There’s no sign of the biker who rocked my world last night.And I notice there’s no note from Humbug.No goodbye.Maybe that’s mercy.Maybe he couldn’t look at me, either.He didn’t even give me his number.No matter.I wouldn’t have taken it.
The front door sticks, like it’s frozen, then gives with a groan.Outside, the snow is knee-deep and glittering, the kind of beauty that hides what it’s burying.
I step into my boots.The walk home takes forever.I keep seeing the biker’s eyes in the dark, hearing his voice when he groaned my name like it was the first good word he’d ever learned.By the time I reach my building, my legs are numb, my conscience louder than the crunch under my feet.
Seeing Blake’s car parked outside, free of snow, I let myself in quietly.He’s at the counter in a suit, coffee mug in one hand.The apartment smells like his coffee, bitter, brewed way too strong for my taste.
“Carol,” he says, relief breaking his face into something almost kind.“You’re safe.Thank God.”
“Yeah.”I hang my coat on the peg, fingers shaking.“You heard?”
“Whole town’s talking.Robbery at Sno-Globes.Some biker stepped in.”
My pulse skips.“Yeah.It was bad.”
“You should’ve called me.”
“I didn’t want you driving in that storm.”
“I didn’t.I just got here.”He crosses the room and pulls me into a hug that feels like an obligation.“I was worried sick.”
I let him hold me, stiff and awkward.His arms are clean, his shirt smells like laundry detergent and starch.
“I’m sorry about the other night,” he murmurs into my hair.“I shouldn’t have said those things.I just… Christmas gets to me.The pressure, you know?”
“Yeah,” I whisper.“I know.”
He leans back to look at me, eyes all soft.“Where the hell have you been all night?You stink.Have you been smoking?”
If only smoke was all I had on me.
I weigh telling him the truth.That I was in a biker’s bed, doing much worse.Nah.“Police station,” I lie.
Crinkling his nose, he buys it.“We’ll start fresh.Tonight, dinner at my parents.You love their ham.”
“I do.”I don’t.Maybe I am a liar.Since I’m a cheater, I add it to the list.
“Merry Christmas, Carol baby.”He kisses my forehead, same spot as always.I close my eyes, but the wrong mouth flashes behind them, rougher, hungrier, real as I think of Humbug.
Blake lets go, and I slip away to the shower.The water’s hot, punishing.I scrub my skin until it stings, but nothing washes off.Not the scent, not the memory of that big biker between my thighs.
Every time I blink, I’m back in that dark room.The scrape of Humbug’s beard against my neck.The growl the biker made when I whispered his name.The way his breath hitched as he touched me, like he’d just been handed something holy and didn’t know how to hold it.
Guilt is supposed to feel heavy.This seems electric.Still wrong.Remorse that sparkles.
I brace my hands against the tile and let the water beat against the back of my head until my legs shake.I want to cry, but tears would mean admitting it meant something, and I don’t know what’s worse, that it did, or that I want it to.
And I long to do it again so bad, I detach the handheld shower head and direct the spray at my clit.
Damn, just the memory of that biker’s cock is enough.Panting, I lean against the slick wall of the shower and thumb the spray to jet.I use the water pressure’s friction until I moan out, “Humbug.”
Once I recover, I scrub even harder.
The water is off now, and the world seems almost blinding.Wrapping myself in a towel, I gaze at my reflection.My lips are puffy after all the kissing from last night.The tears I won't cry make my eyes red, and I hope concealer hides the love mark on my collarbone.
I touch it, just once.Ouch.A memory.
A warning.
