by Noelle Adams
Santa Claus. Helen had actually convinced him to dress up like Santa and give out books to a bunch of children he didn’t know. She’d said it would be good for him, which hadn’t been an argument that held much weight with Cyrus. Then she’d said it would make her really happy, which was a much stronger argument as far as he was concerned. Then she’d looked sad when he’d continued to tell her no, so he’d reluctantly agreed.
Her smile had been so bright and glowing at his acquiescence that the physical and emotional discomfort was almost worth it.
Almost.
He took off his Santa hat, glasses, wig, and beard. Then he wiped some of the perspiration from his face, exhaling in relief.
Helen had started a foundation with her inheritance from Mac, which she’d come into possession of earlier that year when she turned twenty-one. One of the programs the foundation had sponsored this year was an early literacy program for low-income families in D.C. aimed at providing books and encouraging families to read with their children.
For some reason, Helen had taken on herself the responsibility for finding the sucker who would dress up like Santa to give the books to children at the Christmas program.
Which meant, of course, that Cyrus was the sucker.
But it was over now, at least. And Helen had been bubbling over with excitement, joy, and amusement for the last two hours. So there was that too.
Cyrus was about to shed his big red jacket when the door of the little room flew open without benefit of a knock.
“Hey,” he objected, “A little privacy, please. I was changing clothes.”
“Sorry,” Helen said, still grinning with a lovely, luminous glow. “I’ll close the door then.”
She did close the door, but she didn’t leave the room first. Instead, she flung herself at him with an exuberant hug. “You were wonderful,” she said, her voice muffled by the fuzzy red fabric at his shoulder. “Thank you so much, Cyrus.”
He hugged her back, frustrated that he couldn’t really feel her because of his thick costume and the amount of padding he wore beneath the jacket to widen his girth. The discomfort of the last hour vanished in the absolute sincerity of her gratitude and enjoyment.
He would do a lot more than dress up as Santa if it would make Helen happy.
“Was it too bad?” she asked, pulling away from him at last. She wore a red velvet jacket, stylish jeans, ankle boots, and an elf cap on her long hair.
She looked utterly irresistible.
“I managed to muddle through,” he replied, feigning grumbling. “You better appreciate it. And you’re going to owe me for a long time.”
She just laughed and helped him unbutton the jacket, pulling it off his shoulders with more enthusiasm than care. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You just owe me a little bit less.”
She didn’t wait for a reply, just dropped the jacket on the floor and then busily started working on unfastening his padding. When she’d gotten the padding off him, he was left wearing a white t-shirt, oversized red pants, and black suspenders.
He gazed down at her, feeling something tugging at his heart that was very familiar to him.
She glanced up at him, laughter still flickering in her eyes, but her expression changed when she saw his face. Her eyes softened. Her mouth softened. Her hands grew still on his chest, her fingers curling around his suspenders.
Cyrus told himself to be very careful. To be very careful. He was approaching an incredibly dangerous situation, and the hunger in his body and his heart would only lead him where he’d vowed not to go.
Helen swayed toward him, turning her face up toward his. Her green eyes were full of affection and what looked like desire, and her full lips had parted slightly.
Cyrus’s conscientious resolutions disintegrated, and he leaned toward her with a muffled groan. Her arms flew up around his neck without hesitation, and she pressed her little body against his as he sank into a kiss.
His body hummed with excitement, feeling, and desire, and he tangled his hands in her long, soft hair. Her mouth was very eager against his, and she enthusiastically rubbed her breasts and hips against him, causing his body to tighten with delicious need.
When he felt his groin hardening dangerously, he jerked his mouth away, unwrapping her arms from his neck and taking a few clumsy steps back.
He gasped as he tried to pull himself together and rein in the need he couldn’t seem to control.
Helen looked even more delicious than before, with her hair mussed, her cap askew, and her cheeks deeply flushed. “Sorry,” she said, not looking sorry at all. “You looked so yummy still half-dressed as Santa I couldn’t resist.”
He swallowed and tried to speak, but couldn’t make himself say anything coherent.
This was happening far too often. For the last few months, they’d been kissing more and more frequently. Helen would act like it wasn’t a big deal, like it was completely natural for them to stop and kiss without warning and without explanation. She never wanted to talk about it—she’d just go about her business afterwards.
And Cyrus was having trouble remembering why kissing her was so wrong.
On her twenty-first birthday, he’d gone way too far. They’d gone out to dinner with friends and his dad to celebrate. When he’d taken her home, she suggested he stick around to watch a movie, and he’d seen no reason to refuse. Helen had cuddled up beside him on the couch. He still wasn’t sure how it had happened, even though he’d tortured himself by going through every detail in his mind over and over again afterwards.
They’d just suddenly started to kiss, and he hadn’t been strong enough to pull away like he should. So the kissing had deepened. And soon she was straddling his lap and he was pushing up her top so he could stroke and then suckle her breasts. She was writhing and moaning with pleasure at his touch, and the sound was absolutely intoxicating. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Until he’d slipped a hand beneath the waistband of her pants and stroked her intimately.
He could still remember how she’d felt—warm and wet and clinging. She’d gasped with increasing urgency as he’d caressed her. And then she was shuddering, shaking, crying out with release as she came hard around his fingers.
She’d collapsed on him afterwards, hot and gasping and pliant. And he’d had to admit to himself—even through the desperate haze of his lust—that he was holding everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d ever needed, everything he’d ever loved in his arms.
But then he’d remembered he couldn’t have her. She’d always been a kid to him, and it was just wrong to bring her to shuddering climax like that. She’d always been small, bright, precious, innocent—he shouldn’t be thinking about her in any other way.
So he’d had to thrust her off him and scramble to his feet, hard and hot and sweating. He’d had to leave her alone, even though he knew it would hurt her.
He’d expected her to be angry with him. Wasn’t sure she’d be able to forgive him for treating her like that. But the next morning she’d acted like it had never happened and had been her normal, cheerful, affectionate self.
Six months ago, he’d been sure he was right to resist. Helen could never be his—not the way he wanted. Life wouldn’t give him everything.
But now he just wasn’t sure. It didn’t seem so wrong, and he couldn’t quite remember all of his well-rehearsed arguments about why he had to resist even thinking about her that way.
He wasn’t even sure when he’d stopped thinking of her as a kid, but he definitely didn’t anymore.
“So do you think it went well?” she asked, breaking into his reverie.
Cyrus blinked. The kiss had definitely gone well, but he wasn’t quite sure that’s what she was asking.
“The Christmas program,” she added. “Do you think it went well?”
“Yes,” he said, honestly. “The children and parents all seemed to enjoy it, and you all were able to give out a remarkable number of books.”
She beam
ed at him. “I think it went well too.”
Cyrus was sometimes awed by Helen. He knew exactly what kind of neglected, isolated childhood she’d had, and he couldn’t imagine how she’d turned into such a generous, compassionate woman. She’d poured all of her passion and intellect into her foundation, and he knew it would accomplish so much good for so many years simply because of who she was.
He’d never be good like she was.
She sighed and her expression changed. For a moment, she looked almost poignant. “I’ve been thinking about my parents a lot today—maybe it was watching so many different kinds of parents with their children. I’m so glad I still remember them. It’s important to me to know that…” She trailed off, suddenly looking a little self-conscious.
“To know what?” he prompted softly, strangely touched by her confession.
“To know that they loved me.”
Cyrus gazed at her for a long time, forgetting about the setting, forgetting that he was still wearing the damned Santa pants, suspenders, and boots.
“You know I love you too, don’t you?” he asked, the question voiced spontaneously and without conscious volition.
Her lips parted slightly, and her eyes seemed to glisten with tears. Then she grinned. “Yeah. I’ve known that for a while.” After a pause, she added, “You know I love you too, right?”
His chest almost ached with the feeling, but the words weren’t a surprise, although she’d never said them before.
He had no idea why, but he’d known she loved him.
And he told himself he was allowed to love her.
They’d always been almost like family.
She reached out to hug him, and he hugged her back, able to feel her soft body against him now that the padding was gone.
As she drew away, he couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d been wrong all this time. As miraculous and unthinkable as it seemed, maybe he wasn’t just allowed to love her. Maybe he was allowed to love her all the way.
***
“I’ve got the best present for you,” Helen said to Drake Owen as they were all getting up after Christmas Eve dinner. She grinned at him endearingly. “I can’t wait to see you open it.”
“Please tell me it’s not another Christmas sweater,” he drawled, his eyebrows arching alarmingly.
Cyrus chuckled, enjoying his father’s consternation and Helen’s teasing smile.
“Oh no,” she said, her eyes wide. “It’s much, much better than that.”
His father groaned, and Cyrus laughed again.
“You’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning to open it,” she said. She stepped over and then stretched up to kiss his father on the cheek affectionately. “Merry Christmas, you magnificent man.”
His father’s face softened, just momentarily. Cyrus wouldn’t have even seen it if he hadn’t been specifically looking for it. “It’s about time you recognized my remarkable qualities,” he murmured dryly, smiling down at Helen. “Merry Christmas, my dear.”
Helen’s face was fond and laughing as she looked up at his father, and it got even softer when she shifted her gaze over to Cyrus. “I’m going to change clothes before our movie,” she told him before she turned to leave.
Cyrus watched her as she walked away, her red-gold hair long and shiny down her back and the curve of her ass lush and full. He had no idea how it had happened, but over the last twelve Christmases, she had done something miraculous to his life, to his father’s.
He had no idea who or what either of them would be without her.
He was so distracted by the warm emotions that he forgot to guard his expression, and all of his feeling must have been reflected on his face.
When he turned back, his father was arching his eyebrows quizzically.
Cyrus fought a flush of self-consciousness but didn’t say anything.
“How long do you think that woman will wait for you?”
Cyrus blinked, taken completely by surprise.
His father didn’t wait for an answer. “She’s been remarkably patient with your unforgivable vacillation, but she’s going to soon give up and find a man who isn’t afraid to take what he wants.”
“Dad,” Cyrus said hoarsely, suddenly overwhelmed with confusion. He never confided in his father. He never confided in anyone but Helen. At the moment, however, he needed to talk to someone. “I don’t know—“
“You do know,” his father interrupted sharply. His expression was highly displeased. “You simply won’t act. And she deserves so much better than that.”
“I know she deserves better,” Cyrus gritted out, “Why do you think I’m reluctant?”
“You are not in the position to decide for her what’s best for her. You only decide for yourself. It doesn’t matter what she deserves. It matters what she wants. And, for some ungodly reason, she wants you.”
Cyrus was breathing heavily, staring at the door to the dining room where Helen had just disappeared. His mind whirled with bewilderment, terror, and hope.
After a long silent moment, he asked softly, “You don’t think it’s…it’s wrong?”
“Why the hell would it be wrong? You’re not related. You weren’t even raised together. You’re both adults, and you would both obviously be consenting. You’re just using your former relationship when she was a child as an excuse not to act—because you’re afraid, because you don’t think you deserve her, because you don’t think you deserve to be happy.”
Cyrus turned to stare at his father. His father was right. His father was exactly, perfectly right.
“And I’m telling you now that your dithering is driving me insane. So do something or I’m going to transfer you to our research facility in the Antarctic.” With that final clipped sentiment, his father walked out of the dining room.
Cyrus stood in place for a long time, torn by lingering confusion. He had no idea what he should do, what would happen now.
But one thing he knew.
Drake Owen was entirely capable of following through on his threat.
***
Cyrus was in the media room when Helen arrived.
He hadn’t changed clothes—just taken off his shoes and jacket. But Helen had changed out of her skirt and sweater and had put on the flannel pajamas Cyrus had bought her last Christmas. They were light blue with little polar bears wearing Santa hats on them. She’d braided her hair into two long braids that made her looked girlish and irresistibly appealing both.
She grinned at him, chatting casually about her present for his father—a red sweater with a Persian warrior appliquéd on the front—and about the cider and cookies brought in for them.
Cyrus wasn’t sure what to say. He wanted to say something. He wanted to tell her he’d changed his mind, that he’d realized they could be in a relationship after all.
But she was acting like everything was normal, and he felt strange and hesitant to bring it up.
They watched White Christmas, and Helen curled up beside him as she had for the last several years. Cyrus enjoyed being close to her, but he couldn’t focus on the movie. His mind was whirling over what might happen, what he should say, what he should do.
So many possibilities had been opened up, but he still couldn’t seem to take the final step.
When the last swell of music started to play on the movie, Helen sighed in contentment and looked up at him. “I’m so glad to have Christmas with you, Cyrus.”
He swallowed. “I’m glad to have Christmas with you too.”
She nodded, her face still glowing with something he couldn’t quite identify. Then she stretched up to kiss him on the side of the mouth.
And that was it.
Cyrus couldn’t hold back anymore. He bit back a groan and took her head in both of his hands, sinking into a deep kiss.
She kissed him back willingly, eagerly. Her arms twined around his neck, and she raised herself up on her knees so she could reach him better. Her lips opened sweetly to the advance of his tongue, and Cyrus was
completely overwhelmed with her warmth, her passion, her affection.
When she pulled her mouth away, he couldn’t stop kissing her. His mouth trailed down the line of her jaw and along the curve of her neck. Her head fell back, and she released a pretty moan of pleasure that went right to his groin.
“Cyrus,” she gasped, when he slid his hands down to cup her bottom.
“What, baby?” he asked huskily, still brushing his lips against her delicate skin.
“Cyrus, please tell me I’m not waiting for nothing.” Her hands were curved around his head, sometimes gripping and sometimes stroking his hair. He loved the feel of them.
He lifted his head and looked down at her flushed face. “You’re not,” he murmured thickly. “You’re not.”
Something transformed on her face, lit up. “Really?”
“Really.” He leaned forward to kiss her softly. “I love you so much, baby. I want you so much.”
“I know you do.” She was breathing in fast pants, and her hands had moved forward to cup his face. “I know you do, but you didn’t think you could have me. I’ve been waiting so long. And the truth is I’m getting a little impatient.”
The tenderness and cleverness mingled in her expression, and it embodied everything he loved about her. He groaned and pulled her into another kiss. After a long interval, the tightening of his body alerted him to the fact that he’d better stop. So he tore his mouth away from hers.
She collapsed on his chest, and he wrapped her in his arms.
“You don’t have to wait any longer,” he murmured, knowing he was committing himself, knowing there was no way out now, knowing it was exactly the right thing.
She straightened up and peered at his face, seemed to see the truth reflected there. Then, incongruously, she pulled the bands out of her hair and started to pull out the braids.
“What are you doing?” Cyrus asked, his brows drawing together.
“These braids make me look like a kid,” she explained. “And I’ve got these silly pajamas on. Maybe I should change into something more attractive if we’re going to have sex at last.”