Chapter 17
I’m hot for him again. How could I not be after that soul-shaking finger lick?
I sink my hips into him, reveling in the friction—his hardness, my softness. I bite his bottom lip, signaling I’m ready to go again. His hands slide up my thighs and spread wide over my bare ass. He squeezes, then gives a gentle smack. I squeak in surprise.
“Naughty,” he whispers, teeth grazing my neck before he slides my dress back down my legs.
Clearly, he’s decided to make the Nice List this year.
So annoying.
I climb off of him, pouting. I want more. It’s been too long, and it’s never been this good.
And now here I am—sex-starved and practically foaming at the mouth for a romp on this floral granny couch. But Eben’s going to make us both wait, and I guess I should be relieved that he’s not a pump-and-dump guy.
He shifts into a more comfortable position, then settles me back against his chest. His fingers play in my hair; he plants tiny kisses at my temple, my ear, my cheek.
God, I like him so much.
“Ally was totally right about you,” I say, drifting into drowsiness.
“About me?” he asks in my ear, nails tracing lightly down my arm, sending goosebumps everywhere.
“About Christmas being a kink for you.”
“What? She said that?” He sits up a little.
I yawn and snuggle in. “Come on—you’ve met her. Are you shocked? Ally is not shy.”
“I’ve only met her a few times.”
“You do spend your free time playing Santa Claus.” I can barely keep my eyes open.
“And the only reasonable explanation is that I have a Christmas kink?” His hand stills on my arm. I stare at his long fingers that were inside me five minutes ago. Heat crawls up my cheeks.
“Duh. What else could it be?” I shift my hips between his legs. He groans and stills me with his hands at my waist.
“Easy there, tiger,” he growls in my ear.
“It can’t be because you’re altruistic,” I say, matter-of-fact.
“What? Why not?” he asks.
“Because you’re too… hot.” I finally admit.
He lets out his biggest chuckle yet, then dips close. “I wasn’t altruistic enough tonight for you?” His hand slides to my hip. A sigh, and my legs drift apart on their own. He kisses behind my ear, and a shudder ripples through me.
I think he’s going to reach between my legs again—but he doesn’t.
Instead, he just pulls me tight, my back to his chest, arms banded around me like he can’t tolerate even an inch of space.
I tuck my leg under his, deepening my little-spoon sprawl until we’re fused, my back fitting perfectly to his front.
I close my eyes and match the rise and fall of his breathing.
This moment is pure peace, and I never want to forget it.
“MROW.”
What fresh hell—
A beam of sunlight nails me in the eye from an unfamiliar angle in an unfamiliar room. I blink—and the 1995 fever dream returns. I fell asleep at Eben’s.
There’s pressure on my chest. I look down and come face-to-face with a gremlin.
Okay, not a gremlin—Buster, a cat whose smushed face and twisted whiskers are rapidly growing on me.
“Hi, kitty,” I say cautiously. “Please don’t hurt me.”
I swear, Buster rolls his eyes before hopping off my chest. I’m alone on the couch, but the holy smell of coffee drifts in from the kitchen. I check my phone. It’s almost nine, and we’re supposed to be at Forest Park in fifteen minutes.
I rocket upright and immediately make myself dizzy.
“Whoa there, tiger,” Eben says with a soft smile—throwback to last night when my ass was pressed to his hips. His hair is adorably rumpled. He’s holding two steaming mugs. I need one, desperately, but we’re already so late.
He hands me one of the coffees; I start to chug. He stops me. “Relax, I called Missy and told her we’re both running late.”
I get exactly two blessed sips before anxiety ignites like a rocket booster and blasts me out of my seat.
“You called who and told her what?” My hand shakes; hot coffee splashes my thigh. “Ow. Fuck.”
“Whoa, whoa—it’s okay. Missy doesn’t know anything.” He takes my mug, sets it down, and fetches a cool, damp towel. He hands it over and sits close, concern in his eyes.
“But won’t she wonder why Eben and Melody are both late in the morning—together?”
“I think she has other things on her mind,” he says with a shrug.
“What did you tell her?” My voice is shrill; I try to drag it down an octave.
His eyes glint. “I told Missy I fucked your brains out all night, and now we’re late.”
He says it like he’s telling the time. I know he’s kidding, but—damn. Part of me is sorry it isn’t entirely true.
My face must scream terror, because he pats my knee. “Hey, I’m joking.”
“What did you tell her then?”
“Nothing. Just that we’re running late.”
“Oh, God—somehow no explanation is worse.”
“You know grown adults are allowed to be late—especially when they’re not getting paid,” he says, patient with my irrational responsibility spiral.
“Yes, but colleagues aren’t usually late in the morning—together, unless…” I trail off.
“Unless what?” he prods, grin derailing my panic.
“Unless they spent all night fucking your brains out,” I mutter.
He laughs and reaches for my coffee.
“Hey! I’m not done.” I grab for it. He blocks me, swaps it into a travel mug, seals the lid, and hands it back.
“You can finish it in the car. We’re super late and ruining our reputations, remember?” He winks. I perish.
“We have to swing by my apartment for my Mrs. Claus' outfit!” Panic flares.
“No time,” he says, tossing me a bag.
I peek inside. Oh, hell no.
“I look ridiculous,” I grumble, smoothing the fabric of Eben’s extra Santa suit.
The pants were swimming on me, so I ditched them and belted the jacket—somehow too big and too short at once.
We detoured to a drugstore so I could grab deodorant and a fresh pack of underwear.
I’m not usually rockin’ the “sexy drugstore undies,” but last night’s activities necessitated fresh drawers before volunteer hour.
I take a whore’s bath in the bathroom, swapping my lace thong for the only option: white nylon granny panties tucked next to the diabetic socks. I lift my Mrs. Claus walk-of-shame getup to inspect the damage. God, let no one ever see me in these.
I collect side-eyes like coupons on my way out. Pretty sure “had sexy fun times last night” is stamped on my forehead. I curtain my face with my hair and beeline for Eben’s idling truck.
“Let’s get out of here,” I hiss. The employee “rearranging” firewood is rubber-necking so hard I’m worried he might sprain something.
We pull up to Forest Park, and my anxiety rears up.
I know it’s absurd. I know we don’t owe anyone an explanation.
I know we are adults. But the trauma of being spied on in purity culture has a long half-life.
The fear of moral judgment lights me up like a pack-a-day smoker—miraculously, I’m not one.
Eben notices. Hard not to—my knees are bouncing so hard the truck vibrates. He takes my hand.
“Hey. It’s okay.” He squeezes my hand. He’s warm and steady. One by one, butterflies replace the swarm of bees in my gut.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, eyes down. “I think I’m having an allergic reaction to my past.”
He pauses, choosing his words. (A desirable trait.) “I think you’re having a normal reaction to being abused by a cult,” he says. “Who sound like busybodies, by the way.”
I smile—real, unforced. I can’t believe Eben has now witnessed two cult-adjacent freakouts.
“I really am doing better,” I say softly. “It sucks that you’ve seen a couple of bad moments. It doesn’t happen that often, I just never know what will pop up or—”
“Who you’ll run into,” he finishes.
“Yes.” I don’t look at him. “And I haven’t… gone out with anybody in a long time. Not that we’re going out. I just mean being with you—last night and now—maybe it’s bringing up old stuff.”
Whew, that was painful to say. Color climbs my cheeks. I don’t want to assume one not-so-innocent night means more to me than to him.
He doesn’t let me hide; he tilts my chin. “You can’t control the world. Considering what you’ve been through, you’re doing great.” His eyes are so soft, I melt.
My brows tilt up. Do I look like a scared puppy? “So you don’t think I’m freaking out all the time?”
“No.” He tucks a lock of my finger-combed hair behind my ear. “I mean, you’re definitely a little neurotic—but who isn’t?”
I smile and look away—half touched, half mortified. Heat pricks my eyes. I can’t tell if it’s anger or embarrassment or something else entirely, only that it’s the kind of ache that rearranges your soul.
I don’t have time to wade into the deep end of that thought. I look up at the building, and two familiar faces stare back from the window.
Millie and Edna have their noses smashed to the glass like Labrador retrievers, watching us in the car.
“I think we’re being watched,” he says, like we’re in a Jurassic Park reboot, and someone let out the velociraptors.
“Oh, we are,” I laugh, feeling a little dizzy as his hand squeezes the back of my neck.
I glance up again, and the olds have multiplied. At least ten of them are plastered to the window now. Roger’s on tiptoe, trying to peer over Millie’s bouffant.
“Is this super triggering?” Eben asks earnestly.
“No—this is hilarious. Nosy old people were never my problem.”
“We’d better head in,” he says.
We hop out; the seniors scatter like roaches.
Inside, Missy is waiting. She eyes us. “You two are better than The Young and the Restless reruns around here,” she harrumphs, one brow arched.
Heat rushes to my face as we both glance at my bare legs under the walk-of-shame half-Santa suit. No wonder everyone at the pit stop was gawking; the jacket barely covers my hoo-ha. I tug it down, but Eben isn’t letting anyone shame or speculate.
“Mel’s car is in the shop, so I picked her up,” he says coolly. The casual way he says Mel makes me shiver. “Sorry we’re late.”
Missy squints, then shrugs like she couldn’t care less. “Your fan club awaits.” She nods toward the community room. We turn—and my stomach drops.
The seniors pack the doorway. Some smirking. Some scowling. But one thing is clear:
They know exactly what’s up.