Chapter Thirteen
Juliet
There are heavy footfalls on the stairs that creek under Marcel’s weight. Gran doesn’t come up the stairs much anymore and I’m expecting Marcel, because why would he suffer to be in Gran’s home without trying to seduce me? There’s a gentle knock at my door.
“Come in.”
As much as I don’t want to admit it, I want Marcel to spend the night with me. I know that makes me almost as horrible as he is.
The door cracks open and golden lamplight spills across the worn carpet.
I’m standing at the window, watching the storm.
I find it fascinating how dangerous life can become in an instant.
Trees are blowing with the heavy snowfall and some are nearly parallel to the ground.
Snow starts to cover windows and doors on the first floor trapping the residents in their homes.
Luckily most of the buildings and houses on this block are multi-story.
Marcel steps into the room. “I keep telling myself I should walk away from you,” he says in a soft voice.
“That I’m going to leave you bleeding. I’m not a Grinch, Juliet, I’m a serial killer when it comes to romance.
You’re the Who from Whoville who just won’t leave the serial killing, Christmas stealing, heartless Grinch be.
And I’m tired of denying the fact that I want you. ”
“You mean you want me or you’re just horny and you’re bored because It’s A Wonderful Life just turned into a snowmageddon?” I eye him, wanting an honest answer.
The storm howls outside, but in my room, it’s too warm. He stalks toward me and a sudden rush of fear shivers every nerve.
“I hate that I want you, that I need you, that I am consumed with your scent, the feel of your body, the way you taste.” His voice dipped low at the mention of this.
“Do you like my mind? My ideals? My beliefs? Because if those things aren’t on the list then you don’t even like me.” I’ve had men covet my body and beauty all of my life, that’s the reason why I’ve never dated anyone.
“Worst of all, I adore who you are and I say the worst because loving that part of you makes me hate myself a little. I’m your polar opposite and that fact stabs like a knife.
Yes, I’m the Grinch to your Santa Claus .
.. Santa Claudia, I guess and I hate that I can’t be a better man for you. ” Wow, that’s a lot.
“Why not?”
“Because my heart is three sizes too small, but not my dick.” He winks at me.
I can’t help but laugh. “Okay, that was funny.” I sigh. “And you aren’t open to changing?”
“Are you?” It's a fair question.
“In what way? Do you want me to bulldoze historical buildings so little old ladies are out on the streets?” I sit on the bed and curl my legs under me waiting for an answer.
“I want you to see that when a decrepit building violates health codes it’s not a safe space for anyone.” He counters, debating me.
“And is it more expensive to preserve the architecture of an era, or rip it all down and replace it with a modern building built to save money, time, and energy? Instead of preserving history with a building that was painstakingly created with artistry, you want to homogenize culture and flatline creativity.”
“We are not going to agree on this tonight,” he says. “So the question is, can you kiss a man you don’t agree with?”
“Are you going to just use your money to win at any cost? Because no, I won’t kiss a man who does that.”
“No. I am going to listen to reason, but I’m telling you, it had better be reasonable.”
He looks massive in my small childhood bedroom. Like a giant, or an ogre. I should be terrified, but I’m not. I feel like, despite his size, his money, and his prestige, he’s just a broken guy who is chasing after a dream life he never had.
“And if reason says save the library?” I’m testing him.
“Then I’ll listen to reason.” It isn’t a total win, but I’ll take it.
“Will you ever be impressed by my money?”
I think about my answer for a minute. Would I be impressed that he is a billionaire who sleeps in suites on airplanes?
“I wish I was, I guess. I mean you are able to obtain a lot of cool things, but they are just things. I enjoy the stuff money can’t buy like relationships and memories.
I guess it can be said that money can pay for experiences that are memorable, but poor people can have those too.
Money makes things easier, but people are more important.
To me, anyway. I mean no disrespect.” I could see the hurt in his eyes as I weighed the value of money against the importance of relationships.
“If I promise not to give you any money, will you kiss me?” He takes a step closer.
“If you promise to let me show you what is truly valuable, yes, you may.” Because if I have one shot at this, I’m taking it.
He meets me in the middle of my childhood bedroom, pulls me into an embrace and kisses my lips. One slow soft kiss turns into another and another until his mouth opens and I willingly allow myself to get lost.
Marcel Dubois is charming, he’s mature, he’s a billionaire. He’s snowed in my Gran’s house and now he’s getting naked in my bedroom and suddenly my life seems both off kilter and magnificent.
We don’t talk after our kiss, instead he pulls off my sweater and he takes off his, then my skirt and his pants, my bra and underwear and his boxer briefs.
Wordlessly, he undresses and when he’s done he pulls me against his naked body and just holds me.
We find warmth and comfort in the middle of a storm that feels like it’s isolated us so that we are the only two beings left in the world, even though Gran is downstairs.
“I promised your grandma that I wouldn’t hurt you, Juliet.
And I plan on keeping that promise. So, I’m going to make love to you tonight, but this still isn’t forever.
Our wager is on the table. We are going head to head about the library and, on a larger scale, the community project.
You promised to show me what you love about it.
That is all I’m committing to. Are you good with that? ”
Well, he’s frank, I can give him that.
He likes clean lines and clear boundaries with his shady deals.
“I am not really that interested in meaningless sex, Marcel, but I am already invested. When you finally walk away from me it will hurt, whether you leave now or a week from now, the pain is already there. So I might as well enjoy the week before it ends.”
And that is the philosophy I’m sticking to.
He’s not going to even consider anything other than a tryst so I’ll just mourn when it’s over tomorrow or a hundred tomorrows from now.
That last day, and the last goodbye is going to suck.
“Very pragmatic.” He lifts me into his arms and takes me to bed.
Within moments we are under the patchwork quilt my Gran made for me when I was in the seventh grade with Marcel’s cock nudging my upper thigh, already dewy with his arousal.
The wind howls outside, rattling the attic window, but up here the world feels small and safe.
He kisses my shoulder and neck and I laugh.
He gives me an odd grin. “What’s funny?” He settles in closer and his stiff cock is now laying across my belly.
I gesture around at the slanted ceiling, the little shelf lined with old paperbacks, the tiny window that still frames the stars.
“This was my whole universe when I was a kid. I always dreamed of having a boy in my bed. I’d think of him climbing up to the attic to rescue me from—well, I didn’t have anything to be rescued from really, but I always wanted him to sweep me off my feet.”
That was my childhood fantasy, but honestly, having Marcel’s tall muscular body next to mine in my tiny bed is sort of a dream come true.
There’s something vulnerable in his eyes that I don’t expect. “And he never came.” Marcel sounds sad.
“I mean, he’s here, and he is sweeping me off of my feet at the moment. But he’s not going to take me anywhere and he will be gone soon. But like I said, I don’t need saving.” I sigh, because maybe I do. I look at Marcel and I think for a moment he’s having the same thoughts.
Marcel cups my face, his thumb tracing the edge of my cheek. The storm roars outside, but all I hear is his voice, low and rough. “Juliet ...” Then he kisses me with a hunger that steals my breath.
The quilt is soft between us and the creak of the old mattress mingles with the storm outside as Marcel positions himself over me. There isn’t much space in my bed. If he lays beside me, his butt is probably hanging off the mattress.
“Maybe we should do this in your bed?” The guest bed is full-sized at least.
“I like it here,” he says as his fingers dance around my nipple. “The bed is small, but I can imagine you sleeping here with all your romantic notions and childhood dreams, but more importantly, it forces us to be—close.
His touch is sure but gentle, and his gaze searches my eyes for permission.
He moves with an intensity that leaves me trembling, but every motion feels like a question, an offering.
He listens to my breath, my small sounds, adjusting as if my comfort is his only goal as he starts to trace his hand over my body.
He dips his head to my breast and sucks on a nipple, not hard, like he had on the plane, but with a soft, warm tug. He does the same on the other side and I feel myself grow slick.
He checks between my legs and smiles. “You like me being here too,” he says, feeling my arousal as my heartbeat quickens and I struggle to breathe.
“I guess I do,” I breathlessly confess.
The world outside disappears. There is only the warmth of his body against mine, the familiar scent of cedar and snow lingering on his skin, and the quiet reverence in the way he whispers my name.
“Juliet.”
It sounds like a prayer.
“You are a beautiful person inside and out. Show me your world, here in your room and outside, where life is harder. I want to see Christmas and the community through your eyes.”
As the wind lashes against the house, pelting more snow, I bury my face against his neck and he holds me as though he can shield me from the storm, from the world, from everything.
“Perhaps it is a brighter place than the world I see through my own.”
I look at him and know he means it. “Does this mean I get a few more days with you?”
“A few.” He gives me a flirty smile and tickles between my legs.
“Oh, I have condoms,” I say diving to the bedside table. After seeing Marcel at work, I picked a package up on my way home, slightly hopeful.
“Do we need them?” He gives me a curious glance as he takes the little foil package.
“Just in case. Who knows how many Whos the Grinch has gotten into,” I tease.
“You’re the only Who I plan on opening this Christmas, but we can never be too safe.” He puts the condom on and returns to his place between my legs.
We lie tangled beneath Gran’s quilt, my head resting over his heartbeat. His fingers draw lazy circles on my tit, and for a fleeting moment, I let myself believe this could be us, one day for real. That maybe even a man who swears he’ll never trust again can find his heart.