Chapter 29
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
CELESTE
’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house . . . two impatient girls pace, waiting on one man. And he isn’t Santa Claus. The weather has settled in, making travel from Boston to Grafton slow and a little tricky.
We’ve had one sketchy phone call from Quin and a few text updates on his location in the last half of the day.
Now every minute feels like an hour.
“He’s going to be here soon, honey. I’m sure.”
Maise pouts as she paces. “Hurry up, Daddy. How can he miss Christmas?”
Her little huff makes me laugh.
I grab her and tickle the pout from her face. “He’ll be here soon, kiddo. Let’s make some hot cocoa to pass the time.”
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes, head tilting upward to the ceiling.
The house is cleaned from top to bottom. Apparently Maise and I both clean when we’re anxious. The tree glitters under the strings of lights and the fire crackles away, thanks to instructions from Maise after I forgot everything Quinton told me before he left.
We pad to the kitchen, and I pull out two mugs. My hand hovers for a third, but I don’t want to get her hopes up. I leave it there and put the kettle on.
Maise sinks onto a counter stool, planting her chin in her hands. “What if he doesn’t get back in time?”
“He will. Have a little faith.”
I give her my best smile, but her expression doesn’t change. Yeah, I don’t believe me, either.
The last time we waited for someone to come home on Christmas Eve, she didn’t. The gut-churning feeling that follows the dark memory burns something fierce behind my eyes.
Nope.
That is not what’s happening here.
“CC?”
“Yeah, baby?” I turn from the blank spot on the wall that has snagged my gaze.
“The kettle’s boiling.”
The squeal fades in and I shake the morbid thought and very real worry away, heading for the kettle.
“Right. Cocoa time.”
“Is that what happened to your mommy?”
How the . . .
“She was coming home from a Christmas decoration making class she was running and—”
Maise gasps.
Shit. God, Celeste, really?
I round the counter and hug her close. “That’s not what is happening here, okay? Your dad is a capable, brave man. And he has a really, really good reason to make it home.”
She looks up, the fear not abated from her face. “Christmas isn’t until tomorrow.”
I chuckle, but it’s strained, as a tear sails down my cheek. “No, kiddo. You. You’re his reason.”
She studies my face for a beat before adding, “And you, too. He has two reasons now.”
Tears are pouring down my stupid face and I scrunch it up, trying to stem the flow. It doesn’t help, so I cuddle Maise close. When we’ve both recovered, I pour the cocoa and we decide to watch a Christmas movie on the flat-screen that barely gets used in the living room.
“Oh, I forgot something,” I say, jumping up and walking to the foyer.
Grabbing the basket I brought over, I leave it covered up, returning to the sofa and plopping onto the cushions.
“It’s a little late, but since we are sentries at our Christmas post, we could use a treat. ” I hand her a candy apple.
Her brown eyes light up, wide with joy. “Daddy will be mad I’m having candy so late . . .”
She unwraps the paper from the apple regardless. I open one for myself and take a bite. It’s sweet, tangy, and so juicy. The crisp crunch of the apple is euphoric.
Red candy sticks to Maisey’s lips, and she licks them as she devours the apple. Delight wraps her features. And I take note of the small moment of happiness after hours of waiting and worrying.
We settle in. The animated Christmas movie takes over, the long day finally taking its toll as we relax into the soft sofa cushions. Just around the midpoint of the movie, Maise slumps against me, her eyes closed.
“Night, sweet girl.”
I watch the rest of the movie and another starts. I glance at the clock.
11:15 p.m.
Come on, Quinnie.
A cityscape under a snow blanket decorated with too much Christmas flair bursts onto the screen. I let my eyes fall shut . . . just for a moment.
The sofa bobs and rocks. Something thuds rhythmically below me. I jerk awake.
“Hey, you’re okay, baby.” Warm lips press to my forehead. Arms cradle me to a wall of chest. Then, blue eyes shine down at me.
“Quinnie, you’re home?” I breathe.
“Yeah, baby. I’m home.”
“I was so worried.” My voice breaks.
The staircase disappears and he rounds the banister, heading for his room. “Sorry it took me so long.”
My hands gravitate to his jaw. He dips his head, his mouth on mine. Breaking away, he rumbles, “Mmmm, candy.”
I giggle. Red candy is smudged on his mouth. Which means it must be . . .
“Oh shit. Is it all over my face?”
He chuckles. “Just a little.”
I gasp, lifting up out of his arms a little way with a start. “Maise.”
“She’s already in bed. And her face looks worse than yours.” He nips at my lips, my chin, and my cheek.
God, how much candy did I get on my face?
“Put me down. I need to wash up.”
“Nope.” He walks into his bedroom, bypassing the bed and heading straight to the en suite. “I’ve been waiting hours to devour this beautiful body of yours.”
“You have?” I utter.
“Yeah.” He puts me down on my feet and turns on the shower. Deft fingers have my pajama top on the floor a moment later. “And I’m done waiting.”
He sinks to one knee and slides my pajama bottoms over my hips and to the floor. My panties disappear next. “Get wet with me, Celeste.”
His flannel shirt falls away, and he’s tugging his T-shirt off his body a second later. I slip a hand down his chest and then his hard stomach until my fingers hit the buckle of his belt.
“Is this another Christmas wish, Quin?”
“Not a wish, a demand.” His voice is gravel.
“Oh,” I breathe.
Warm, open-mouthed kisses trail up my thighs. “Fuck, these have been torturing me for hours. Every mile was too long. Every hour, excruciating . . .”
When he reaches my center, his tongue swirling around my clit, my legs fall apart for him. My hands gravitate into his hair. “I missed you, too, sweet man.”
“How much did you miss me, baby?”
He nips my clit, and the moan that slips out is breathy and heartbreaking.
“Way more than I should have.”
He pulls back, rocking onto his heels as his gaze studies my face. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
I tamp down the need to roll my eyes at him. “I-I . . . just—” I suck in a parcel of air but it’s too thin.
He pushes to his feet, hands clasping my face. “So you know, you have my whole heart. This man isn’t going anywhere. I’m not going to bail on you at the first sign of trouble.”
My chin wobbles. Why is my chest so heavy?
He adjusts his footing, closing in until his forehead is pressed to mine. “I’m not going to go out and not come back, Celeste. I’m right here. If there is one thing I can give you, it—”
I press a finger over his lips.
“I don’t want anything from you, Quin.”
“But what do you need, Celeste?”
It takes me a moment to realize. Then the air vanishes from my lungs, the bridge of my nose burning. He’s literally on his knees asking me what I want, telling me he’ll give me what I need.
It’s the most intimate moment I’ve ever shared with anyone. He’s absolutely selfless. And I . . .
Inhale a shuddering breath.
“CC, please,” he rasps, hands gripping my hips.
“I—”
His head hits my stomach. I should say something.
I need to say something. To tell him what I want.
That it’s him and Maisey and this little family that we’ve had a glimpse of over the last month.
The tiny town that brought us together is more comforting than the prospect of returning to the city and its myriad of opportunities that I’m sure I would only burn through. It’s a soulless existence.
Here, however . . .
I cup his jawline in my hands and tilt his face up. “Closer, Quinnie.”
He pushes to his feet. “You need closer, baby? I’ll give you so damn close, you won’t be able to tell where you end and I start.”
I tilt my head up now, looking into his darkened blues. “Good.”
“Careful what you wish for,” he groans, nipping at the soft spot beneath my ear.
I roll my head to the side with a low moan. “Quin?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s tinsel in the top drawer.”
He chuckles. “’Bout time I got to make use of that old canopy bed.”
Nerves fling electricity through my veins at the thought of being helpless to his whims. And when he kneels again and pushes my thighs apart, running his tongue through my center, I can’t fucking wait to be tethered to his gigantic bed.
Left after just one torturous sweep of his tongue, I’m gathered in his arms again before being splayed out on the bed. As he crawls over me, holding his weight above me with his hands, the clock ticks over.
12:01 a.m.
“Fuck . . .” he groans. “Merry Christmas, Celeste.”
The top drawer rattles a beat later. Lengths of shining, crinkly tinsel wrap around his fist. I close my eyes for just a moment, and when I open them, Quin has a Santa hat on. But the merry expression on his face has slipped to something much more feral.
I suck in a breath and tug at the tinsel in his hand. “Knock me off the nice list, sweet man.”
And he does.