Page 29

I pour three fingers of whiskey into a glass and carry it to the living room. The room looks perfect. The multicolored lights blink against the dark green branches of the tree, and the fire I built an hour ago is burning low. The living room looks like something out of a Christmas catalogue. If only I could say the same for the people in it.

I set my whiskey on the coffee table and pick up the remote, locating It’s a Wonderful Life in the Apple TV library.

Sophie comes in with a hot chocolate a couple of minutes later, dressed in a loose t-shirt and the skimpy sleep shorts that show too much thigh. I take a long swallow of whiskey and feel it burn all the way down. We settle in on the couch—me at the end, and her right beside me, which I don’t comment on—and I start the movie.

I get up to refill my drink while a young George Bailey is rescuing his brother from the frozen pond. I bring the bottle with me and place it on the side table. The whiskey is working, softening the edges of everything, which is exactly what I need. Sophie puts her empty mug on the coffee table and sighs, leaning against me and resting her head on my shoulder.

I take another drink.

We don’t talk. Normally Sophie chatters away during this movie. But tonight, the living room is quiet except for the movie and the crackle of the fire.

I finish another whiskey while George argues with his father about the building and loan, then another when George is telling Mary he doesn’t want to get married, doesn’t want to run the building and loan, doesn’t want any of it, and Mary asks him what he actually wants.

Sophie laughs. “God, he’s such an idiot,” she says, and I chuckle and lift my arm around her, tilting to kiss the top of her head. God, she’s cute. So fucking cute, and soft⁠—

I turn my head back to the screen and reach for my glass, taking another sip.

By the time Clarence shows up, Sophie’s head is getting very heavy on my shoulder. Her breathing slows and deepens, settling into the steady rhythm of sleep. I don’t move or wake her. I watch George Bailey run through a snowstorm, desperate to get back to the life he thought he hated and try to ignore the low throbbing swell of my cock in my pants.

After a while, Sophie burrows in deeper against me, lifting her hand to my chest. My hand rests on her hip, has been there for I don’t know how long, and my thumb brushes the curve of it where her shirt has ridden up. A bare strip of skin, smooth as silk.

Her hand lifts off my chest, and, with a murmuring sigh, she reaches for my hand on her hip and lifts it, settling my palm over her breast.

My cock jerks violently.

I can feel everything through her thin shirt—the soft firmness, the shape of her nipple hardening against my hand.

I stop breathing.

My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m certain she can feel it. Every muscle in my body goes rigid. I should move my hand. I should ease it away from her breast, set it somewhere safe, somewhere that doesn’t feel like the edge of a cliff. I should wake her up. I should do anything except sit here with my hand on her breast while she sleeps against me, trusting and oblivious.

But I don’t move.

Her breathing deepens. I stare at the movie for a while even though I can no longer hear it. All I can hear is Sophie’s breath, slow and steady, and the pounding of my own blood in my ears.

I hold completely still, my hand immobile, even as my cock thickens with need, until the throb of it is almost painful.

Her breast is small—firm but soft. I ache to feel it under her shirt. To see it. To lick it.

My cock twitches. God, it aches so much it’s painful.

Sophie is asleep. Really asleep. The kind of deep, heavy sleep that doesn’t break easily. I can feel it in the complete relaxation of her body against mine, the way she’s molded herself to me without reservation.

My balls tighten, pressure building deep inside of me, and I think, If I’m careful, she won’t even know.

Terrible.

But all sense has gone out the window. I take a last gulp of my whiskey, downing the contents of my glass, and gently, ever so gently, slide my hand down to my pants, reaching under the waistband and wrapping my hand around my shaft.

Quietly. So quietly.

The first stroke nearly undoes me. Fuck, I need this so bad.

I’m intensely aware of the rise and fall of Sophie’s breathing, each inhale pressing her breast more firmly against my hand, the nipple still hard against my palm through the cotton. God, I want to squeeze that breast, to pull her shirt off, put my hand down her shorts the same way I’ve got my hand down my pants and feel the slick warmth of her pussy.

And I know—God, I know—that she’s thought about this, too. She’s touched herself thinking about me. She came hard thinking about me. The words from her notebook are burned into my brain: I came haaard thinking about him.

My hand moves faster. I hold my breath to try to keep it quiet. Quiet. But oh God, I need this. My thumb brushes over the head of my cock, spreading the wetness there, and the sensation shoots through me like a live wire. I’m so close already. It’s been building since last night, since this morning, since the moment she walked into my bedroom and slid under the covers beside me.