Jess’s parents meet us at the train station and drive us back to their perfect suburban home. I’ve met them before, of course, but this is our first time spending the holidays together, and it becomes abundantly clear from the moment we pull into the driveway just where shegets her love of Christmas from. Lights cover every inch of the exterior, and I’m blasted in the face with the smell of pine and cinnamon the second the door in the garage opens into the house.
Our upbringings were basically opposite ends of the spectrum, which has been a bit of an adjustment, but the Carringtons welcomed me into their lives with open arms, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the positive parental attention. I think they were almost as excited when I signed with my agent as they were when Jess signed with hers, coming into the city to take us both out for celebratory dinners. It helps that the Carringtons are extremely laid-back, there when we want them and need them to be, but fully happy to let us live our own lives.
When Jess announces over dinner that we’re going to be moving in together, her mom squeals with delight, wrapping both of us in neck-crushing hugs. Her dad pulls me aside after the meal and I wait for a warning lecture that never comes. Instead, he tells me he’s happy I’ll be there to take care of her, that knowing she has me will make him sleep easier at night.
These feelings, so easily expressed and freely given, are foreign to me, but the more I get used to them, the harder it will be to give them up.
I force myself to halt that line of thinking. Jess and I have been going strong for a while now; there’s no reason to think our relationship is going to end. If we could manage to get our books sold, our lives would be just about perfect.
But for the first time in months, I’m not thinking about selling my book. I push all publishing thoughts tothe back of my mind as we enjoy dessert and open presents—my stack almost as big as the one for Jess and just as thoughtful—as we all sit around the tree, enjoying the warmth of the fire and a good glass of wine, playing the competitive card game we gifted her parents. The conversation flows easily, as does the laughter, and I think that maybe, if I’d grown up in a home like this, I might love the holidays too. In my house, the holidays were more about outward appearances than enjoying one another’s company.
Not that my upbringing was bad, by any means. My parents provided for me and my two brothers. We never went without anything we needed, and we got most of what we wanted. I just never fit in. I was a leftist in a family of conservatives, my beliefs ostracizing me from them on more than one occasion. My brothers spent their early lives devoted to sports and working for my dad’s construction company, while I spent my free time reading and writing romance novels. To their credit, they never made fun of me, or tried to change me. They just didn’t understand me, could never understand why I would want to go away to college when I already had a job waiting for me.
The more space I’ve had from them, the easier it’s been to accept our relationship for what it is. We don’t get to choose our family, and maybe I was just born into the wrong one. I hold no grudges; I pick up the phone whenever they call. Should any of them need me, I would be there in a heartbeat. Someday, I would like to make them proud, prove to them that moving to New York andpursuing writing was the right call, but for now, we aren’t friends. And that’s okay.
That doesn’t mean the hints of envy don’t creep in every once in a while, when I watch Jess with her parents. They all genuinely enjoy each other’s company, and sometimes I wonder what that might be like. But mostly, I just feel lucky that I get to be a part of this family, for however long they’ll have me.
After Jess’s parents have headed up to bed, Jess cuddles up next to me on the couch. I finish my glass of wine, my hand finding hers. I absently play with her fingers, and it isn’t until she chuckles that I look down and see that I’ve created a sort of ring around the ring finger of her left hand.
“Not yet,” she tells me with a smile.
“But someday.”
“Someday,” she concedes.
“I love you, Jessica Carrington. You are going to do great things in this world, and I’m just lucky to be along for the ride.”
She tilts her head up and places a soft kiss on my waiting lips. “I love you too, Nick Matthews. And we’re going to do great things together. Side by side.”
I deepen the kiss, unable to hold myself back.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she whispers, a waggle in her eyebrows.
The door to her childhood bedroom closes behind us and Jess reaches behind me to turn the lock, not that her parents are the type to disturb us. Her room no longer reflects teenage Jess, the purple walls have been painted a soft gray, the boy band posters replaced with framedfamily photos. But there are still remnants of her here: the stuffed panda that sits at the head of the bed, the first short story she published in her high school’s literary magazine displayed on the wall.
“I know you have some sort of moral issue with fucking me in my childhood bedroom, but I really need you to get me off, Nick.” She mutters the words against my lips, already reaching for the hem of my sweater and tugging it over my head. She removes her own sweater next, showing off her perfect tits framed by that damn red lace.
“You know I’m powerless to refuse you.” I guide us over to the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling her onto my lap.
“I know.” She grins wickedly, and my dick throbs in my jeans.
She rolls her hips slowly over my hardness as I lick along the edges of the lace of her bra, flashbacks from the year before dancing in my head and driving me too close to release—but I’ve just gotten started. Her head falls back as I cup her breasts, rubbing my thumbs along her nipples and biting gently at the spot where her neck meets her shoulder.
“I can’t wait,” she says, jumping up from my lap to shove her jeans and underwear to the floor. She moves to unclasp her bra.
“Leave it,” I growl, unzipping my own jeans.
She climbs back into my lap, taking my cock in her hand and guiding me into her slick heat. I work her nipples through the lace of her bra while she rides me. My thumb finds her clit, stroking her the way I know she likes it.
She moans, and I move my mouth to hers, swallowing her cries as she tightens around me, her release rolling through her, her head falling back like she can barely hold herself up. I flip her to her back, and she hooks her knee over my hip as I stroke into her. Louder, more desperate sounds escape her, and I cover her mouth with my hand.
“Okay?” I ask. I’ve never restrained her in any way before and I need to check in.
Her eyes widen and she nods.
“Pinch my forearm if you want me to stop.”
She nods again, but I can tell from the way her eyes darken that she’s enjoying this, enjoying me taking control in this situation. Something about the trust she puts in me, the way she gives herself over completely, unlocks something deep inside my chest. She looks so fucking gorgeous beneath me that it doesn’t take long before the familiar heat starts low in my belly. I pump into her, delighting in the muffled cries she releases against my hand.
