Chapter 32
TRU
Love doesn’t always show up with flowers. Sometimes, it’s a rock with an apology carved into it.
The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and butter and store-bought frosting. Christmas music hummed low from the speaker Mom clipped to the fridge, and I was elbow-deep in red sprinkles and frosting, trying to make my Santa cookie look less like a blood-soaked crime scene.
Mom hummed along as she iced a snowman. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, and one of John’s old flannel shirts was tied around her waist like an apron.
She’d pulled her hair back in a messy bun, flour dusting her temples.
She looked happy. Relaxed and settled in a way I hadn’t seen since—maybe since before she married Dare’s dad.
“Hold still,” she said, and before I could ask why, she reached across the counter and wiped something off my face with her thumb.
“Frosting,” she added. “You always did get more on yourself than the cookies.”
I huffed a little, but she smiled at me, really smiled. Not the distracted, half-busy version, but one of those warm, mom-moment smiles that made my chest pinch.
“I’m so glad your skin cleared up,” she said, patting my cheek. “Freshman and sophomore year felt like a never-ending battle. I swear we went through pimple cream like water.”
My ears burned immediately. “Mooommm.”
“What? You did! I should’ve bought stock in Neutrogena.”
Before I could retort, the door from the garage creaked open. I didn’t have to look to know who it was. Dare walked in carrying a case of soda from the trunk, hoodie sleeves shoved up, cold air still clinging to him. He took one look at my face—red as a peppermint, I’m sure—and smirked.
“I heard the word pimples,” he said, grinning. “Are we roasting baby Tru now? Because I would love to contribute.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, glaring at him.
He set the soda on the counter and leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, just watching me with way too much amusement.
“I’m just saying,” he added, “those were some historic years.”
My mouth opened in outrage, but Mom just laughed and flicked a bit of green icing at him. “Don’t be mean. He was a hormonal teenager. So were you.”
Dare shrugged, eyes still on me. His grin softened around the edges, still teasing, but with something gentler underneath.
Like maybe he remembered those years too.
I was almost grateful for his absence during that time.
He missed the truly humiliating stuff, like how I’d skip dessert because sugar made it worse, or how I used to sit with my chin in my hand during dinner so no one could see the right side of my face.
“I kinda liked you better with pimples,” Dare said casually, pushing off the fridge. “You were easier to ignore.”
He walked past me, brushing his hand low across my back, where Mom couldn’t see.
I sucked in a breath and glared harder, but it was half-hearted now. My face was still burning, but for a whole different reason.
Mom just shook her head, focused on her cookies again. “You boys,” she said fondly.
If only she knew.
Mom glanced toward the doorway just as Dare was about to slip down the hall. “Oh, Dare, hang on a sec.”
He stopped and turned halfway, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”
She wiped her hands on a dish towel and gave him a pointed look over the counter. “Your dad and I are going to the Martins’ Christmas Eve party after dinner. Grown-up thing. Dress code’s apparently ugly sweaters and mulled wine.”
Dare snorted. “Sounds like a riot.”
“But,” she continued, aiming a mom-look at both of us, “I expect everyone up bright and early tomorrow morning for breakfast and presents. No sleeping till noon, no pretending you forgot what day it is. Your brother will be here around one for Christmas dinner, but before that, it’s just us around the tree. ”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dare said with mock solemnity.
I mumbled something in agreement, but my stomach twisted a little, not because of Christmas or the party, but because that meant Dare and I would be home alone tonight. No parents. No supervision. Just us, under one roof.
Mom ruffled my hair as she passed, humming along with the music again. Dare caught my eye over the counter, and there was a flicker of mischief, maybe, or nerves, or the same quiet anticipation curling in my chest.
I looked away first.
Steam clung to my skin as I stepped into the bedroom, towel slung low around my hips, hair dripping onto my collarbone. I rubbed at it with another towel, half-dazed from the shower, not really looking up. Until I saw him.
Dare was sprawled sideways across my bed like this was his room, flipping lazily through the black notebook I’d left tucked under my pillow. My notebook.
“Hey!” I lunged forward, snatching at it. “Put that down.”
He grinned, unbothered, holding it just out of reach. “Relax. I was just checking if I got a mention lately. Some glowing review of my performance, maybe.” His tone was teasing, but beneath it—something raw. Hope. Hunger.
“Seriously, Dare.” My voice came out sharper than I meant, chest tight because it was too much. Too intimate. Too him. “Give it.”
He caught my wrist mid-swipe and pulled, just enough to make me stumble straight onto the bed, right across his lap.
The journal tumbled behind us. I didn’t care. My towel slipped. We froze. Dare’s breath brushed my face, ragged and shallow. His hand still gripped my wrist; his other splayed over the small of my back, holding me there. Chest to chest. Skin to skin.
“You’re naked,” he rasped. “I couldn’t have planned this better.”
“Didn’t plan on wrestling,” I whispered.
His mouth twitched. “Merry Christmas, Truen.”
Then he kissed me. Hard and soft all at once, memorizing the shape of my mouth, finally kicking down every stupid wall between us.
I kissed him back with the same hunger. Desperate.
Familiar. Our mouths found a rhythm we’d never really lost. His thigh pressed between mine; his hand curved over my spine. When I gasped, he swallowed it whole.
“You’re sure they’re gone?” I breathed against his lips.
“They’re gone,” he said, voice low. “I’ve got you all to myself.”
The world narrowed to this room, this moment. Him. Me. And I didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Dare’s lips found mine again before I could think too much, before I could let the nerves catch up. It was different this time, urgent, deep, like he was starving and wanted to crawl inside me and live there.
His hand trailed down my back, fingers spreading across bare skin. When I shivered, he pressed closer.
“I could touch you all day,” he murmured.
“Then do it.”
Dare groaned softly, rolling us so I was beneath him, his weight pinning me in the best way. Our hips aligned, friction sparking between us. He was hard, and so was I, and for a moment it was nothing but breath and heartbeat and the sound of my name breaking on his tongue.
He moved lower, kissing across my chest, my stomach, worshipful. When his tongue flicked over my nipple, I arched without thinking.
“You like that,” he said, smug but breathless.
“Shut up and do it again.”
He did, slower this time, tracing fire across my skin until I couldn’t think straight. Then his hand wrapped around me, and I nearly lost it.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered, like it was a secret he’d kept too long.
I was too gone to speak. My hand fisted in his hair as he stroked me, lips on my throat, sucking just hard enough to leave a mark. I didn’t care. I wanted the mark. I wanted proof that this happened.
“I’ve thought about this,” he said, voice thick. “Every goddamn night.”
“Then don’t stop.”
“Wait.” His voice was a breathless huff as he pushed off the bed. “Don’t move.”
Right, like there was a chance of that happening. I watched him dart across the hall, returning seconds later, stark naked and holding up a bottle of something.
“I bought this. It’s supposed to make it easier.” He flashed the blue bottle.
“Lube? You planned for this?”
Must’ve been an online purchase because I couldn’t imagine Dare mustering the courage to buy lube in public. The image made me smile.
“I’d hoped,” he grinned, unscrewing the cap.
“Easier for me or easier for you?”
He blushed, a rare look for Dare. “Uh, you? I mean, if that’s what you want,” he stammered.
“Yeah, I do, just wanted to make you sweat a bit,” I laughed.
Dare squirted a large amount into his palm, too much, and it dribbled onto my stomach.
“Fuck, sorry.”
We both laughed, trying to wipe off the excess from my skin. It was slippery and cold, and Dare slid his slick fingers around my dick and stroked unhurriedly, making the fire in my belly spread.
“You’re lucky I didn’t put this in your Christmas stocking,” he teased.
“You wouldn’t dare,” I challenged. He shot me a look that said, Do you even know me?
His hand worked me into a fever, stroking until I leaked. Our lips ground together, erasing every inch of space. He whispered my name against my mouth when I fell apart—Truen—like a prayer, and I swore I saw stars behind my eyelids.
When I came back to Earth, he was still on top of me, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine. I reached down and palmed him, feeling how wrecked he was, how close.
“Your turn,” I whispered, and Dare shuddered, barely holding it together.
“I won’t last,” he warned.
“Good.”
He bucked into my hand with a choked sound, face buried against my shoulder, breathless and beautiful. I pumped him fast, rough, the way he liked it, and within seconds he was shaking, spilling hot over my fingers, moaning my name like it was the only one he’d ever known.
We lie there tangled, bare and flushed, the scent of sex thick in the room. His heart pounded against mine, our hands locked together, sticky but steady.
“Merry Christmas,” I murmured.
Dare leaned in, pressed one last kiss to my temple, and whispered, “Best one I’ve ever had.”