Page 176 of End Game

This year, not only can I be home on Christmas, but at least some of the house planned around my schedule.

That feels bigger than maybe it should.

Inside, the house is nearly silent. The Christmas tree throws soft color across the living room, and five stockings hang from the mantel.

I stop when I see them. Four of them have been there before—now there are five.

I stare long enough that I finally have to remind myself I’m still wearing a uniform that has spent the bulk of twenty-four hours in an ambulance.

Shower first. Emotional crisis later.

I head down the hall, expecting everyone to still be asleep.

My bedroom door is cracked open. I don’t usually leave it cracked open.

The second I push it wider, I forget what I was planning to do.

Fucking hell.

Cami is asleep in my bed.

She’s curled onto her side, partly covered, dark hair spread across my pillow and one hand tucked under it. The comforter is positioned so I can see red lace.

A lot of red lace.

My bag hits the floor with a thump.

She doesn’t wake up.

I close the door and lock it, because I’m not a fucking idiot—I know what she’s doing—then I walk closer.

The lingerie is aggressively Christmas without crossing into costume territory. Deep red lace, narrow white trim, sheer stockings clipped to a garter belt disappearing beneath the blanket.

She deliberately came into my room, dressed herself like a very adult Christmas present, climbed into my bed to wait for me, and apparently fell asleep.

My chest tightens at exactly the same time my dick does.

Of course she managed to make this filthy and sweet.

I sit on the edge of the bed and brush the backs of my fingers over her cheek.

“Baby.”

Her nose scrunches.

“Cami.”

Her eyes slowly open, unfocused at first. Then she sees me, and her entire face changes.

“Merry Christmas,” she murmurs, her voice rough with sleep.

That does absolutely nothing to help me. “Merry Christmas.”

Her gaze follows mine when it drops toward the lace.

“Oh,” she says innocently.

“Yeah, oh.”