial and beautiful and somehow exactly right. The weight of it feels significant, like a chain and a crown all at once.
"Perfect," he murmurs, lifting my hand to press a kiss to my knuckles. "You're perfect."
I'm about to respond when I hear it—the distant sound of an engine fighting its way through the snow. But when I look at Victor, expecting to see confusion or concern, I'm surprised by his expression.
He's completely calm. Almost expectant.
"Victor?" I say carefully, watching his face. "Are you expecting someone?"
A slow smile spreads across his features, and there's something vicious in it that makes my stomach clench. "Actually, yes. I've been expecting this for hours."
"What do you mean?"
"My son is very predictable," he says, rising from the couch with casual grace. "When he sets his mind to something, he becomes quite single-minded about it."
The engine sound grows louder, more determined, and I can hear the struggle of tires fighting for traction in the snow.
"Aaron," I breathe, understanding flooding through me.
"Indeed." Victor's voice carries satisfaction rather than surprise. "Right on schedule."
"You knew he was coming? You knew and you didn't tell me?"
"I wanted to propose first," he says simply, glancing down at the ring glittering on my finger. "I wanted to make sure you were completely mine before he arrived to complicate things."
A car door slams outside with enough force to echo through the morning quiet, and then I hear it—the voice that makes my blood run cold.
"Victor!" Aaron shouts from outside, his voice raw with fury and desperation. "I know you have her! I know what you've done!"
Heavy footsteps pound up the front steps, and then the sound of fists hammering against the door with increasing violence.
"Open this fucking door right now, or I swear to God I'll break it down!"