by Jo Raven
Today’s supposed to be a happy day, a fun day. This is my first time without any family—or friends. The loneliest Christmas in history. How depressing.
And Ash hasn’t come.
He said he wouldn’t, but I held out hope he’d change his mind. Not that I can blame him for not coming. I didn’t even find the courage to apologize to him, and after what he’s been through, I can understand the anger.
I know anger. After the accident, fury had boiled in my veins. I’d wanted to scream and kick and break everything down. The unfairness of it all had been too much to bear. Why me? Why my dad? Why?
Maybe I can understand Ash better than anyone. So ironic.
But he kissed me. The memory lingers, making me feel hot and restless. The way his hard body pressed against me, the power of his arms, his tongue thrusting into my mouth... God. I want to touch him, skin to skin, explore his body. I want to see how hard he is for me, to touch his arousal, feel it, stroke it.
Okay, something’s definitely wrong with me. I’ve never felt this way about any other boy. Besides, Ash obviously doesn’t want to see me again, and here I am, fantasizing about his hot body.
Get real, Audrey.
Getting through this holiday alone is going to be a bummer, but I’ll make it just one more challenge. I can do this. I’ve been through so much worse that I know I can do almost anything.
On most days, that is. On others, especially after waking up from a nightmare, the world crashes around me, sending me to my knees.
Not today, though. I’ve cooked a simple pasta with sauce from a jar and watched TV. Played my music real loud and danced around the apartment to the sounds of German groups, the strong percussion of In Extremo and the mellower melodies of Faun and Helium Vola.
Now I’m resting, watching the snow. And for later on, a special dessert waits in the fridge—my favorite cherry pie and whipped cream. I have even bought white wine and chilled it, though I’m not sure I’m going to have any. I don’t like drinking alone.
Come on, Christmas. Give it your all. I’ll be fine.
Tessa and Dakota, Dylan and Rafe will be back in a couple of days. Meanwhile, the shops will open again and I plan on going shopping, and then to the movies.
I’ve learned a few things about solitude, living with Mom these past few years. I’m fine on my own.
Still... It isn’t just any day. It’s Christmas, a time spent with family and people you love.
Get over it.
I move away from the window and the gloomy thoughts. A mindless show is playing on TV and I turn it off. Reading might be a good idea. A romance. Snug and warm in my bed, losing myself in worlds where love is easy and you know the ending will be a happy one.
I change into my teddy bear jammies with my bunny slippers. I take my hair down from its tight ponytail and head to my room, when the doorbell rings.
I freeze. It can’t be...
I shuffle to the door, peek through the peephole. My breath stops.
Ash is standing outside, in jeans and a black jacket. He has his hands in his pockets, his dark hair falling in his eyes.
Oh my god.
I open the door before he vanishes in smoke. I can’t believe he’s really here. As cold blasts in my face, I reach out and grab his arm.
Solid. Hard.
Ash’s brows lift.
Oh right. I look from my hand on his arm to my bunny slippers. Crap.
“Come on in,” I say, my voice a little high-pitched. I tug on his arm and he steps inside. “Sit. I’ll be right back.”
I race into my bedroom and close my door, not even waiting to see him settle down. I lean back, closing my eyes.
Ash is in my apartment.
Shit. What are the odds of Ash turning up after all and seeing me in my oh-so-sexy teddy bear jammies and fluffy bunny slippers?
Gritting my teeth, I pull off the offending garments and quickly draw on my high-waist, black stretch pants and a white, low-cut blouse that flows below my hips. I then put on my boots and run a brush through my hair.
Checking my face in the mirror, I cringe at my blotchy skin. I’m dying to apply some make-up, but I fear that if I leave Ash alone any longer he might just get up and walk back out. It wouldn’t be the first time. Boy’s skittish and I’m partly to blame for that.
So I draw a deep, fortifying breath and step out of my bedroom.
And panic, because the sofa and armchair are empty. I turn in a circle, about to start cursing, when I spot Ash standing in the corner, studying my bookcase.
He’s still here.
And now he’s looking at me expectantly, a dark brow arched, and I have no clue what to say. I guess I never believed he’d come over. Not after the way he refused my invitation so vehemently.
God, I have to say something. I can’t always freeze in his presence. “Merry Christmas,” I manage.
One corner of his mouth tips up. “You, too.”
His voice is low and rough. Sexy bedroom voice. He’s shed his jacket and his shirt stretches over his muscled chest like second skin, outlining every dip and ridge.
God, what’s wrong with me? “I didn’t think you were coming.”
He shrugs, a slight roll of broad shoulders. He looks uncomfortable. “Yeah. I didn’t think so, either.”
The bruises on his jaw and under his eye are slowly fading to green and yellow. He still looks beaten up and hurting. I want to put my arms around him and tell him he’ll be alright.
Okay, not only my body is out of control, my brain is, too. “Have you eaten?”
He shakes his head, a light flush coloring his cheekbones. He looks back at the shelves, runs his hand over the spines of the books—a mixture of classics and romance, with the odd fantasy novel thrown in. I expect him to make a sarcastic comment, but he says nothing.
I shiver and don’t know why. I have goose bumps all over my skin. “I made pasta. I’ll warm it up for you.”
“It’s okay, I’m fine.”
Jesus. I’m home alone with Ash. A tiny voice in the back of my mind squeals.
“Just take a seat. I made it for you, as well,” I lie. Thank god I made enough.
I hurry into the kitchenette, all jittery. Putting the pasta and the sauce to warm up in the microwave, I glance back.
He’s sitting at the dining table, hands clasped on the table top, shoulders tense. He looks beautiful—and lonely.
It hits me then: I’m not the only one spending Christmas Day alone. I knew this—that he fled his home because of the violence. Is he going back? Will it be safe for him?
Protectiveness washes through me. A funny notion, since he’s over six feet tall and his muscles bulge through his long-sleeved shirt. But his dad is much bigger, I know, and an experienced fighter.
He glances up when I bring the dishes and set them on the table. His hands are splayed on the table. There it is—the scar across his knuckles, a reminder of the night he saved me.
I tear my gaze from it, confused by all the feelings inside me. Just be friends, Tessa had said. How difficult can it be?
“What about you?” he says when I serve him my pitiful culinary experiment.
“I ate already. Got hungry early.” Lunchtime was hours ago but the way he tenses again tells me he’s probably thinking of leaving right now, and I’m not having it. Not before I get a chance to finally talk to him. “Go on, it will get cold. I’ve saved dessert to have with you.”
He settles a little, his shoulders slumping, and digs into the pasta. What convinced him to come? I watch him eat until I realize he’s stopped, his brows dipping over his eyes, and I go to get dessert ready.
By the time I return with the pie and plates, he’s polished his food.
Well, either my cooking isn’t so bad or he was starving. “Zane left no food?”
Ash grimaces. “He did. I need to find a way to pay him back and...” He trails off, his gaze guarded. He obviously feels bad about being a guest at Zane’s.
“He�
��s your friend. I’m sure he doesn’t mind.”
“He shouldn’t have to put up with me all the time.”
“It’s just a few days.”
He shakes his head. Something’s on his mind but he says nothing more as I lay out the plates and spoons, and take my time unwrapping the pie.
“I hope you like cherry pie,” I say.
He nods and receives his slice. “Thanks.”
“It’s not much as Christmas meals go,” I mutter, serving myself a dollop of cream. I push the bowl toward him.
“It’s great,” he says and there’s an odd note in his voice. He sound sincere, which is weird—pasta with canned sauce, and deep frozen cherry pie?—but there’s also something like longing that makes my chest hurt.
This boy confuses me so much.
***
We eat our pie in a silence so thick you can cut it with a knife. After the first mouthfuls, I can’t take it anymore, so I get up and put Dead Can Dance on my old beaten-up stereo.
Ash is frowning when I return to the table but presses his mouth shut. I focus on my pie. At some point I look up to find his gaze fixed on my mouth.
My neck warms, the heat rising to my cheeks. I wipe my chin. “Do I have cherry jam all over my face?”
“No, you...” He swallows hard, licks his lips. He puts down his spoon. “It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
He puffs out a breath and his eyes turn hard. He pushes his dish to the side. “Why did you invite me?”
I clench my jaw. “Just wanted to see you. We’re friends.”
“Used to be.”
Ouch. “I thought we could be again.”
He blinks at me, then looks away, his thick dark lashes sweeping low. God, he’s gorgeous. Now that I’ve decided I don’t hate him, I can’t stop ogling him. How mortifying.
Then he stands up, muscles rippling under his shirt. “I should go. This was a bad idea.”
Oh god, no. “Please stay.” I get up, shoving my chair back. The legs screech on the wooden floor. “Come on, Ash. It’s Christmas. Can’t we make up?”
He’s breathing hard. He rakes a hand through his dark hair. Boy is built like a god, narrow hips and strong legs, and those shoulders...
“Make up.” He’s eyeing me carefully and his hands are curling into fists. “How do you propose to do that?”
“Just give me a chance to explain. To apologize. I’m sorry I wasn’t nice to you.”
“You weren’t nice? What are you talking about?”
Okay, what? “I thought I hated you because of what your dad did. But I don’t. I swear.”
He takes a step back as if I’ve just slapped him. “You should.”
“What, hate you?” I really can’t follow anymore. “It wasn’t your fault, Ash. I know that, always have. It’s just that...” Getting the words out is hard. “I spent so long trying to get over you that I thought I did.”
“Get over me. What do you mean?”
Is he being dense on purpose? “You know, in high school. After you kissed me and then decided I wasn’t worth it and started ignoring me.”
“I never thought you weren’t worth it.”
He sounds bewildered and it makes me angry. I’ve torn my chest open and here I am, pouring my heart out. The least he can do is not mock me.
“You kissed me, and the next day you stopped talking to me. You kissed other girls. I saw you. You ignored me. We’d been friends and then everything changed.”
He sighs and it seems to come from deep inside of him. “Damn right everything changed. Because after kissing you I was sure you were the only one I’d ever want, and I couldn’t have you.”
Okay, my mind short-circuits again—for a different reason this time. “You’re not making any sense. You stopped talking to me because you decided you wanted me?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
“Explain this to me because I can’t figure it out.” I’m desperately trying to keep the tears back. The wound is old but it feels like it’s bleeding again. “You were my best friend, and you kissed me, and then you vanished from my life.”
So much for forgiving him and getting over him, huh.
He turns around, his back stiff. “I wasn’t good for you. I’m still not.”
“Bullshit.”
He stiffens more, his hands balling at his sides. “It’s the truth.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” My voice trembles. “Look at me, Ash. Talk to me.”
“You know I got into fights. I beat other kids up.”
“That wasn’t like you.”
“And what am I like?” Harsh. Angry.
“You’re a good person.” I hesitate. “Something happened back then, didn’t it? Tessa said your mom passed away. I didn’t know.”
His breath hitches. “Yeah. But it happened long before that, even before Tyler left. When Mom first got sick, Dad... he started drinking and lashing out right and left. Whoever was in his way...tough luck. But I did the same, Auds. Exactly the same. I started swinging and took down whoever got in the way.” He shakes his head, his voice dropping low. “I’m not what you need. Never was.”
I step between him and the door—close, so close if I reach out I can touch him. “And how would you know what I need?”
“Dammit.” He grabs my arms. His eyes blaze. “I’ve done my best to keep away from you, and now...” He presses me against the door. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“But I want you here,” I whisper, too aware of his strong body pressed against mine, his musky scent. “Always have. Even when I thought you didn’t want me.”
“Why are you saying these things to me now?” His face dips toward mine, his eyes half-closing. “All this time I thought you loathed me.”
“I don’t. I...” His hands land on either side of my head, trapping me against his hard chest. His mouth looks luscious and I can’t think of anything I want more than to kiss him. “Ash...”
And then he’s kissing me, his mouth hard and hot against mine, stealing my breath. His tongue swipes over the seam of my lips, opening them, thrusting into my mouth.
My knees turn to water. I sag and he wraps a corded arm around me, holding me up, pulling me to him.
Still kissing me, his taste exploding inside me, making me ache to my core. I lift my arms around his neck, wanting more. Wanting him more. Closer. Wanting to feel his bare, warm skin against mine.
I bury my fingers in the soft hair at his nape while his slip under the hem of my blouse, inching up. I shiver when he finds the clasp of my bra and tugs.
“Want me to stop?” he whispers.
“No. Don’t stop.”
“Auds...” His voice is ragged, his breathing harsh. My nickname on his lips is sweet and hot, merging the past and the present.
But he’s a grown man now. His hardness presses into my stomach, a rod of steel. He’s aroused as much as I am, and I like that. I grind myself against him and he moans, a deep, throaty sound.
Suddenly both his hands are under my blouse, unclasping my bra and pulling everything off. I hold up my arms to help, needing to feel the touch of his skin on me. My blouse and bra land on the floor with a whisper.
God, his eyes smolder. His lips part and he draws a long breath. “You’re so beautiful.” His hands brush the sides of my breasts, sending bolts of heat down my spine. “I’ve dreamed of seeing you, touching you like this for so long.”
“Yeah?” I shiver.
His hands move under my breasts, cupping them, and I throb everywhere. “Since I kissed you in high school.”
A long time.
He slides his hands down my sides, under my legs, and lifts me. Gasping, I cling to him. He sure likes carrying me around. He groans, his hardness trapped between us, throbbing and hot like fire. Then he hefts me higher, nuzzling my neck, and strides to the sofa where he proceeds to lay me down on my back.
He climbs over me, this time trapping me with his legs.
Even in
the warm air of the room, my skin pebbles and my nipples harden more. I want him to take off his shirt, his pants, I want to see his body, see if it looks as it feels, so firm and perfect.
Bending over, he props his elbow by my head and kisses a trail from my shoulder to my neck, and I turn my head to the side to give him better access. He nips at my earlobe, making me shudder and shift. I slide my hands down his ribs, down to his hips, trying to slip them under his shirt. It’s so tight I can’t.
Then his mouth closes over the tip of my breast and I forget what I’m trying to do. He sucks and licks until my back arches off the cushions and my breath comes out in a hiss. Electric shocks zip down my spine. Liquid heat surges low in my body, and a throb starts between my legs.
I need him. When he moves to my other breast, I let my legs fall open and scrape my hands down his lower back, dragging him closer.
He hasn’t been the only one to dream of this moment. I pushed it down but deep in me I’ve wanted him for all those years.
He sits back with a lazy grin. His eyes glint like silver. But then he slips his fingers into the high waistband of my stretch pants, tugging, and I start.
I grab his hands. “No.”
He stills, the grin slipping from his face. “Auds?”
“Please, don’t...” I hold his hands, fighting panic. “Don’t.”
He nods. “Okay. No problem. Did I hurt you?”
“No, it’s not that.” I lick my dry lips, suddenly aware I’m lying half-naked on my sofa, my breasts exposed and tingling, Ash sitting between my legs. “I can’t.”
I let go of his hands and they land on his thighs. He’s still breathing hard, and his erection is trapped in his jeans, curving sideways.
“I knew this was a mistake,” he says and starts to lift himself off the sofa. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Ash.” He’s about to leave—again—and I’m letting the past and my fears govern me when all I want is him. I fight for a deep breath. “It’s the scars.”
That’s the reason I never wear low-slung jeans like other girls. I always make sure the hated scar on my lower belly remains hidden.
He closes his eyes, those dark lashes sweeping his cheekbones. “Scars aren’t ugly, Auds.”
