20. Holiday Loot Table
Chapter twenty
Holiday Loot Table
Griffin
A quiet Christmas Eve shift feels like a natural one pretending to be a twenty, which means I spend most of the night waiting for the universe to notice its mistake.
There are calls, obviously. An elderly woman falls before midnight and needs help getting off the floor.
A kid has an asthma exacerbation around two.
We transport a man with chest pain that turns out to be considerably less exciting than dispatch made it sound, which is about as close to a Christmas miracle as I’m willing to claim.
Nobody tries to die on me, though. Nobody vomits in the bus. Nobody punches anyone.
By the time relief comes in, I’ve even managed enough broken sleep in the station that I’m tired but functional.
Before I leave, I check my phone.
There’s a calendar notification.
Christmas morning—home. All five. Do not schedule shit.
Cami’s wording, obviously. I’ve looked at it several times, and every time it makes me smile.
When I pull into the driveway a little after seven, the trees in the front windows are glowing.
So is the garland Cami insisted belonged around the porch and the multi-color lights on the bush.
Dex’s inflatable dragon looks like a deflated balloon in the front yard, but the timer for it will come on in less than an hour.
I sit in the truck for a few seconds and just look at the house.
I’ve worked plenty of holidays. I’ve come home on Christmas morning to dark rooms, leftovers, and plans that already happened because EMS schedules don’t give a shit what day it is.
This year, not only can I be home on Christmas, but at least some of the house planned around my schedule.
That feels bigger than maybe it should.
Inside, the house is nearly silent. The Christmas tree throws soft color across the living room, and five stockings hang from the mantel.
I stop when I see them. Four of them have been there before—now there are five.
I stare long enough that I finally have to remind myself I’m still wearing a uniform that has spent the bulk of twenty-four hours in an ambulance.
Shower first. Emotional crisis later.
I head down the hall, expecting everyone to still be asleep.
My bedroom door is cracked open. I don’t usually leave it cracked open.
The second I push it wider, I forget what I was planning to do.
Fucking hell.
Cami is asleep in my bed.
She’s curled onto her side, partly covered, dark hair spread across my pillow and one hand tucked under it. The comforter is positioned so I can see red lace.
A lot of red lace.
My bag hits the floor with a thump.
She doesn’t wake up.
I close the door and lock it, because I’m not a fucking idiot—I know what she’s doing—then I walk closer.
The lingerie is aggressively Christmas without crossing into costume territory. Deep red lace, narrow white trim, sheer stockings clipped to a garter belt disappearing beneath the blanket.
She deliberately came into my room, dressed herself like a very adult Christmas present, climbed into my bed to wait for me, and apparently fell asleep.
My chest tightens at exactly the same time my dick does.
Of course she managed to make this filthy and sweet.
I sit on the edge of the bed and brush the backs of my fingers over her cheek.
“Baby.”
Her nose scrunches.
“Cami.”
Her eyes slowly open, unfocused at first. Then she sees me, and her entire face changes.
“Merry Christmas,” she murmurs, her voice rough with sleep.
That does absolutely nothing to help me. “Merry Christmas.”
Her gaze follows mine when it drops toward the lace.
“Oh,” she says innocently.
“Yeah, oh.”
A lazy smile spreads across her face. “I see you found your present.”
“I thought we had a dollar limit.”
“This was thirty-eight ninety-nine with a coupon.”
I laugh despite myself. “You comparison-shopped the lingerie you bought for me to fuck you in?”
She smiles.
I hook one finger beneath the blanket without pulling it off her anymore. “Was this actually for me?”
The teasing leaves her expression. “Yes.”
“Were you hoping I’d wake you up?”
“Yes.”
I hold her gaze. “Green?”
Her smile comes back immediately. “So fucking green.”
Good.
I lean down and kiss her.
There are moments with Cami when everything in my head gets quieter.
This isn’t one of them.
This turns every fucking thought up.
My wife is in my bed on Christmas morning wearing red lace she bought for me.
Her mouth opens beneath mine as I move over her, and whatever sleepy softness remained disappears when I drag the blanket further down.
“Fuck, baby.”
Cami laughs until my hand slides over her thigh. “You like it?”
“You know I fucking like it.”
“I mean I was hoping.”
My voice lowers. “I think you were awfully sure of yourself to fall asleep like this.”
“I had faith.”
“In me?”
“In your ability to ignore red lace.”
My hand moves higher, and her hips shift toward the touch before I even get there.
Her pussy is so wet the fabric is soaked. “Fuck.”
Her smile is unbearably pleased with itself. “Maybe I was thinking about you.”
“Maybe?”
“Definitely.”
I push the lace aside and stroke her soft, wet skin slowly. Her eyes close almost immediately.
“No.”
They open again.
“Eyes on me.”
Something in her expression changes. “Yes, Sir.”
Fuck.
I slide two fingers inside her, and her head presses deeper into my pillow.
“I wanted to touch myself,” she admits in a rasp. “But I spent all night behaving.”
Her fingers curl into the sheets as mine curl upward inside her.
“Sounds terrible.”
“It was.”
My thumb finds her clit and her legs tighten around my wrist.
“Griffin.”
“You couldn’t wait in the kitchen in normal pajamas like a reasonable person?” I tease.
“No.”
“You just had to make Christmas complicated?”
She smiles. “Yes.”
I lean over her and settle my free hand lightly around her throat.
Her whole body responds.
That reaction still gets me every fucking time.
I tighten my fingers just enough for her to feel the pressure. “Tell me who you dressed up for.”
“You.” It’s barely a whisper.
“Who, baby?”
Her breathing stutters. “You, Griffin.”
I kiss her hard.
“My wife waiting in my bed dressed like a fucking present.”
Cami curls both hands into the front of my uniform shirt. “You should probably unwrap me.”
“I should probably make you regret antagonizing a man who’s been awake since yesterday.”
Her brow furrows. “I thought it was a quiet shift?”
I stop.
She whimpers, but smiles.
“You checked the app?” Something warm punches straight through the heat in my chest.
“I missed you.”
That does it.
I kiss her again while she starts working at my belt, and neither of us seem interested in drawing this out.
A few minutes later, she’s on her back beneath me with her legs around my hips and my hands braced beside her.
I stop before I push inside her—I need one more second to look at her.
Sleep-mussed hair. Red lace. My pillow under her head.
Cami cups my face and says my name.
I push inside her.
There is nothing particularly slow about what follows.
We’ve had work schedules and family obligations and dinners and Christmas planning. She’s spent enough time downstairs with Ronan lately that I’ve deliberately avoided asking for details I don’t need, even when the marks on her body supplied some of them for me.
I’ve been very emotionally mature about all of it.
I can be emotionally mature and still fuck my wife into the mattress on Christmas morning.
Her nails dig into my shoulders. “Harder.”
I look down at her. “Yeah?”
“Yes, please.”
I give her what she asks for.
The headboard hits the wall once, then again and again.
Somewhere in the useful part of my brain, I remember three other adults are elsewhere in this house.
I care significantly less than I probably should.
My hand returns to her throat.
“You’re mine right now?”
The words matter, and she knows it.
Right now.
Not mine instead of theirs.
Not mine more than theirs.
This room. This moment. This choice.
Cami’s smile is breathless. “Yours.”
“Good girl.”
Within moments, she comes hard enough that I bury my face against her neck and lose any chance of lasting much longer.
A few more thrusts and I’m done too.
Completely fucking done.
Cami runs her fingers lazily through my hair while both of us catch our breath.
“Merry Christmas,” she whispers.
I laugh into her neck.
“Merry fucking Christmas.”
We make the mistake of believing we can look normal.
Dex destroys that illusion the second Cami and I walk into the kitchen after the fastest shower either of us has ever taken.
He’s sitting on the counter wearing red-and-green plaid pajama pants and a T-shirt that says “Sleigh my name,” drinking coffee from one of my mugs.
His eyes got to Cami, then to me, then back to Cami.
Her hair is damp, but her cheeks are still pink, and mine probably aren’t doing much better.
Dex’s smile becomes horrifying.
“Oh my God.”
“No,” I tell him immediately.
At the stove, Micah glances over his shoulder while Ronan looks up from what appears to be a chemistry experiment masquerading as coffee.
Dex points between us—his finger then stays pointing at me. “This Santa came early.”
Cami chokes.
Micah nearly drops the spatula.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
Dex looks delighted. “You’re welcome.”
Cami kisses my cheek on her way toward the oven. “Ignore him.”
I point at his shirt. “You bought that separately.”
“It spoke to me.”
Cami puts her cinnamon rolls in the oven while Micah works eggs on one burner and bacon on another. All of us are wearing the almost matching pajama pants she bought.
I finally fully register Ronan’s complete setup—the digital scale, gooseneck kettle, fresh-ground beans, and glass contraption.
“Are you making pour-over coffee for all five of us?” I ask Ronan.
He looks at me as if the answer should be obvious. “Yes, because it’s Christmas.”
Micah shrugs while turning the eggs. “I’m not questioning it.”
Dex raises his mug. “It’s really fucking good.”
Ronan glances at the contents. “Yours is half Irish cream.”
Dex grins. “That definitely does not make the coffee less good.”
I ask Micah how I can help with breakfast.
Micah points the spatula at me. “You can’t.”
“What?”