Chapter 14 December 14th
It’s the feeling of him slipping out of me that brings me round, and I blink my eyes open.
The sheets are pulled over us, but I haven’t moved.
Neither has Dec—his arms exactly where they were when I dosed off, one holding me to his chest, the other resting on my bum.
I can hear his light breathing close to my ear, and it’s the only welcome noise that’s invaded my waking moments for three years.
No screams of my past. No everyday life happening beyond my windows. Just . . . breathing.
Gently lifting my head, I peek at him, and despite the poor light, I see him so clearly.
And I smile a little, turning my head carefully toward the nightstand.
Toward the glow of the digital clock shining.
It’s gone midnight, and I’m thirsty. But he looks so peaceful and serene, and it would be an absolute crime to disturb him.
My face bunched up, I gently ease myself off him, feeling the coolness of the bedroom meeting my skin. It’s almost enough to make me want to dive back under the covers and never emerge, but now I’ve moved, I also need to pee.
I’m holding my breath as I hold my weight with my arms, my hands pressed into the mattress as I get my feet on the carpet. It’s a miracle, but he doesn’t even stir, totally out for the count.
I find a T-shirt and shimmy it on, spotting a door across the room that I pray is a bathroom, but as I head that way, I remember something.
Lynette.
I look down at my bare legs and think about the fact I have no knickers on.
I don’t know Lynette, have no idea how it works having a live-in housekeeper, but I do know I’d hate to bump into her half naked.
I cringe and look back over my shoulder, rolling my eyes as I spot my dress on the floor.
I pull the T-shirt off and get my dress on, not bothering to search for my knickers now I’m mostly decent.
I pad across to the door and quietly open it, revealing an en-suite.
“Oh, thank God,” I whisper. The moment I step over the threshold, low-level spotlights ping on, giving me just enough light but not so much it’s blinding.
I go straight to the loo and lower, using the time I’m peeing—which is forever, it seems—to take in the space.
It’s all spectacular, all white porcelain and brushed brass fittings, but it’s the claw-foot tub in front of an arched stained-glass window that gives it the true wow factor.
I’m still peeing.
The mirrors above the twin pedestal sinks are suspended on gold rods from the ceiling, the floor is a chessboard of black and white tiles, the shower enclosed by a white half-height brick-tiled wall topped with a glass screen, and a bunch of candles line the windowsill—all of them gold.
I’m still bloody peeing.
There’s a tray spanning the tub, like one of those bath caddies you put things on if you’re a tub dweller—a book, a glass of wine, a candle, your lotions and potions, everything within reach. Does Dec Ellis soak in a bubble bath?
I smile, picturing him relaxed back, bubbles up to his neck. Does he sing in the tub? Read?
Or was that his wife’s?
My smile falls. He’s lived here for ten years. He told me he’d be divorced four years ago if he could find her. She lived here.
I’m done peeing.
I wipe myself, my face bunching when I feel the remnants of his release too, and tug my dress back down. I don’t flush—I don’t want to wake him—but lower the seat instead and wash my hands.
He’s not moved an inch when I leave the bathroom.
Creeping to the door, I pull it open and peek out, listening for a minute before venturing onto the landing.
I reach the stairs, the beautiful, wide spiral staircase, and take the balustrade, gazing around in awe as I take the steps down, paying more attention to the things I didn’t before because I was in a state of high anticipation and complete anxiety.
The chandelier spilling from the top of the house finishes just shy of a baby grand piano.
A mirror hanging on the wall makes the entrance hall look even bigger than it is, and it’s pretty bloody spacious.
There are endless closed doors, all of which I avoid—I don’t want to snoop—but there are numerous open doors too.
I pass a room on the right. It’s dark, but I definitely see a desk and bookcases—his home office?
—and one of the closed doors is a bathroom, identifiable by the sign on the door.
I approach another open door farther in, with the distinct purr of a refrigerator coming from that direction, and emerge into a beautiful kitchen, the space lit by under-counter spotlights.
It’s modern, contradicting the exterior original architecture and what I’ve seen of Dec’s bathroom and the hallway.
The walnut cupboards are handleless, the countertops polished cream stone.
The long island running down the centre of the room is bare but for a glass vase stuffed with white roses with long stems in a tall vase as opposed to short stems in a dumpy glass like on the table in the hallway.
I take the three steps that lead down to a dining area, where a round table is edged with eight chairs.
There’s a snug area leading off that. A curved stone-coloured velvet couch has been placed before a wall-mounted TV that hangs above the grandiose cream-stone fireplace.
It’s large but cosy, traditional but modern.
Beautiful.
I go to the floor-to-ceiling doors that span the entire back and look out into the garden. Spotlights line a brick pathway through the middle that’s been shovelled clear of snow.
I smile and face the room again, something past the gorgeousness of Dec’s home niggling at the corner of my mind.
There are no Christmas decorations.
Not one thing.
I would wonder if maybe it’s too early. Some people go full-on into Christmas mode on December 1st. Other more conservative types might wait until the first or second weekend.
And then there’s the ones who don’t bother with decorations at all.
The damaged souls who resent Christmas. Hate Christmas.
The souls who wish they could hibernate throughout December and emerge on the safe, less glittery and joyous side of January.
Souls like me.
My teeth sink into my lip, searching for even a Christmas card. Anything to suggest Dec isn’t like me. Doesn’t despise Christmas like me. There are none.
“Were you leaving?”
I jump and spin round, my hand on my chest. “You frightened me.” But that fright quickly transforms into something else, and I’m suddenly a puddle of mush on the dining room floor.
Dec. In his boxers. I exhale my awe, taking in every glorious piece of the wonder that is Dec Ellis, and store it to memory.
In case you lose him.
I flinch that thought away, my fingers twiddling nervously together. “I was getting a glass of water,” I say, motioning to the endless cupboards, where I expect there are more than just two glasses.
“So you weren’t leaving?” he asks, his eyebrows arching in interest as he strolls over.
“Nooo.” I stretch the word out, my lips pulling at the edges into something scarily similar to a smirk. “I wasn’t running out on you.”
“Good.” He loops a strong arm around my waist and hauls me into his body, forcing my hands up to his chest, my spine bending back to keep him in my sights.
The dark hairs beneath my palms feels soft as I skate them up to his shoulders and hold on.
His lips pout in contemplation as he studies me, and I wait, breathless. “You’re thirsty.”
I nod, and he lifts me and sits me on the island before going to a cupboard and fetching a glass, filling it and drinking half as he comes back to me. He puts it in my hand and watches me as I drink the rest.
“Done?” he asks, taking the glass once it’s empty and setting it aside.
“Done.”
“So I can take you back to bed?”
I nod as his lips land on mine, and I close my eyes, opening up to him the moment our mouths brush, falling deeply into his sweet affection.
He helps me down and finds the bottom of my dress, pulling it up to my waist with one swift tug.
The backs of my thighs heat under his palms as they slide across my skin briefly before he lifts me, my legs finding their place around his waist, my arms around his neck.
And he kisses me all the way out of the kitchen, up the stairs, along the corridor, and into his bedroom, laying me down and swathing me in his body, taking my mouth and once again kissing me into oblivion.
“Can I ask one question?” I murmur, losing my rhythm for a second as I speak.
“Hmmm.” He doesn’t lose his rhythm at all.
“Do you celebrate Christmas?”
He rolls us and bites the edge of my lip, pushing me up to straddle his waist. My eyebrows jump up when his growing arousal pushes into my backside.
“I wouldn’t have asked if I’d known you were going to stop kissing me.”
His muscles ripple as he sits up and takes my nape, pushing his lips hard onto mine. “I have a love/hate relationship with Christmas.”
Interesting. “Is that why you have no decorations or a tree?”
His brow becomes heavy as he regards me, obviously not knowing what to say.
“I wouldn’t mind if you didn’t have a tree or decorations.” I press my lips together the moment I’ve uttered the words. Or, more like, uttered the subtle hint.
The scrutiny I’m suddenly under is painful, which begs the question why I opened my big mouth. “Care to enlighten me?” he asks.
“Not right now. Five years?”
“I’m a busy man.”
So the last woman he slept with was his wife. “You’re not very busy right now,” I whisper, my eyes dropping to his mouth as I take his hands and guide them to the zip on the back of my dress.
“Then I guess I better fix that.” He pulls my dress up and tosses it aside before rolling me to my back. “I think you’re beautiful.” he says quietly, scanning my eyes. “And it feels fucking incredible to be inside you.”