Cowboy SEAL Christmas

by Nicole Helm

  If she thought a blow job was going to magically fix all the cracks inside of him, grow his heart three sizes, make him run through the town yelling shit about Christmas, let her think it. Let her be disappointed.

  Then, every intelligible thought in his head died because she touched her tongue to the base of him and licked all the way up. The sound that escaped him wasn’t human as she took the length of him into her mouth on something like a sigh.

  Maybe there was a heaven, and maybe it felt like hell and salvation combined. The slick slide of her tongue against him, the silky strands of her hair fluttering over his legs. It was all he wanted. The heat of her mouth, the smooth glide of her between his legs.

  His blood pumped harder, his breath coming in spurts, and if he let her do this, finish this, she would have that power. She’d have done something all for him, and in this moment, the moment where they’d talked about things he hadn’t wanted to talk about…

  He couldn’t let her have it. He pulled her off him and up against him roughly and it was worse, having her here, looking at him with those big, blue eyes still swirling with emotions he wanted nothing to do with.

  “Take off your pants,” he ordered.

  * * *

  Monica considered the order. Part of her wanted to fight it. He did not get to tell her what to do, and she’d never let him. She immediately bristled at the thought of letting anyone tell her what to do.

  But he’d softened her completely and she couldn’t manage the bristle, the worry over her own pride or whatever. All she wanted to do was give him what he wanted. Offer him some solace even if it was sex solace and he wanted to distance himself from it. From them.

  In this moment, she wanted to give him whatever he wanted. Well, and some care, which he clearly did not want. But he needed it. God, she knew he needed it. He wouldn’t be so scared of it if he didn’t desperately want it.

  Taking her time, she pushed down the sweatpants she’d changed into after they’d last done this. She didn’t feel self-conscious now, even in the daylight or what there was left of it. She wasn’t worried about herself, how she might look pudgy or unsophisticated or whatever. She only wanted to give him something. Anything he wanted. No. Not just what he wanted—what he needed.

  He reached for the box of condoms, but she beat him to it, grabbing a packet and tearing it open carefully. Then she kneeled in front of him again, where he still sat on the couch, taut and beautiful. She rolled the condom on, watching his face harden as she made slow, slow work of it.

  His hand curled around her upper arm, and she thought he was going to jerk her up again, but he didn’t. His grip was firm, but he didn’t move her, and when she moved her knees from the floor to the couch on either side of his body, he simply held on.

  With her free hand, she cupped his face again, watching his eyes as she lowered herself onto him. She sighed at the now-familiar sensation of Gabe filling her, and she had the uncomfortable realization she would want this and him long, long after this was over.

  Maybe in the future, she’d be able to convince herself the only thing she’d miss was having an adult around and sex, and any guy could fulfill that role, but here and now, she knew it was him—him alone that could make her feel this way. Jagged edges and all.

  His dark eyes were their usual storm, his mouth its usual grim, blank expression. So she pressed a kiss to his lips, soft and gentle as she lowered herself on him completely. She stayed there, still, her mouth gentle against his, and thought about words. How could there ever be words to express what this gave her?

  She kissed his cheek, the hard line of his jaw, and then his earlobe. “I love this,” she whispered, knowing it would hurt him. But sometimes words had to hurt before they could heal.

  He stiffened, his hand dropping from her arm, but then both his hands clamped over her hips. Rough and hard as he pushed himself up into her.

  She didn’t relent though, no matter what sizzling pleasure zapped through her at that movement. She slid her hand behind his neck, pressing soft kisses over his face even as he tried to make it fast. Rough. It was like a fight. A battle. He wanted fast and over, she wanted slow and relishing, but they both wanted the end result. Desperately.

  “Fuck me,” he growled.

  She pulled back, looked him right in the eyes as she lowered herself slow, raised herself slower. She might have relented to his pace if he’d asked, if he’d said anything, but this order wasn’t one she was going to follow. Not here. Not now. “No.”

  He held her gaze, pushing into her again, his gaze all fury… Except, no. Underneath that glittering anger was something else. Something she recognized because she saw it so often in her work.

  Panic. Bone-deep fear. She might not understand why he felt that, but she could see it.

  “Fuck. Me,” he ordered.

  “No,” she returned just as forcefully, refusing to let him change the pace. She moved against him slowly, gently, no matter how hard he held her or how much he ordered.

  He let out a breath, rough and ragged. His grip didn’t loosen, but some of that panic, that desperation, faded into weary acceptance.

  She hated to see him weary, but she’d use that acceptance for everything it was worth. She kissed him, all lips and tongue and a sweetness she could tell he didn’t know what to do with. He didn’t need to know. He only needed to accept it from her.

  She whispered his name into his ear, smoothed her fingers over his hair, over his neck and shoulders, and she moved at this deliciously painful, leisurely pace. Till she was so lost in finding the edge and flinging herself over it she forgot about giving or receiving or anything other than the way his body fit to hers, the way she felt whole and perfect here in his arms. A swelling joy that twined itself in with physical sensation of bursting, pulsing pleasure.

  She held on to him through the wave, murmuring his name, kissing his skin, scarred and unscarred inches alike. And still she moved against him, waiting for him to find that same moment, that same joy.

  “Gabe. Gabe, please.”

  He shuddered through his release, his arms smoothing from her hips up her back until he was holding her. He leaned his cheek against her chest, and she held him back, resting her cheek on the top of his head.

  Something too big and wonderful moved through her—a realization, painful and perfect at the same time. She practically laughed because she’d somehow tumbled all the way in love with him, and neither of them were ready for that, even a little bit.

  Chapter 19

  Gabe didn’t know how to describe the past hour or so. They’d extricated themselves from each other, gotten dressed in silence, and then started talking about the loss of electricity.

  As if nothing before had actually happened or mattered. He tried to believe that, but Monica was quiet and withdrawn as they lit candles and collected blankets and figured out what to eat for dinner that wouldn’t require electricity.

  They spoke, he supposed, but not really. You could speak to someone without ever communicating a thing, and that was definitely what they were doing.

  Which suited him just fine. Down to the bone, in fact. Rather cut his tongue out than do more damn talking.

  He slapped together a sandwich, though he didn’t feel hungry in the slightest. But all he’d eaten all day were cookies, and he was certain that’s why he felt hollow and unsteady. A man needed a damn protein in his life.

  “Did Revival lose power?” Monica asked, he supposed in an effort to make stilted conversation that wouldn’t begin to change the fact things had shifted. Somehow. Someway. And they were stuck in this godforsaken Christmastime hellhole of a cabin.

  “Don’t know.”

  “You haven’t talked to anyone?”

  “Texted about being stuck. Just asked if everything was okay up there.”

  “And?”

  He maybe knew what
she was getting at. He definitely ignored what she was getting at. “They said it was okay.”

  “What did you tell them?” she asked, eyes glued to her sandwich making.

  “About what?”

  “About where you were…” She trailed off, blinking down at the bread. “About where you are. Surely they’re worried.”

  “Does it matter?”

  She frowned at him, making eye contact for the first time since everything had grown decidedly weird. It was almost comical to think he’d once thought her cool and blank. Oh, she could pull that off, but there was always this…glimpse of her true emotions if he only looked. It all swirled there in her eyes. Pain, hurt, confusion.

  He refused to give in to that. He was his own man, and her emotions were her own business. Seeing hurt there didn’t cut him to ribbons—he simply wouldn’t let it. So he held her gaze, then gave her a very deliberate smile.

  He’d have been lying if he’d said he didn’t enjoy the way her face changed over to anger. He didn’t love that it was him angering her, but he loved that she had sharp, tough, near-violent pieces hidden under all that calm strength.

  Just like him.

  He bit into his sandwich, but it tasted like ash.

  “Actually, it does matter,” she said, some strange tone to her voice. “If you’ve told them you’re here, you know what they’ll think.”

  He shrugged, chewing and swallowing, no matter how tasteless the food was. “Maybe I lied.”

  “Maybe you did,” she returned, all calm and cool, but something simmered underneath. Part of him wanted to make it boil. Oddly, it wasn’t the same part of him that wanted to get the hell out of here. They were like two confusing sides to the same ugly coin.

  “But we should have our stories straight, shouldn’t we?”

  There was something too sweet in her voice, too innocent. It made it a lot easier to pretend than it would have otherwise. “Guess we should.” He smiled at her again.

  She fisted her hands on her hips, failing so hard at keeping all her usual calm that his smile turned a little more genuine.

  “What did you tell them?”

  Weird to be ashamed that he’d done both. Told a truth and a lie. Weird to be ashamed at all. What did any of this matter? Not a thing. There was no future here, and that meant any razzing they suffered at the hands of their friends would be short-lived.

  “Told them I was here.”

  Her hands dropped to her sides, her mouth hanging open for a second.

  “I said I’d picked up a package in town for you for one of Colin’s gifts, came over to drop it off, waited for the snow to clear up, but it just kept getting worse and worse until I was stuck.”

  She worked her jaw back and forth, and she managed that mask of distance for about a second before the swirling emotions were back. “You said all that in a text?” she asked, her voice rough.

  He wouldn’t let that sway his tactic. “More or less.” Decidedly less.

  “Do you think they’ll believe it?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “What does matter, Gabe? Anything?”

  He raised an eyebrow at her, standing there while her breath heaved in her chest, anger swirling around her. He didn’t understand it fully, but some sick, twisted part of himself that would never deserve her wanted to push her further. See her explode spectacularly.

  “Maybe it doesn’t.”

  “Oh, what utter bullshit.” She spun around, stalking into the living room. He thought for a fleeting second she was going to go down the hall and hide herself away in one of the two private rooms.

  Instead, she whirled around again, pointing a demanding finger at him.

  “I’m going to tell Becca, and Rose, for that matter. They’re my friends. The only friends I have here. Actually, aside from my mother, they’re my only friends period. I’m going to tell them. I have to tell them the truth, everything that happened, or I’ll go a little nuts. So…”

  “So?”

  “So? So I’m going to tell them!”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t you have something to say?”

  He bit into his sandwich, spoke around it. “No.”

  “But—”

  “You were the one who didn’t want to tell anyone,” he said, not wanting her anger anymore, because it was spurring his on. If he let his boil over…well, things could go wrong. All wrong.

  Like earlier. Too much feeling. Too much want, and not the sexual kind.

  “You agreed!”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t care.”

  She hefted out a breath, some mix of exasperation and some emotion he didn’t understand. Would prefer not to.

  “I care,” she said, her voice grave, still standing all the way across the room.

  “I know, hence the whole ‘let’s not tell anyone’ thing you suggested.”

  “No,” she said firmly, crossing her arms over her chest, holding his gaze. “I mean I care. About you. About this.” She waved her hands up in the air. “I have an obnoxiously big and uncomfortable amount of care.”

  The panic was back. From this morning when she’d been sleepy and beautiful and he’d had this idiotic flash of desiring all the things he didn’t want, perfectly imagined in front of him. As if he wanted them so desperately he could conjure them out of thin air.

  “No,” he said, putting the sandwich down carefully.

  “No?”

  He lifted his gaze to hers because he needed to make his point. Once and for all, so she couldn’t keep needling him, getting under his skin, changing who he was. “No.”

  “Gabe, that wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact.”

  “I reject it.”

  “You can’t…” She threw her arms up in the air. “I could punch you.”

  He spread his arms wide. “Go ahead.”

  “I wish I could be like you,” she said on one of those whispers that ripped out his soul and stomped on it a few times. “So damn untouchable, aren’t you?”

  “That’s me.”

  She laughed. Bitterly. “Do you think I’m that dumb, or are you just that good of a liar? Or do you just lie to yourself? You don’t seem like the type to believe your own lies, but I’ve been wrong about you before. I could be again.”

  He didn’t say anything, though he had to clamp his jaw shut to make sure he didn’t. She wanted to think him untouchable, well, he’d prove it. All night long, just like this if he had to.

  He’d survived far worse hells than Monica looking like she was about to cry, saying shit about him that was probably true.

  She stepped toward him though, one foot, then the other, and he didn’t feel as good about his chances. He might have survived a grenade, a crash, war, but Monica Finley with that soft look in her eye, desperate and a little lost, was somehow worse.

  “How do you do it? Lock it all away? I wish I could do that.”

  “Ignore it and it’ll go away,” he managed to croak. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with bullies?”

  “Bullies, maybe. Emotional issues, not so much.”

  “We don’t have to figure it out. Sometimes in life, you don’t figure things out. You just go on and nothing is figured out. That’s life.”

  She paled and flinched as if he’d reached out and backhanded her.

  She shook her head. “You have to figure things out to move forward.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  * * *

  Monica could only stare at him. She wasn’t even sure what the hell they were talking about anymore, but…

  She had to figure it out. She had a ten-year-old who depended on her, patients who needed her. She had to figure everything out, make sense of it, analyze it, and then decide on the best course of action.

  Except when it
came to caring about Gabe, loving him. God, she was an idiot for loving him, but she did. There was no best course of action here. A relationship with him undermined her role as therapist at Revival. It just did.

  Added to the fact he didn’t want her. Not her or her care, and she wasn’t stupid enough to throw herself at a brick wall.

  He wasn’t her father. There was no PTSD to cure, so she’d have the person she’d once known back. There were only all these impossible roadblocks.

  She jumped when her phone rang. With shaking hands, she pulled it from her pocket. Mom.

  She felt so perilously close to tears, but she had to answer. She had to hear how Colin was doing and talk to him herself and…

  She swiped to answer the call and swallowed, realizing she had to keep the tears out of her voice. If she wasn’t careful, her mother would sense it. She’d demand to know what was wrong. What could Monica possibly tell her? I don’t know.

  Not figuring something out sounded like her absolute worst nightmare and yet…here she was, not figuring it out. She had no answers, and the thing she wanted most in this world right now, to cry to her mother and ask for advice, just wasn’t possible.

  “Hi, Mom. How’s it going?”

  “Good. How are you?”

  “Well, we’ve had a bit of a blizzard. Power’s out. I’m good on provisions and lots of firewood to keep me warm, but my phone is getting low, and I don’t know when… Just in case I don’t answer tomorrow, don’t get worried.”

  “A blizzard? And you’re alone stuck in that cabin? With only firewood?”

  She glanced at Gabe, standing there staring at her with that inscrutable gaze. No, she wasn’t alone, but a part of her wished she was. Alone was better than not knowing what to do. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

  “Well, you save that battery for emergencies. We can talk more later.”

  “Let me talk to Colin first.”

  “Save your batt—”

  “Mom. Please.” She needed to hear Colin’s voice. She needed something to remind her she was not the utter failure and fool she felt like right now. She needed someone who loved her. Someone she loved, and it wasn’t complicated at all. He was hers and always would be.