CHAPTER 25—MADDIE
***
Beep. I'm not available.
Sweetie, it's us. We're so proud of you. Love you.
DAMIAN'S WORDS WASH over me like a tidal wave, and I never knew I had a thing for werewolves until now. F1 drivers, romance heroes, Bridgerton leading men... yes. But werewolves? Well, I certainly do now.
As I lay on the bed, my breath catches in my throat. Damian's fingers work deliberately, almost teasingly, as he removes the werewolf costume. Each newly revealed inch of skin makes my heart race faster. When he's finally, gloriously naked, my eyes drink him in - all hard planes and defined muscles, scars telling stories I long to hear.
He prowls towards me, his gaze raking over my body. The heat in his eyes makes me feel more exposed than if I were already naked. The air between us crackles with electricity, charged with months of pent-up desire.
As he reaches the bed, a realization hits me like a thunderbolt. My heart swells, threatening to burst with an emotion I can no longer deny. Love. It's love that I'm feeling. And with that comes another jarring thought - I haven't told him. I haven't told him I'm staying.
"Damian," I breathe, my voice shaky with emotion. He pauses, his hand hovering just above my skin. "I... there's something I need to tell you."
His brow furrows slightly, concern replacing desire in his eyes. "What is it, Princess?"
I swallow hard, gathering my courage. "I said 'no' to the Not-So-Crabby-News Award. I didn't even apply." His eyes widen, but I press on. "I'm going to continue working for the Gazette as a columnist—or something else if I can't figure my writing out, and I'm... I'm taking online classes in non-profit communication. I have ways to make this work the way I want to."
I watch as understanding dawns on his face, his expression softening. "Maddie," he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. "Are you saying...?"
"I'm staying, Damian," I whisper, reaching up to cup his cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."
The smile that breaks across his face is breathtaking. He leans down, pressing his forehead against mine. "Say it again," he growls softly.
"I'm staying," I repeat, my voice stronger now.
He inhales deeply as his hands cup my face. After a soft kiss to my lips, he says, "I want you to know: If you want to go. If you need to. I wouldn't hold you back." My chest expands at his words. "I'd support you. There's no third act break-up for us, Princess."
And I don't think I've ever heard anything sexier.
"Whether you enter the contest or not. Whether you stay or go. We're real. You and I. Bitey and Princess Peach... Damian and Maddie, we're a team." His lips hover over my ear, and he rasps out, "I'll want to devour you whether you're far or near." His mouth trails along my jaw, making my breath hitch. "Whether you win or not, whether you're on top of the world or you feel like you're at the bottom of the ocean."
My breath catches as his lips brush against my neck, against my rose tattoo, his stubble touching my skin in the most delicious way. "I'll want to hold you through the good and the not-so-great."
He presses a soft kiss to my collarbone, and I can't help but lean into his touch. "I'll want to make you smile and hear that giggle that bursts out of nowhere and makes me so damn happy."
Finally, Damian pulls back, his intense gaze meeting mine. The raw emotion in his green eyes makes my knees weak. "I'll want to hear your thoughts, your plans, your dreams. The ones that I'll support because they're yours. And the ones that I'll work for right alongside you because they're ours."
I'm breathless, overwhelmed by the intensity of his words and touch. My heart's doing an F1 race in my chest, and I'm pretty sure I've forgotten how to form coherent sentences. All I can do is nod, feeling a goofy smile spread across my face.
"Damian," I whisper, my voice thick with emotion. I reach up to cup his cheek, trying not to think about how I probably look like a love-struck heroine in one of his mom's romance novels. "You're the grumpy, sexy hero of my life, you know that?"
Because this is real. This is us. Damian and Maddie, no longer just neighbors or enemies or some type of friends, but partners. A team.
When I finally find my voice again, it comes out as a hoarse whisper. "Third act break-up?" I manage, my brain latching onto that one tiny bit of information. "Damian Mack, have you been reading romance novels?"
"Oh Princess, I'm Lady Grey's son. Of course I know the everything goes to shit moment in romance novels right before the happily-ever-after. But don't you think you and I had to work through so much of our heavy baggage already? I'm not saying there won't never be conflict. Have you met us? But we're more of a slow-burn that catches fire in the best possible way. Therapy and all that." He kisses me. "Shit, I'm starting to like Christmas again, thanks to you. I know it won't be perfect all the time. So I mean it: if you need to go to achieve your dreams and you're in this..." He gestures between us. "I'll find a way to be there every single step of the way. I'll travel. I'll call. I'll write fucking love letters to you. I need you to know that."
"I know." And I do. "I'm staying because this is what I want to do, because I'm excited about the future here." I smile. "It doesn't hurt you're here, too. And I'll be cheering you on, too. For your dreams. For everything you want to do."
"Oh, I can see you in a cheerleader outfit."
"The werewolf and the cheerleader?"
"You'll always be my Princess Peach." His lips find mine in a searing kiss that steals my breath away, pouring all his emotion into it. When we finally part, both panting, he looks at me with such intensity it makes me shiver.
"I love you," I murmur.
His signature half-grin appears, but this time it's different. It's not just sexy or amused – it's a grin that holds the weight of promises, of a future. It's a grin that says he's all in. "In case that wasn't clear: I love you too, Maddie," he says, his voice husky and sincere. "Now, let me show you just how much."
As his lips begin to trail down my neck, I know that this is only the beginning of our story.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, his voice rougher than my favorite worn-in Freddy Krueger T-shirt. "Inside and out."
I drink him in—all chiseled abs and broad shoulders, gloriously naked and hovering above me. My fingers trace the lines of his tattoos, of his Phoenix one similar to mine, marveling at the strength coiled beneath his skin. In my own bedroom, surrounded by my horror movie posters and the soft glow of my fiber optic Christmas tree, Damian looks like a fantasy come to life.
His exploration halts as he spots the burn on my wrist. And wow, the look he gives me... It's protective, possessive, and so intense I feel it in my core.
"Who did this to you?" he growls, low and dangerous.
I swallow hard, trying to remember how words work. "Baking accident," I manage. "With Aisling. Turns out I'm more Freddy Krueger with clumsy razor hands than Martha Stewart in the kitchen."
His lips brush the burn, impossibly gentle. The contrast between this tenderness and his earlier intensity short-circuits my brain. His fingers trace the line of my collarbone, feather-light and reverent. I shiver, not from cold, but from the tenderness of the gesture.
"I've never felt this way before," I whisper, the admission both thrilling and terrifying.
Damian's eyes soften. "Me neither," he murmurs back. I think back to our first meeting, all snark and misunderstandings. How far we've come, from adversaries to this – two people laying themselves bare, in every sense.
I lose my train of thought as his mouth continues its southern expedition. My last bits of clothing disappear, and then he's there, right where I've been dreaming about him for weeks.
"Now," he rumbles, settling between my thighs, "let's see if you taste as peachy as I remember."
The first swipe of his tongue has me arching off the bed, a moan tearing from my throat that would put any B-movie scream queen to shame. It's too much and not enough and exactly right.
As Damian works his magic, I clutch at his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex under my fingertips.
I'm unraveling like a badly wrapped present, all my carefully constructed walls crumbling under his touch. This isn't just mind-blowing sex. It's connection, raw and real and terrifying in its intensity. It's Damian seeing me, all of me, and still wanting more.
And Santa help me, I never want it to stop. I never want him to stop.
And he doesn't.
I'm so close, oh so close, my body tightening when he glances up, his half-grin that I love on his face and he rasps out, "Where is Vampire 2.0?"
There's a shiver racing down my spine and I point to my drawer because I can't move. I'm made of Christmas pudding. Or whatever else there is that makes you feel like you're so relaxed your muscles aren't following orders.
He grabs my toy—the one that doesn't compare—and when the vibration starts against my very core and Damian uses his other hand, his mouth, his entire body to make me hum I'm losing control. As he shifts, trying to find a condom, I still manage to whisper, "All good and on the pill."
"All good, too," he growls and I shift slightly—one hand clutching the bed as the vibrator doesn't stop and the other one guiding him back to the bed.
The groan that escapes him is better than any movie soundtrack, any romance novel.
As I stroke him, matching the rhythm he's set with the vibrator, I drink in the sight of him above me. Those abs, that jawline - he's like a walking, talking romance novel cover, and he's all mine.
"Princess," he growls, his hips bucking into my hand. "You're driving me wild."
"Good," I pant, loving how I can affect him just as much as he's affecting me. "That's the idea."
As I wrap my lips around him, savoring his taste and the way he fills my mouth, I'm struck by how much this moment means. It's not just about physical pleasure - it's about trust, connection, vulnerability.
Damian's fingers tangle in my hair, guiding me gently. "You're loving this, aren't you?"
I hum in response, the vibration making him shudder. I've never felt so powerful yet so cherished at the same time. With every lick and swirl of my tongue, I'm showing him how much he means to me, how much I want this - want us.
Just as I'm settling into a rhythm, Damian tugs me up gently. His eyes are dark with lust, but there's a tenderness there that makes my heart skip.
"Grab the bedpost, Princess," he growls softly.
The command sends a thrill through me. As I position myself, gripping the cool metal of the bedpost, I feel completely exposed yet utterly safe. Damian's hands ghost over my skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
"You're everything," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "So beautiful, so strong."
And he lets go of the vibrator.
His strong hands pin my wrists above my head, and with him, I'm not the girl who always has to have it together. I'm just... me. Raw. Wanting. Free.
"Tell me what you want, Princess," he demands, his voice rough with need.
"You," I pant, arching into him. "All of you. Make me yours."
He doesn't need to be told twice. As he positions himself, I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. When he finally pushes inside, it's like every nerve ending in my body lights up at once.
"You feel so good," I gasp, reveling in the fullness, the connection.
"So do you, Princess," he groans, starting to move. "So good."
As we find our rhythm together, I let myself get lost in the sensations, in the delicious feeling of giving and taking control in equal measure. What we had before was amazing, star-seeing amazing, but this moment? This moment is a constellation of dreams and hopes and the present? Who knew letting go could feel so amazing?
AFTER EXPLORING EACH other's bodies, rediscovering our matching Phoenix tattoos and everything else we didn't forget but were longing for, we're sprawled in bed, completely spent. Fluffy is scratching at the door like he's auditioning for the next horror flick. Damian stands up, treating me to a view that would make any romance cover model jealous.
"Looks like Fluffy's got you wrapped around his little paw already," I tease, admiring the view.
Damian chuckles. "What can I say? The way that cat makes you smile? I'd do anything to see more of that."
"Damian Mack, you smooth-talking, sexy beast. You're really a romance novel hero come to life."
"As long as I'm yours," he says with that half-smirk that makes my insides melt faster than a snowman in July.
When he jumps back on the bed, pulling me close, I can't help but grin. His fingers trail down my arm as I trace the stories etched on his skin in scars and ink. A question bubbles up, one I've been curious about for a while.
"So," I start, my voice soft. "Why haven't you played piano since I met you? I know you did at Plates & Drinks before I moved... "
He's quiet for a moment, his fingers still tracing patterns on my skin. "Playing used to bring up too many emotions. My parents played, too." He pauses, and I wait, knowing he'll continue when he's ready. "But lately, I've been drawn to it again. Been running my fingers over the keys for the past month or so. It needs some work though - recalibrating and all that."
I nod, understanding the weight behind his words. We've both got our demons, our pasts that we're working through. But maybe, just maybe, we can face them together.
"You know," I say, remembering my therapist's suggestion. "My therapist gave me this idea. It's like a writing exercise, but more personal."
Damian raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "I'm listening, Princess."
"She wants me to write three Dear Santa letters by hand. One to my past self, one to who I am now, and one to my future self. I was thinking... maybe we could both do it? No pressure to share, just... something for ourselves."
He considers this for a moment. "Can you write those? How has the writing been?"
"That I can write. Still having issues with the column."
"Is that why you're not entering the contest? You have plenty of material and they love you based on how many times they've been reposting your info."
"I could. But that decision isn't because of that. I... I just don't want to. It's not my dream anymore. I don't know if it really was."
He nods. "Alright, I'm game for those letters. But don't expect any fancy writing from me. It's been a while since I've written anything by hand that wasn't a grocery list."
I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in years. "Deal. And hey, maybe this will help kickstart my writing mojo again. I've been stuck lately, you know?"
As we settle in to write our letters, I can't help but feel like this is the start of something beautiful. Something real. And for once, I'm not scared of where this story might lead.