Gabe drags me down the hall, his feet pounding on the floor. I hurry after him, my arm stretched, as he storms toward the bedroom.
Back in the kitchen I can hear my mom and grandma arguing about which cookie to bake first—chocolate crinkles or pecan snowballs. Then Grandma says, “I bet that hot actor likes chocolate crinkles. They all like chocolate.”
Then Gabe swings open the bedroom door, drags me inside and kicks it shut.
The bedroom was big enough before. Bed. Dresser. Nightstands. Lots of plaid and woodland décor.
Now there isn’t room. There’s just Gabe.
He fills the space. Taking all the air from the room.
I back against the closed door and then realize my mistake when he cages me in, putting his arms on either side of me. My arm hangs next to his, my back presses against the hard, cool wood of the door. The room is dim, a small spray of light from the north-facing window spills across the carpet but falls short of us.
I lift my chin, try to ignore my pulse storming around my throat, and smile at him.
When he sees my smile his eyes widen, his jaw clenches and he leans even closer, his thighs brushing over mine. His heat licks at me, singes me.
“We need to talk,” he says through gritted teeth.
Apparently he wants to have a serious discussion, but I’m having a hard time concentrating on it because my body has decided that being pressed between a door and Gabe’s hard body is a really nice place to be.
I stare at his lips only a few inches from mine. They’re turned down in a hard frown, but I know for a fact that when he kisses they become soft and warm.
“Let’s kiss,” I say, moistening my lips.
His eyes turn dark, his pupils dilate, but then he shakes his head and says, “I am not an actor. You cannot tell your family—"
“I already did tell my family—”
“—that I am an actor. I won’t continue this farce.”
“Then don’t. Just kiss me. That’s real.”
He leans closer, the heat pouring off of him, his thighs pressing into me.
“I want you to tell your family the truth.”
“No.”
His jaw hardens, and a current passes between us, a struggle between go or stay, kiss or don’t. I have the strongest urge to lean forward and bite the juncture where his neck and shoulder meet. I imagine it’s salty and sweet and warm.
“You want to spend three days with your family, pretending, playing Christmas?”
“No. I want to spend three more days with you,” I say, admitting that it isn’t so much about Christmas anymore, that it’s about him.
A tortured look passes over his face as he stares down at my lips. His hand, the one cuffed to mine, tangles with my fingers. He clasps our hands together.
“Why?” he asks, voice rough. “Why do you want three more days?”
I look him in the eyes and say, “Because when you kiss me, it feels like Christmas morning.”
I barely finish speaking when Gabe’s mouth crashes down on mine.
His free hand grabs my hip, his fingers dig into me, and he drags me against him. The thick ridge of him presses into me and I let out a moan. He captures the sound with his mouth.
I bite at his lips, taste his need, drag my hand over his shoulders as he pulls from the door and backs me to the bed.
My knees hit the mattress and I fall onto the bed, Gabe landing over me, his mouth still on mine, his hand holding my hip in place, pressing me down.
I swipe my tongue over his lips and he bites at me, then presses kisses into my mouth, across my jaw, down my neck, to nibble at my pulse. I arch up into him, press against the heat of him.
He sends his hand across my ribs, runs his hands over my breasts. I gasp and he catches the sound with his mouth, pressing his lips to mine. I don’t need breath anymore, kissing him is breathing.
The bed creaks under us as he settles more firmly on top of me, lodging himself against me. Everywhere we touch lights like stars winking to life in the night sky.
His fingers brush over my breasts, and when he flicks his thumb over me, a piercing light tumbles through me. I arch into him, plead with him, using kisses and sounds to tell him what I need.
He lifts my sweater, the cool air of the room making goosebumps rise on my skin. His mouth moves over my stomach, up my ribs, I dig my hand into his hair—it’s soft and thick—and hold on. He unstraps my bra, one-handed, fast. His mouth captures my breast, and I whimper when his teeth graze me.
I wrap my legs around him, press into him, and find that sensation I’ve been searching for. The one that feels like a blazing star. A beacon.
I rock into him, and he hums against my breast, sending a vibration down between my legs. He tugs on me, and I arch up, swallow his plea. Then we move, mindless, needing, rocking. There’s an ache growing in me, moving in time to the rhythm of his hips and the questing of his lips.
Then he’s back at my mouth, his lips wet and hot, and his hand reaches down between us, and just that…just that is enough to have my back bowing, and me crying out into his mouth, as that ache explodes.
When I come down, when I fall back to the soft mattress, feel his body pressed into mine, the hard ridge of him still pressed into me, I turn toward the soft snowflake-light kisses he’s spreading over my lips, my jaw, my neck.
Finally he makes his way back up, his mouth on mine, our breath mingling. He looks into my eyes. My cheeks go hot, because he just made me light up with his mouth and the flick of a finger, but also because he’s still ready, pressed against me. And I want more. So much more.
“That was nothing like Christmas morning,” he says, a low growl in his voice.
“It wasn’t?” I look up at him, enjoying the weight of him over me.
He shakes his head. “No. Not at all.”
I smile then and say, “I’m glad you liked it.”
He smiles back, and I think he’s about to start kissing me again, but then there’s a knock on the door and Felix shouting, “Natalie? Mom told me to find you. She’s baking cookies and we’re playing Christmas charades.”
“Alright,” I shout. Then I look back to Gabe. “Are you ready for this?”
He shakes his head. “I’d rather spend the next three days hiding in here.”
He looks so endearing, his hair mussed from my fingers, his cheeks pink and his mouth still glistening from my kisses.
“With me?” I ask.
He fights a smile. “That would be acceptable.”
There’s another knock. “Natalie?” It’s Grandma Agnes. “Gabe? The game is starting, quit hanky pankying and come out here.”
His cheeks flush red.
“Coming, Grandma!”
“We could go back to the city,” he offers. “I can throw you in a trunk. Tie you to my bed. Doesn’t that sound like a nice Christmas?”
There’s a low, excited ache in me. But I purse my lips and shove at him. “Maybe next year. Come on. Christmas charades.”
As we stand and compose ourselves there’s a fiery gleam in Gabe’s eyes that makes me wonder how we’re going to survive the next three days.