Chapter 5 Willow #2
Damien slides a plate in front of me with a smirk. “Eat your snowman, and drink up a cup of coffee. We are leaving in an hour.”
Vincent steps up beside me, the scent of his cologne mingling with coffee and cinnamon. He slides a mug into my hand—the dark roast just the way I like it, a splash of cream, two sugars, and the faint steam curling up between us.
“Your timing is perfect,” I murmur, taking the first sip. The heat fills my chest, chasing away what’s left of the morning chill.
He brushes his thumb along my jaw, his eyes softer now. “You doubt me?”
“Constantly.” I grin into my cup, but his answering smile has that slow burn I’ll never get used to.
He leans down just enough that his breath brushes my ear. “You need me to pick out your outfit today, don’t you?”
I tilt my head toward him, smiling over the rim of my mug. “I was hoping you’d volunteer. You know how indecisive I get with sweaters.”
Vincent’s lips curve into something that looks dangerously close to smug. “Always,” he murmurs against my mouth, before placing a soft peck there.
A chorus of tiny voices erupts behind us.
“Ewww!”
Theo’s voice is the loudest, drawn out and scandalized, while Penny covers her eyes dramatically. Rose groans, muttering something about “public displays of parental affection,” and Elise giggles like it’s her favorite secret.
Vincent pulls back, laughter rumbling low in his chest. “We’ve offended the peanut gallery.”
“Tragic,” I say, pulling him in closer. “Should we apologize?”
“Never,” he says, still smiling, brushing a kiss against my lips.
Cast rolls his eyes and sets down his mug. “Alright, lovers—enough traumatizing the youth.”
Rose hops off her stool, clapping her hands for attention. “Everyone, follow Papa for showers and getting ready!” she declares, her voice full of bossy authority.
“Who elected you leader?” Theo challenges, already half-running for the stairs.
“I did!” she shouts, chasing after him.
Penny snickers, darting between them with Elise close behind, her curls bouncing as she yells, “I call the pink towel!”
“Not again,” Cast groans, already following the stampede, muttering under his breath about mutiny and missed coffee.
Damien just shakes his head, flipping another pancake with a smirk. “You’d think we were sending them to war, not to bathe.”
Vincent sets his cup down beside mine, eyes following the chaos as it disappears up the staircase. The laughter, the squeals, the running feet—it fills every inch of the house.
When the last footstep fades, the silence that follows is warm and familiar, like the space after a song ends but before the echo dies.
Vincent looks down at me, one hand brushing a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “You sure you want to deal with all that at the tree lot?”
I smile into my coffee. “It wouldn’t feel like Christmas without the chaos.”
By the time we reach the tree lot, the day has softened into that pale kind of winter sunlight that can’t quite decide whether to warm or vanish.
The air smells like pine and frost and woodsmoke, and the kids scatter before the car’s doors are closed—laughing, shouting, darting between rows of evergreens dusted with snow.
Rose is bossing Theo, Penny is arguing about symmetry, Elise is humming to herself and dragging a twig like it’s a magic wand. Damien trails after them with mock patience, pretending to be the “tree inspector,” while Vincent handles the details—price tags, twine, logistics.
I stand back for a moment, gloved hands in my coat pockets, just watching. The scene is a kind of perfect that almost hurts: the kids darting in and out of light, the scent of pine sap sharp in the air, the faint sound of carols playing through tinny speakers somewhere near the cashier’s booth.
“Found it!” Theo yells, voice muffled by the scarf he refuses to wear properly. “This one’s perfect!”
Rose, ever the authority, circles it like a judge at a competition. “It’s lopsided.”
“No, it’s artistic,” Penny insists, brushing snow from one of the lower branches.
Elise gasps and claps her mittened hands together. “It has sparkles!”
“They’re ice crystals,” Damien laughs, crouching to her level. “But sure—sparkles.”
Vincent joins them, his breath visible in the cold, his gloved hand resting briefly on Damien’s shoulder as they test the branches for fullness. For a heartbeat, the two of them share that rare, easy camaraderie that only happens when no one’s trying too hard.
I’m smiling before I even realize it, a warmth blooming low in my chest.
“This one,” Vincent decides at last, stepping back to look at the tree from another angle. “It’s balanced, full. Classic.”
“Balanced,” Cast echoes dryly behind me. “How very Vincent of you.”
I turn, surprised—I hadn’t even heard him approach. He’s wearing his dark wool coat, collar turned up, black gloves dusted with frost. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—the kind of green that always looks like trouble—is fixed on me, not the tree.
“What?” I ask, smiling despite myself. “Don’t like his choice?”
He takes a slow step closer, then another, until he’s beside me, the scent of leather and smoke and pine folding around us. “Oh, the tree’s fine,” he says. “I’m just trying to figure out when we started letting Vincent pick everything.”
“Because he’s efficient?” I tease.
“Because he’s bossy,” Cast corrects, and that smirk, the dangerous one that always makes my pulse stumble, curls the corner of his mouth.
Before I can answer, Damien calls out, “All right, troops! Help me lift this one—Vincent, you tie it down. Rose, you’re the supervisor.”
Vincent gives a mock salute, and even he laughs, the sound short but genuine. The kids cheer and rush to help, their laughter scattering through the trees like windbells.
Cast touches my elbow gently, drawing my attention back to him. “Walk with me for a second.”
I blink, caught off guard. “What? Why?”
He just nods once toward the others—Vincent and Damien now wrangling the tree onto the cart, kids buzzing around them in a blur of scarves and mittens. “They’ve got it handled,” he whispers in the curve of my ear. “Come on.”
I hesitate for half a second before he takes my hand—firm, certain—and leads me between the trees, away from the laughter and the clatter of saws.
The ground crunches under our boots, snow giving way to packed earth.
The cold air bites my cheeks, but his hand is warm through his glove, his grip steady and unhurried.
When we stop, it’s quiet—just the whisper of wind through branches, the faint creak of twine as someone ties another tree behind us. The noise of our family is distant now, blurred into background music.
“What’s going on?” I ask, searching his face. “You’re acting strange.”
He looks down at me, eyes sharp and soft all at once. “I’m not acting strange,” he says. “I’m just tired.”
“Of what?” I ask carefully, though my voice comes out softer than I mean it to.
Cast leans in slightly, close enough that his breath clouds between us. “Of not getting you alone,” he murmurs.
My pulse skips. The words hang there, curling like smoke in the cold.
“Cast—”
He gives a small, lopsided grin. “That I’m not sharing you all day.”
“But we have to—”
He tilts his head, his mouth curving in that familiar, dangerous half-smile.
“Relax, Angel. I’m just going to do what you love.
” His tone is teasing, but there’s a thread beneath it—low, real, a kind of hunger makes my stomach flip, especially since Vincent left me needy this morning. “I just wanted five minutes with you.”
I swallow hard. “Five minutes to do what I love?”
He reaches up, his gloved fingers brushing the edge of my scarf where it meets my throat, and he yanks on it rough, the fabric choking me lightly as I stumble into his chest. “You still like to be my naughty little slut in public, don’t you?”
His voice is a low growl against my ear, the grip on my scarf firm, forcing me up onto my toes. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. Yes. The word is a silent scream in my head, but all I can manage is a choked gasp, a desperate nod.
Cast’s grin is pure, wicked promise. He releases the scarf just enough to let me breathe, his other arm snaking around my waist to keep me pinned against him. The crisp winter air does nothing to cool the fire he’s lighting under my skin.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, the praise washing over me like warm honey. “Now, let’s find our tree.”
He doesn’t let go of my hand, his grip possessive as he pulls me away from the main path of the Christmas tree farm, away from the families with their hot cocoa and cheerful chatter.
We plunge into a thicker grove of pines, the scent of sap and cold earth filling my lungs.
The further we go, the darker it gets, the branches knitting together overhead like a secret vault.
This is insane. Reckless. The thoughts are a distant buzz, drowned out by the roaring need he’d awakened in me this morning and left utterly unsatisfied. Vincent had been a sweet, teasing preamble. Cast is the main event.
He stops suddenly, spinning me around and pressing my back against the broad, rough trunk of a massive Douglas fir. The bark bites through my wool coat, a sharp contrast to the heat blooming everywhere his body meets mine.
“This one’s perfect,” he says, his voice dropping to that intimate timbre meant only for me. “No one can see us here.”
His mouth crashes down on mine, not with sweetness, but with a raw, claiming hunger that steals the last of my breath.
It’s been months since he’s been home for more than a day, months since I’ve felt this specific, devastating possession.
My gloves are clumsy as I fumble for the buttons of his coat, needing to feel him.
He breaks the kiss, breathing heavily. “Uh-uh. My five minutes. My rules.”
His hands go to the belt of my coat, loosening it before his fingers find the button of my jeans. The rasp of the zipper is obscenely loud in the silent woods. He’s really going to do it. Right here.
“Cast…” I whisper, a final, feeble protest.
“Shhh, Angel. I’ve missed the taste of you.” He drops to his knees in the blanket of brown needles, his eyes dark and gleaming up at me. “I’ve been dreaming about this in my cold, lonely bed in Mexico. Dreaming of how sweet you are.”
He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my jeans and my underwear, peeling them down my thighs in one rough, efficient motion. The cold air whispers over my dampening skin, and I shudder violently. He chuckles, a low, dark sound that coils tight in my belly.
“Look at you. Already so ready for me. So eager.”
He pushes my knees apart, settling between them. His warm hands grip my bare hips, holding me in place against the tree. The contrast of the rough bark on my back and his hot mouth nearing my core is utterly maddening.
“Please,” I beg, the word tearing from my throat.
His answer is to lean in, but he doesn’t use his mouth. Instead, he brushes the very tip of his nose through my folds, a feather-light, torturous tease. I cry out, my head thudding back against the tree.
“So impatient,” he tsks, his breath hot against my most sensitive skin. “All this time apart, and you think I’m not going to savor every single second?”
He finally—finally—licks a long, tender stripe from my entrance to my clit. My knees buckle, but his grip on my hips is iron, holding me upright. A deep, guttural moan escapes me, far too loud.
“We have to be quiet, remember?” he says, pulling back just enough to look up at me. A devilish glint is in his eye. He rises slightly, his fingers going to the silk scarf still around my neck. With a few deft moves, he loosens it and pulls it free.
Before I can process it, his other hand is inside my open coat, sliding up my stomach, under my sweater and bra. He finds my nipple, pinching it hard enough to make me gasp. In that instant, he brings the silk scarf to my mouth.
“Open,” he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument.
I part my lips, and he bundles the soft fabric into my mouth, effectively gagging me. The scent of his cologne and the cold air is all I can smell. My sounds are now muffled, helpless hums.
“That’s my good slut,” he praises, his thumb stroking my cheek. Then his hands are back on my hips, dragging me down the tree trunk until I’m seated more firmly against him.
He doesn’t tease this time. He dives in, his tongue spearing into me with a focused intensity that has my eyes rolling back.
Oh god. It’s been so long, too long, and the sensation is overwhelming.
He eats me out like a man starved, his tongue fucking me in deep, decadent strokes before swirling up to circle my clit.
The silk in my mouth is soaked with my own saliva. My moans are thick, desperate things, vibrating against the gag. I am completely at his mercy, a prisoner of his mouth and my own desperate need. He releases one of my hips, and places his large hand over the column of my throat.
The combination is explosive. The lack of air, the muffled cries, the relentless, skillful work of his tongue—it sends me hurtling toward the edge with terrifying speed. He feels it, my thighs trembling around his head.
“That’s it, Willow,” he groans, his voice muffled against me, the vibrations a exquisite torture. “Come for me. Come all over my face. Show me how much you missed this.”
The pressure on my throat tightens infinitesimally.
The world narrows to the point where his mouth meets my body, to the building, coiling, unbearable tension.
I shatter. A silent scream is locked behind the gag as my orgasm rips through me, a seismic wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure that steals my vision and my breath.
I convulse against the tree, against his face, my entire body seizing under his relentless hold.
He rides it out with me, his tongue gentling to lapping, soothing strokes, drawing out every last shuddering pulse until I’m boneless, held up only by the tree and his strong hands.
Slowly, he releases the scarf from my throat, letting me drag in a ragged, sobbing breath. He gently pulls the silk from my mouth, wiping a stray bit of drool from my chin with a tenderness that contrasts violently with what he just did.
He rises, looming over me, his own breathing heavy. He brings his glistening fingers to his lips, tasting me as he looks me dead in the eye.
“Fuck,” I whisper watching him, and he leans in forward. His warm breath curling around the shell of my ear.
“Five dollars in the swear jar, naughty girl.”