Chapter 19 #2
I held on tight, not just with my body, but with something deeper, some quiet, desperate part of me that had never felt quite safe enough to hope until now.
His hands roamed over me, my hips, the dip of my waist, the soft underside of my thighs, as if he couldn’t commit enough of me to memory all at once.
My name left his lips again, almost a sob this time, as he began to move even faster.
The slap of skin, the slick slide of him inside me, each sound sent thrills through the haze of pleasure.
“Come for me,” he said. “I want to feel you squeeze me, want to see that look on your face when you fall apart.”
I answered him with my body, arching into his thrusts, gasping his name with every sharp push. The pressure was unbearable and exquisite. I spiraled into release as he gave me everything, and it crashed through me, pushing me higher and higher as I shuddered in his arms.
He followed me with a hoarse cry, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside me.
I could feel him losing himself in me the same way I was losing myself in him. This wasn’t just physical bliss. It was a connection on a level I’d never experienced. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered endearment felt like a piece of my soul clicking into place.
For a heartbeat, time suspended. He curled forward to press his forehead to mine, our breath shared in the sliver of space between us. The look in his eyes, dazed and open, wasn’t only lust. It was something quieter, heavier, and it made my throat tighten.
I wanted to tell him I saw it. That I felt it too. But instead, I cupped the back of his neck and pulled us closer, letting our bodies say what words might ruin.
We stayed like that for long moments, our lungs dragging in air, holding each other as the aftershocks subsided. I was grateful for the wall supporting my weight and his arms keeping me upright.
“I want to wake up like this,” he whispered. “With you wrapped around me. Every damn morning.”
“You’ve been holding out on me,” I quipped.
He laughed. “I promise not to do it again.”
“Good.”
He buried his face in my neck. “Yes, good.”
I wanted to tell him that nothing about this was simple anymore.
That the thought of leaving made me feel physically ill.
That somewhere between confronting him in the saloon on my first day in town and rebuilding Santa’s workshop, I’d fallen completely in love with him.
But the words got stuck in my throat. They were too big and too frightening to say.
We finally pulled apart, collecting our scattered clothes. I could feel him watching me as I dressed. The intimacy we’d shared made putting barriers back up feel wrong, but the alternative of having a conversation about feelings and futures felt even more scary.
“We should probably…” I gestured vaguely toward the door.
“People will be looking for us soon.”
When we were both presentable again, Becken reached for the door handle but paused. “Carla.”
“Yes?”
“Whatever happens next, I want you to know that this meant something to me. More than just…”
“I know.” I touched his arm gently. “It meant something to me too.”
He nodded, relief flickering across his features. “I’m glad.”
We left the function hall together, walking toward the hotel, passing tourists on the boardwalk who called out Merry Christmas. Tomorrow was Christmas eve, with all its complications and expectations.
But tonight, I reminded myself that the golden mark on my wrist meant forever instead. That the man walking beside me could be mine to keep.
That Christmas wishes really did come true.
I finally understood what I'd been running from all these years.
Not just commitment but belonging. The terrifying, wonderful possibility that someone might choose me not for what I could do, but for who I was.
I'd spent a decade building my reputation, my independence, my carefully constructed life where I needed no one.
Then no one could disappoint me. But watching this community embrace me, feeling Becken's hands worship my body like I was precious, I wondered if I'd built a career at the expense of a life.
If success without real connections was really success at all.
When we reached the hotel, we climbed the stairs, stopping outside my door.
“Sleep well,” he said, stroking my cheek.
“You too.” I went inside but poked my head out enough to watch him walk down the room to his own door, before closing the panel and securing the lock.
With only the glow of the bedside lamp and the sound of wind brushing snow against the windows, the silence settled around me. I had no regrets about what we’d done. I loved him, and this felt like the only way I could show him.
I walked to one of the windows and pulled the curtain back enough to peek out. My vision blurred. Was he thinking about me as much as I was thinking about him?
There was something frightening and exquisite about all this, how deeply he saw me, how tenderly he touched me, how silence with him didn’t feel awkward.
I stroked the mark on my wrist, and I swore it pulsed like a heartbeat. Maybe it was some kind of orc magic. Or maybe it was something older, something woven into me long before I met him, a part of me that had been waiting all this time for him.
All I could think of was the feel of his hands, the quiet steadiness of his voice when he said my name. The way he’d listened for every sound I made and treated it like something sacred. The trust in his eyes that told me he wasn’t just wanting. He was waiting, ready to catch whatever I offered.
In the past, I would’ve turned away from that kind of patience. Doubted it. Run from it. But I felt different now.
I slid into bed and lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, whispering to Becken’s fates, “Please let this last beyond Christmas.”