by Amanda Rose
“The reason I woke you up so early in the morning,” Vale says, exhaling against the side of my neck and making me shiver, “is because your father suggested you were the early to bed, early to rise type, and that if I wanted coffee I should come up and ask for it. He said the kitchen could be hard to navigate for guests. Besides,” Vale adds, pulling away from me as my heart thunders and a bead of sweat trails down my temple. He reaches out and catches it with his fingertip, letting the clear drop jiggle on the edge of a finger marked with the letter T tattooed on the knuckle in black. “I do my best writing in the early morning.”
He turns and walks away from me, leaving me feeling flustered and turned-on all at once.
Fucker.
With a sigh, I grab the white and gold robe—my family's into matching colors and themes as much as they are stars—toss it over my shoulders and head down the hallway behind him.
The coffee maker is this big, hulking beast that costs too much money and requires a frigging master's degree to operate. I manage to wrangle both Vale and myself some coffee and end up in the sunroom at the back of the house.
The blizzard has so thoroughly coated the windows that it feels like we're trapped in here together, but … not in a bad way.
Sitting across one of the many bistro tables in the fancifully decorated room (my parents focus every aspect of their holiday decorating on parties thus the reason for lots of small tables instead of one big table), I watch as Vale sips his coffee with one hand writes with the other.
His handwriting is smooth and easy, curvy and beautiful, a hell of a lot neater and more legible than my own. He alternates scribbling things in a notebook and typing out a few sentences on his MacBook. But he never puts down his coffee. Nope. Just types one-handed.
My own computer sits next to me, but sitting there and staring at the blank page is making me nervous. Who am I kidding? I couldn't even keep my little indie bookstore afloat. How the hell am I supposed to craft a fucking novel?
“If you don't start writing something then you'll never write anything,” Vale says softly, his voice as soft as the angel wing art piece above his head. All real feathers, of course, decorated with white Christmas lights, the wingspan—carved of solid wood beneath the white downy outer layer—stretches from one side of the room to the other. That's my dad for ya. Can't just put an angel tree topper on. Nooooo. He has to literally have a realistically sized spread of angel wings, as wide as they'd need to be for a human to fly (assuming we had hollowbones like a bird). I'm not even kidding—he paid a company to run some tests and determine this information for him.
Ridiculous.
And this is how your family uses money, like it's disposable, like it's fucking toilet paper. Yet, when you need it the most, when you come crawling on hands and knees … they won't lend you any.
I grit my teeth and turn my attention to my laptop, trying not to think how weird it is that my family is filthy rich and I'm dirt poor. It's not like I've ever asked for handouts from my parents, siblings, or anyone else for that matter. Yes,I took a loan from my grandmother, but before she passed away, I paid it all back.
Putting my fingers on the keys, I look out at the storm. Well, I try to anyway. But the ice that's coated the windows obscures my view, giving me an entire wall of glass speckled with the spiderweb fingers of frost, almost like snowflakes plastered against the panes. Licking my lips, I start to type.
I grew up with nothing, found myself thrust into everything, and ended up right back where I started.
Alone.
Penniless.
Surrounded by wealth and success, but not a part of it.
I pause for a moment, staring at the words that've just flown out my fucking fingertips. Wow. Now that is a dark start to a story. To be fair, my real-life story really isn't all that dark to begin with, but … sometimes it feels that way.
One day, a cold, awful day in December, the eco-friendly graduation present my parents gifted to me, breaks down on the side of the road.
And along comes a tour bus.
And on that tour bus, a veritable sex god.
“Writing about Frost?” Vale asks, snapping me out of the moment. I look up and meet his eyes, their color this vibrant gold-gray that I've never seen on another human before. It's fucking breathtaking.
“Why would I be writing about Frost?” I ask with a harsh, nervous laugh. Vale just stares at me, smiles softly, and then looks down at his notebook, scribbling a few more notes. I wait for him to reply to my question, but I guess that's just not his style. Instead, he reaches out and takes his coffee mug—this pale blue ceramic masterpiece with a hand-painted Christmas star—and lifts it to the soft, beautiful curve of his mouth.
The only sounds are the whisper of the wind outside the window, and the sip of liquid as he drinks the sweet bitterness of his coffee.
It's a small movement, but … I catch Vale flicking his eyes up to me and then dropping them back to the page. He scribbles some more, and I look down to see that my nipples are hard as rocks beneath the thin white tank that goes with my matching gold and white Christmas pj pants.
Yep.
My father has my outfits for the entire week lined up and ready for me.
And this is what I've come home to.
The house is nice … but it feels like a luxurious prison.
“It's okay to be sad,” Vale tells me, like he knows me, like we didn't just meet yesterday. “Even if you think you've got it too good to complain. Sometimes, that's true. Sometimes, the most difficult prisons to break out of are the ones made of glass; they shatter.”
I just stare at him for a moment, the sound of male voices coming from the living room.
“Is that from a song?” I ask, because nobody says beautiful things off the cuff like that. Vale glances up, blinks his pretty eyes at me, and winks. A nice, long, slow sort of wink.
My throat tightens up, and I rise from my seat so quickly that my chair almost topples over.
“Need a refill?” I ask as Vale hums something under his breath, hits a key on his laptop, and hums a little louder. From where I'm standing, it looks like he's using a recording program?
“Yes, please,” he says after he hits that same key and glances back at me, this sweet-but-sinful smile stretching across his face. “I'd love one.”
A refill … I think as I grab his mug and retreat through the double doors into the kitchen … or me.Because despite what Vale said earlier, I'm pretty sure he's hitting on me.
I'm so busy thinking about Vale that I don't notice Aspen Carver standing in front of my parents' fancy … espresso machine? Is that what it is? Whatever. Let's just call it a coffee maker and be done with it.
I crash into his back, stumbling back and dropping both expensive mugs to the floor.
“Oh, fuck,” I curse as Aspen turns slowly around, glancing down at the shattered glass bits near his bare feet. My eyes lift up from the mess and find … a pair of white and red sweatpants, the legs decorated with twisting stripes, like a candy cane. It'd have been funny if the lead singer of Inked Pages was wearing a matching shirt.
Instead, I get a big face full of pecs, nipples, and abs. See, that's the thing about being a short chick around tall men—a lot of the best stuff is right at eye level, tantalizingly hard and smooth …
“Are you okay?” he asks me, grabbing a roll of paper towels from the counter and bending down to help me clean up the mess. I kneel, too, but the first thing that I do as Aspen scoops a big pile of ceramic into a paper towel, is knick my finger.
“Shit,” I curse, starting to pull my hand back to my chest. Aspen drops the wadded up shards of mug and grabs my hand before I can stick my finger in my mouth. Blood wells like up like of the shiny bulbs on the small Christmas tree in the corner of the kitchen (we have one in every room). “I'm fine,” I start to say, but Aspen's already pulling my finger dangerously close to his lips, like he plans on sucking the blood off the tip.
The thought is str
angely arousing, especially when our gazes meet across the broken coffee mugs and I see that his sapphire eyes are back to normal, no longer squinty red from the pepper spray. I can see the gold rings around his pupils, too. Yet another masterpiece painted by a skilled and brilliant hand.
“Here,” he whispers, putting the paper towel to the blood. It wicks into the white as Aspen applies pressure and releases my wrist … almost reluctantly. “I'll clean this up if you get me a cup of coffee? I seriously have no idea how this machine works.”
“Deal,” I say with a slight smile; the quiet confidence in Aspen's posture is intoxicating. And then on top of it all, there's this … layer of humility that wasn't there at the rest stop, like he got put in his place by my dad yesterday. I'm not saying he seems weak though. On the contrary, he seems like a man that's smart enough to realize when there's a lesson to be learned in a situation. “Just … stuff the broken bits deep into the can, so my dad doesn't see. He had those mugs custom painted last year.”
Aspen's brows go up, but he doesn't say anything, dutifully cleaning up the spilled coffee and the bits of ceramic.
“Sucks that you guys got snowed in,” I say as Aspen gets a sponge from the sink and wipes up the last of the mess. After he's done washing his hands, I pass over a cup of coffee … the mug smeared with blood. “Shit, I'm sorry,” I say, but Aspen just gently takes the mug away from me and grabs my wrist again.
“Let's get you washed up,” he says, tugging me toward the sink.
I trip in my slippers—they're two sizes too big as usual because nobody in my family seems to realize how small I am—and stumble against his chest.
Oh.
“Hi,” I say, and my voice is breathy and weak.
Aspen smiles at me, and the effect is instantaneous. Warmth spreads through me as our eyes meet, my breath hitching in my chest.
“Hi,” he whispers back, guiding my hand over to the sink and turning on the tap. Our gazes stay locked as we wait for the water to warm and then slowly, oh so slowly, Aspen pulls my right hand under the tap and slowly starts to massage me. He presses his thumb hard in the center of my palm and uses the rest of his fingers to rub my knuckles.
“Mm,” I murmur, my eyes sliding closed as Aspen lulls me into this sleepy, sexy state with just his two hands—one resting on my lower back, warm and comforting, and the other massaging me into a state of sheer bliss.
I'm at the point where I can't even remember why I came in here in the first place.
“Do you have a first aid kit?” he murmurs, his mouth just suddenly at my ear. I can feel his warm breath feathering against the brunette strands of my hair as I watch his tattooed hand tease every pressure point in my palm.
“First aid kit?” I echo, but I can barely remember to speak English. What's the point? Words are just words, right? Whatever's happening between Aspen and me right now, it's beyond that. We're communicating with body language.
“I think there's one under the sink,” I manage to breathe, and Aspen chuckles, his voice warm and confident as he moves behind me, the hardness of cock teasing me through his sweatpants. I can feel the thick heaviness of his erection against my lower back, and I want it.
“Under here?” he asks, turning the tap off with his tattooed hand, inked feathers etched in sharp relief into his flesh. I feel like if I reached out and touched them, they might be soft.
Aspen slides his left hand around to my front, resting his palm against my belly and then dipping lower … lower … His fingers tease the edge of my pajama pants and dive inside, finding my silky little panties, a single digit stroking the whole length of my slit, making my shiver.
“Is this where the first aid kit is?” he whispers and I groan, leaning my head back into him and lifting my left arm above my head, sliding it behind Aspen's and digging my fingers into his hair. Standing this close to him, I smell more than just spruce; I smell the crisp freshness of laundry detergent over a layer of fresh sweat, droplets collecting on his skin as he touches me and his arousal intensifies to the point where he's gasping and moaning almost as much as I am.
“It's inside,” I choke out, almost a sob, but not because I'm upset … who the fuck could be upset in my position? … but because it feels do damn good.
“It is?” Aspen whispers, pushing me forward with his hips, trapping me against the countertop, the edge of the marble digging into his tattooed arm as he slips that single finger under the edge of my panties and finds me wet and swollen.
What is happening to me?I wonder, but standing in that kitchen with the warm glow of Christmas lights, the bitter smell of coffee, and the distant murmur of Andrea Bocelli's version of White Christmas … I feel like maybe this week won't be quite as terrible as I'd first thought.
What comes after this week might actually be worse, but I won't think about that right now.
“Inside, huh?” he asks, leaning his body against mine and sighing. He's practically draped over me right now and I like it. I feel protected, safe, loved.
And uh, I am aware that my hormones are fucking with my brain. I don't know this guy for shit.
But the feelings are nice … so nice …
Aspen leans a little closer and spears me with two fingers, opening me up and making me gasp. I spread my legs to give him better access and put my hands on the countertop, bracing myself. At first, the penetration is shallow, just the tips of his fingers teasing sweet juices from my opening.
But then Aspen withdraws his hand and I whimper as he trails wetness up and along my hipbone, across my lower back, and then dives down again. He uses his right hand on my lower back to encourage me to lean forward, and then cups my heat from behind with his left hand.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he whispers, and I choke.
“Stop?” I ask, like that's the dumbest word I've ever in my life. “Keep going, please,” I beg and bite my lower lip hard as he pushes my panties aside and thrusts three fingers into me this time. I swear, my eyes are going to roll back into my head and I'm going to pass out right fucking there.
“Your wish is my command,” Aspen says, and I can feel him grinning against the back of my neck, some of that cocky asshole I saw in the bathroom taking over him again. I understand him a little bit better now, after hearing his story and seeing him with my dad. This is a man who grew up in a hard fucking life, earned himself a better one, and discovered that he has worth.And he fucking knows it.
But … he's also a good man, too. I caught a glimpse of that last night.
Aspen puts his other hand into the front of my pants and strokes my clit through my silken panties, putting his lips against my ear and singing along with the current song—Angels We Have Heard On High.
Holy. Fucking. Reindeer balls.
“Angels we have heard on high,” he sings, his voice this deep, sultry dream that sells records and drops panties, I'm sure. Having a song sung to me while his fingers are buried deep inside? I can feel an orgasm uncoiling from inside, these harsh, ugly gasps coming from my throat.
I can't help it.
I feel like I'm coming unraveled.
“Sweetly singing over the plain,” he croons, nuzzling against the side of my neck, his voice the perfect complement to the distant murmur of the music coming from the living room. “And the mountains in reply,” he continues as my muscles clench tight, and I arch my back, pushing my cunt against his tattooed hand. “Echoing their joyous strains,” he finishes, trailing off as this violent sob breaks from my throat and I climax hard, ensnaring his fingers in my heat, locking down so tight that Aspen bites my ear in frustration.
The song ends and Tarja's gothic version of O Tannenbaum starts to play.
“Are you ready to amp this thing up?” Aspen purrs, pulling his right hand from my pants and reaching back to push his sweats out of the way. “Because I'm more than ready to—”
“I don't have time today, Tina,” my mother snaps, shoving into the kitchen just as Aspen pulls away from me, his fingers s
till wet, my body still shaking and quivering and pulsing.
Must be a strange sight, seeing me bent weirdly over the countertop like that, my legs splayed, sweat dripping off the tip of my (admittedly still sore) nose and into the sink.
“Don't dawdle, Cyan,” my mom says, swatting me with a Frosty the Snowman dish towel. “This is why you lost that bookstore of yours—all this idle sloth time.”
The sweet, soft relaxation Aspen coaxed out of me … flees like a gust of icy wind, leaving me chilled in its wake.
“If you think I let the store go without a fight,” I whisper, standing up and averting my gaze from the sexy lead singer of Inked Pages. I can't look at my mom or sister either, staring intently at the floor. “Then we … we're strangers because you don't know me for shit.”
“Oh, stop being overdramatic,” my mother says, Tina chuckling softly beside her, like they have zero idea of how much they're hurting me. Hell, they're killing me inside. My grandmother, who grew up poor and stayed poor to put my mother through school, gave me the last of her money when my parents refused to take a chance on their own daughter. And I opened that store, and I paid her back, and I loved it with everything I had.
But love and business just don't mix … and I lost it.
But I did try, and it kills me that they don't understand or care.
“Cyan,” Aspen says, but I skirt his outreached hand and disappear out the swinging kitchen doors.
I need a moment to think, and I can't do that with my mother sneering at me, my sister laughing … or Aspen looking at me like he's actually interested in knowing more.
CHAPTER FIVE
“You alright there, Cherry Pie?” Crispin asks me the next day, standing next to my bed with his hands on his hips. I don't have to wonder how he got into my room after I already locked the door. My brothers and sisters have been picking locks their entire lives—especially mine. As the youngest, I was granted some sort of strange omega status by the pack of Fallon siblings. Even though I fought back with everything I had, they still found it fun to pick at me. Hell, maybe my fighting back made it more interesting rather than less?