Chapter 5
FIVE
CELIA
The storm rages outside. But in Wells’s bedroom, the world has gone quiet.
He sits beside me on the edge of the bed, snow melting on his shoulders, jaw tight, eyes dark. For a moment neither of us speaks. His presence fills the room—big and warm, like the fire crackling behind him. I can’t look away.
He raises a hand, brushing a damp strand of hair off my cheek. His fingers linger just long enough to make my breath stutter.
“Are you warm enough?” he asks, voice low.
“Not yet.”
Maybe it’s the storm.
Maybe it’s the fear of what almost happened in that drift.
Maybe it’s the week we’ve spent circling each other like planets pulled by gravity.
But I reach for his hand.
He hesitates for a fraction of a second—one breath, one heartbeat—before he shifts closer on the bed. Only an inch, but it changes everything.
“Lie back,” he murmurs.
I do, sliding up against the pillows. He stretches out beside me, still fully clothed, but his body is heat and solidity and comfort. He tugs the heavy quilt over both of us.
The fire crackles.
Snow slams against the window.
But here—right here—it’s warm.
I turn to face him.
He mirrors me.
We lie like that, staring at each other, breaths mingling, chests rising and falling in sync.
“I could’ve lost you tonight,” he says quietly.
“You didn’t.”
His jaw flexes. “You scared me.”
I swallow. “You rescued me.”
He shakes his head, but there’s a softness there. A tenderness he tries to hide from the world.
To break the tension, I whisper, “This is officially the wildest Christmas season of my life.”
A huff of breath escapes him. “Same.”
We edge a little closer under the blanket without meaning to. Our knees touch. Then our forearms. Then our hands, inching toward each other until our fingers brush, tentative and electric.
“What was Christmas like for you growing up?” he asks quietly, like he’s trying to ground himself in safer territory.
I smile a little.
“Nebraska holidays? Cold. Flat. Plenty of casseroles. My mom used to make a cinnamon hot chocolate that we’d drink while driving around looking at lights.”
“That sounds nice,” he murmurs.
“It was.” I tilt my head. “What about you?”
He stares up at the ceiling for a beat, searching through memories.
“My dad cut down a tree every year. My mom baked enough cookies to feed the whole town. We’d give boxes to neighbors, friends, the mail carrier.”
I grin. “That explains Elsie’s sweet tooth.”
He chuckles softly. “Yeah. Guess it runs in the family.”
I study his face, letting the firelight map the lines of exhaustion, strength, and something deeper—loneliness, maybe. Or longing. Or both.
“What about your favorite Christmas?” I ask.
His eyes flick to mine. “This one.”
My breath catches.
He doesn’t look away. “I mean it.”
“Wells…”
“You’re here,” he murmurs. “And you make the house feel…” He stops, like finishing the sentence would expose something he’s not ready to admit.
“Like home?” I offer.
His chest rises with a slow, deep inhale. “Yeah.”
Something shifts inside me—soft and sharp all at once. Because I feel it too. With them. With him. This tiny cabin in the snow feels like the first place I’ve... belonged in a long time.
Our hands are still close under the quilt. I slide my fingers into his.
He squeezes. Gently. Tentatively.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the day you showed up at the school,” he admits quietly.
The confession sends heat through me. I inch closer, until my forehead rests against his.
“Then do it,” I whisper.
He shudders. Just once. Like he’s fighting himself. Like he’s losing.
His nose brushes mine. His lips hover near mine. One breath. Two.
“This is dangerous,” he murmurs. “For both of us.”
“I know.”
“If Elsie finds out…”
“We won’t let her.”
His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist. “Celia.”
I open my eyes. “We deserve something good. Even if it’s just until Christmas.”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
He whispers, “Yeah… we do.”
Slowly, he leans in.
Our lips meet.
This time the kiss isn’t tentative. It’s deep. Warm. Pulling everything out of me. Every inch of fear, loneliness, longing—gone. Just heat. Just him.
He rolls closer, hand sliding up the curve of my waist, drawing me against him carefully, like he’s scared I’ll break. My fingers bury in the soft hair at the back of his neck. His breath hitches.
The kiss intensifies. I pull him nearer. He groans softly into my mouth, low and warm, and the sound sends sparks straight down my spine.
When he tears his lips from mine, he rests his forehead against mine.
“Tell me to stop,” he says hoarsely.
“I won’t.”
“We shouldn’t.”
“We should,” I whisper. “Please. Don’t stop.”
He swallows hard. “I want you.”
I tremble. “Then take me.”
His hand tightens around my waist.
The fire pops. The storm rages.
And Wells kisses me again, and everything else disappears.
Everything except him. And the way his lips move against mine. Strong. Urgent. As if I’m the most delectable of Christmas treats.
And he’s finally giving in to the urge to indulge after fasting for the whole year.
“You’re so sweet,” he whispers gruffly as his lips trail across my cheeks and down the curve of my neck. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”
My eyelids flutter as one hard hand grips my hip and the other cups a breast. “Try.”
With a chuckle I feel in the pit of my belly and between my thighs, he does.
Nipping and nibbling, he removes my clothes slowly. Piece by piece. Caressing each exposed bit of skin with his hands and then his lips. Leaving a trail of goosebumps and building desire deep within my core in his wake.
I wonder if this is how he unwraps his present. One piece of tape—one tug of a ribbon—at a time. Savoring each and every second.
That’s not my style.
When it’s my turn, I attack him the same way I do a gift. I rip each piece off. Toss it aside carelessly.
Eager to feast my eyes on what I find.
When my hands reach the waist of his jeans, he grips them. “Hold on there.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because.” His lips curve up into a heart-melting grin that we turn me into a puddle if I wasn’t already one. “I haven’t finished with you yet.”
Then, as if to prove his point, he trails hot, wet kisses down my body. His mouth lingers at my chest. His tongue swirls around a nipple. Making it pucker. Making me bite my lip so I won’t cry out and wake up the little girl sleeping down the hall.
“You’re responsive.” He flicks his tongue over me. “I like that.”
Then, he sucks the nipple deep into his mouth at the same moment his free hand finds my clit. I’d buck right up off the bed if his body didn’t have me pinned down to the bed.
“Oh, God,” I whisper, gripping onto his shoulders so tightly, I must be leaving dents in the firm skin.
“Do you like that?” he asks, adjusting his body to lavish attention on my other breast.
“I… I love it,” I breathe out as every thought besides the pleasure he’s wreaking on my body leaves my head.
With expert attention and an eagerness to please, he brings me to the cusp of ecstasy. I’m so close. So close to falling completely apart.
“Stop,” I murmur, before saying more clearly, “Please, stop.”
“Is everything okay?” He freezes, gaping up at me in disbelief. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No—no.” I shake my head emphatically and tug at him, bringing his mouth back up to mine. “I want…”
“What do you want, baby?”
My belly quivers at the word, and I nearly expire. “I want to feel you inside of me.”
Clenching his eyes shut, he rests his forehead against mine for a moment. He breathes out deeply.
“I want that too.” Leaning toward the nightstand, he retrieves a condom.
I eagerly take it from him, using it as a chance to explore more of him. I wrap my hand around his shaft, giving it a pump and earning a growl of appreciation.
Once the condom is on, he rests his thick cock at my entrance. The full head presses intimately against me, and my body thrums in anticipation.
“Are you ready?” he asks, leaning up on his elbows to gaze down at me as if I’m the most beautiful person in the world.
“More than ready.”
I raise my hips, meeting him as he thrusts into me.
“Fuck,” I hiss as my pussy stretches to accommodate his size. “You feel amazing.”
“You feel better.”
Then he withdraws and slides into me again and again. Our hips move in a fluid movement, like a dance both of our bodies already know all the steps to.
Our mouths meet again, catching either other’s gasps and groans.
And when that pang of pleasure reaches the precipice once again, I go over the edge. Taking him with me.
I wake to a big, solid warmth pressed against my back. A slow, steady breath brushing my shoulder. A heavy arm draped around my waist, fingers tangled in the fabric of his flannel shirt—his shirt—that I must have pulled on sometime in the night.
I smile into the pillow, eyes still closed.
Wells stayed.
A thrill runs through me, soft and sweet.
When I shift, he stirs, tightening his arm around me. His voice is a low rumble against my ear.
“Morning.”
I turn my head slightly, smiling. “Morning.”
He presses a barely-there kiss to my shoulder, the kind that says he’s still half asleep and half worshiping.
For a moment, we lie there in the quiet, wrapped in each other and the afterglow and the warmth of something that feels like more than we should want.
But then reality creeps in.
Elsie. My job at the school. The boundaries we’ve crossed.
The ones we’ll have to pretend don’t exist if there’s any hope of doing this again. And, God, I really want to do this again.
I roll onto my back so I can see him. His eyes are soft, troubled, hopeful, afraid all at once.
“We should talk,” he says.
“I know.”
He props himself up on an elbow. “We can’t let Elsie know.”
“Of course not.” I reach for his hand, tracing the rough calluses with my fingertips. “We’ll keep this between us. Just for now.”
He watches me. “Celia…”
“We deserve this,” I say softly. “We deserve to feel something good. Even if it’s only until Christmas.”
His expression shifts — relief and hunger and heartbreak flickering together.
“Then we’re agreed?” he asks.
I nod. “We’re agreed.”
He leans down and kisses me again — slow and tender this time — and I know I’m already in too deep.
But so is he.
And neither of us tries to escape.