Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
I shrug. “Haven’t in a while, no. I didn’t know you remembered that.”
I feed her until the bowl is empty, and she leans back in the chair with a little sigh. Her hair’s a mess, soft and loose. She looks content. Real. Vulnerable.
“My hair’s a mess, and I feel a little gross,” she says, making a face.
“Gross?” I laugh. “What do you mean?”
“I rolled out of bed, ate breakfast, stayed in pajamas, and wrote all morning. Then we meet under one… two, let’s see—”
Her brow furrows as she counts, lips moving. “Four mistletoe spots. Then you fed me a bowl of pasta. Did you eat, Owen?”
“Aye, while you were working.”
She pauses. “I feel like I need to at least shave my legs if we’re gonna do… you know.” Her voice dips as she finishes. “Other things later. Un… blocking things.”
“Maybe you’d like a bath. They’ve got one of those old-fashioned clawfoot tubs in the bathroom.”
She smiles. “It looks cold in there.”
“It’s not. The heat’s on. Vent’s right by the tub. There’s even candles.” I smirk. “Hang on.”
I take the empty bowl to the kitchen, then head to the bathroom. I light a few of those green tapered pine candles, the kind that smell like Christmas and snow and something old. The tub is porcelain and deep, with an ivory base resting on golden lion feet. The water runs hot. Perfect.
Even the sink’s got old brass handles—one for hot, one for cold. And the window? High enough no one can see in, flooded with soft, bright winter light. It’s all perfect.
I glance up at the newest mistletoe I strung above the bathroom door and smirk. She’s mine at every turn.
I walk back to her. “I’m going to undress you.”
Her eyes drop, but she doesn’t argue. She trusts me. That’s all I need.
“Come here, Emma.”
The bath is steaming, pine-scented soap already swirling at the surface. It smells like something comforting, something intimate.
I bring her close to me slowly. I lift her thin sweater up and over her head, revealing the small frame beneath. She’s wearing yoga pants and a bra, simple and soft. Still, she shifts on her feet.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she whispers. “I look terrible.”
I smack her ass, quick and sharp. Not hard—just enough.
“Stop that. I don’t want to hear that again.”
“What?” she says, startled, her eyes wide and cheeks brightening.
“I’m just—” She looks down at herself.
“This is nothing,” I growl. “You heard me, Emma. Did you already forget what happened this morning?”
She bites her lip. “No, sir.”
That’s better.
I spin her gently and unclasp her bra. It falls away like silk, her small breasts exposed, soft and flushed. I take my time and cup them in my palms, savoring the weight of her. I bend, suck each nipple into my mouth, one at a time, while my hand teases the other.
“Oh god,” she moans. “That feels good.”
“Good.” I pull back just enough to speak. “I told you—I have all kinds of ways to unblock you. You ready to write that next scene?”
She nods. “I think I could write the whole damn book.”
I push down her leggings next, then her panties, dragging them down her thighs like I’ve got all day. Like there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
“Into the tub,” I say.
I help her step in, my hands steady on her hips. She lifts one foot hesitantly, then the other. I crouch, guiding her in.
“Relax. Let me do this.”
I pull over a rough-hewn stool and sit. From here, I can take my time with her. Worship her.
I love this.
I love Em.
I want to memorize every second I get with her.
I start with her feet—washing slowly, reverently. My fingers trail up her calves, her knees, and then her thighs, where I linger just long enough for her breath to catch.
She starts to speak. “Let me—”
“No,” I cut in, my voice like a command. “You don’t get to rush this. Let me take care of you.”
I reach for the cloth again, warm and waiting, and I slip it between her thighs.
She gasps. I lean in.
"You smell like Christmas now.”
Her breath breaks off into a sharp little gasp when I spread her thighs and press my thumb to her clit. Her breathing is ragged now, her body betraying her even as she tries to keep some distance. When she shivers, I know it's not from the cold. Not this time.
"Do you remember that holiday party?" I ask her.
"Oh my god," she says. "Owen."
I stroke her clit again. Then again. Deliberate. Unrelenting.
"After this bath," I tell her, "we're going to recreate that night."
She groans. "Owen, that was so embarrassing."
"Embarrassing?" I echo. "No. Heartbreaking."
She doesn't respond. I know she's remembering it too.
"It’s going to be better this time."
She was eighteen years old then. I still remember the way she looked on the porch—her arms crossed, eyes glassy, shut off from everyone.