But I wasn’t ready for forever. Was I?
So instead, I reached over and brushed the paperclip crown still perched in his hair. “You did well, Captain Candy Cane.”
He laughed again—and this time, it was pure joy.
And I thought, maybe for the first time in years, that joy might actually be enough to build something real.
Chapter fifteen
Clayton
It wasn’t just that I had a Santa appearance today. I also had an email from the realtor with an offer from a development company for the bungalow. It wasn’t huge, and it wouldn’t buy me my own place, but it would pay for first and last on an apartment and a little security. I just didn’t know what to do. I knew it was the best I was going to get, and it would let me climb out of the financial hole I was in, but it meant selling my home—Mom’s home—and I didn’t know what to do. It was the Little night tonight at the club, and the biggest unsurmountable problem to me—which was ridiculous—was that I had nothing to wear. I knew they would all be in Christmas Little clothes, and all I had was business casual, jeans, and sweatpants.
I walked in the door still half in the Santa suit, my head aching from the inside out. The hallway was dark except for the glow from the kitchen, and the second I stepped onto the tile, Felix’s arms were around me.
He didn’t say anything. He just held me, hard and tight, until the last of the nerves burned out of my chest and I could breatheagain. My hands were shaking, but I didn’t care. I let myself lean into him, face pressed to the scratch of his collar.
He smelled like soap and cinnamon. He always smelled like that. Safe.
He didn’t even make me try. He just started unbuttoning the Santa jacket, slow and careful, never tugging, never rushing. When he peeled it off my shoulders, I flinched, but not from pain. Just relief.
“You’re home,” he murmured, voice barely there.
I nodded. I couldn’t trust myself to talk. Not yet.
The kitchen was a mess of new Christmas lights he’d been unraveling. I brightened. “More lights?” The old ones had finally given up.
“I need to know where you want them.” Anxiety rumbled through me. It was his apartment, he should decide. He must have seen something in my face because he squeezed my shoulder, firm and steady, and dropped a kiss on my hair. “No thinking,” he said. “You’re done for the day.”
He steered me straight to the bathroom. The light was soft, almost golden, and the tub was already filling. I blinked at it, not sure what to do.
Felix crouched, fiddling with the taps, testing the water with his wrist like he was checking a baby’s bath. He’d dumped half a bottle of something into the tub. The bubbles foamed thick and high, clouds of white. The smell was vanilla and spice, not floral, not sharp. Just warm.
He looked up at me, eyes steady. “Clothes off,” he said, gentle but not giving me any room to argue, and basically stripped me.
He didn’t say a word about the fading marks on my thigh where Jason had grabbed me. He just pressed his palm there, not hard, and waited until the shaking stopped.
When I was bare, he guided me to the edge of the tub. “In,” he said, and I stepped in, not even thinking about it. The waterwas perfect. Hot, but not enough to sting. The bubbles came up to my waist, but to my surprise, he stripped just as quickly then got in, positioning himself behind me. My body reacted immediately. We hadn’t scened or had any sex in a few days. I’d decided he was over me. But as I saw his erection, maybe not. He slid in behind me, big and solid. The water sloshed up my chest, bubbles everywhere, and I went boneless the second his arms wrapped around me. He didn’t say anything at first. He just held me, both hands flat on my belly, and pulled me in slow, like he was giving me time to get used to it.
There was nothing sexy about me, not in this state, but his cock was hard against my lower back, and I could’ve died from how much I wanted him to want me. I didn’t even know if I was supposed to say something, but the second my breathing hitched, Felix kissed the nape of my neck, right where the hair started.
“You did well today,” he murmured. His voice sounded enormous in the tiny room. “You made it through. You came home.”
I almost choked. The ache in my chest was back, but different this time, sweet and sharp and full of relief. I didn’t trust myself to speak. I just nodded.
He reached for the sponge, slow and gentle, and started on my shoulders. I’d never had anyone wash me before, not like this. He didn’t rush, didn’t make it weird. He worked carefully, kneading the knots loose, letting the heat do half the work. When he got to my chest, he hesitated, then wrapped his hand around my wrist and brought it up to rest on his thigh.
“Let me take care of you,” he said, low.
I nodded again, and he went back to work. The sponge was soft, but his hands were rough, callused in a way that made my skin tingle. He washed every inch of me, even the places that feltembarrassing. When he got to my thighs, he was extra careful, fingertips gentle where the skin was still bruised from last week.
He squeezed my hip, grounding me. “Still sore?”
“No, sir. Not much.”
He hummed, approving. “Good boy.”
God, that did something to me. I went limp, head tipped back so I could feel his heartbeat against my spine. It was steady, unshakeable. I soaked in it, letting the bubbles hide my face until I could breathe again.
