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I don’t let myself think too much as I slip my fingers between my legs and spread the cum over my clit. A white hot current surges along my nerves, and it’s easy then. I deserve it; I tell myself. It’s Christmas. I have nothing, no one. I can give myself this. Use him the way he used me.

I scoop more of the cum off my body and use it for lube, coating my fingertips and getting my clit good and sloppy. It’s fucking obnoxious how much better this is than using my own spit or the dregs of the shower gel. I close my eyes and the first image that pops up is Nick in the shower, body on full display. I shake that off, but am struck by the sight of him jerking off in front of me. It shouldn’t have been hot—it wasn’t—but fucking hell. He’s all man, with the muscles and the ink and those eyes.

Warmth spreads from my core throughout my limbs, my breath coming in short, choppy bursts. I work fast, knowing that even if he has to fight with the ancient vending machine, he won’t take long. I flick and rub the nub between my legs, stopping short of fingering myself. I draw the line at his semen being inside of me.

A girl’s gotta have some standards.

From the other room, the sound of Christmas bells ringing carries into the bathroom. I find a rhythm, something to focus on, ding, dong, ding, dong, driving the pulsing beat between my legs. Inside, something catches, then shatters, the orgasm cresting over me like a tidal wave of sharp embers. I press my fingertips against my clit, riding out the swooping fall of it. My breath is ragged, hands shaky, but as much as I’d like to baskin the glow of a hasty orgasm in a shitty motel, I don’t push it, grabbing my damp towel off the sink. Still feeling the lingering effects, I wipe myself off. Face, body, between my legs. After hastily brushing my teeth, I hustle to the other room, grab panties and a T-shirt, and dive for the bed.

I’m still breathing hard when he opens the door.

He steps in, clutching a mountain of snacks, bicep holding them against his chest. He pauses halfway in and breathes deep, then looks over at me on the bed. I’ve got the phone book open–only reading material left after the bible thing–eyes half-focused on the page.

He sniffs the air and tosses the food on the foot of the bed, the packages landing flat. There’s no spring in the mattress. He eyes me suspiciously, like he knows what I’ve done–like he can smell it in the air–but I quickly avert my gaze.

I pick through the snacks and laugh darkly to myself. A break from the nightly monotony of the motel, a nerve-shattering orgasm, and junk food. “This probably isn’t even the worst Christmas Eve dinner I’ve had.” I say it more to myself than him, but he grabs the hard chair from the corner and drags it over, grabbing three bags off the bed and tearing into them.

He shoves a crumbling cupcake into his mouth and asks, “What, no sixteen-foot tree in the Count’s mansion?”

I settle on Chex Mix–the closest thing to holiday fare–and pick through the pieces in search of pretzels. “Not that I have to explain myself to you, but just because something looks pretty doesn’t mean it’s not rotten inside.” I give his face a pointed look.

A group of crumbs cascades from his lips when he says, “Nah, I’m a fucking saint.” The fact that he’s put his soiled shirt back on underscores the irony. Blood still spattered to the front and staining the side.

My eyes narrow. “Don’t you have somewhere better to hide out than here? I know you have a family–a real family who presumably doesn’t want to see you killed.” Not that I’d know what that’s like.

A shadow falls over his eyes as he ducks his head, picking at the cake. He’s a Bruin. Everyone in the Royal world knows his history. I also know it’s a sore spot that he left to join up with Daniel Payne–a betrayal to his family–and the curve of his shoulders looks all at once dejected and defensive. If he wants to pick at wounds, he’s chosen the wrong girl to do it with. I come bearing salt.

He tosses the cupcake wrapper toward the trashcan and it bounces off the edge, just like my comment bounces off his skin. “I’m right where I want to be, Little Bird. Sometimes a family is what you make of it. The people who are there when you need them–not just the blood that runs through your veins.”

It’s ominous, but the weird thing is that I know what he means. Family is tricky–especially families like ours. The TV jolts across the room and Carol of the Bells mercifully stops. Different but familiar music comes through the speakers, along with bold cartoon lines on the screen.

“Yes!” Nick says, hopping from the chair to the bed, knocking the snacks around. “Charlie Brown Christmas. Score.” I flinch, jerking aside to avoid touching him. But even as I give him a long, incredulous glare, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a candy bar. My favorite candy bar. Wordlessly, eyes still fixed to the screen, he offers it to me.

I flick my eyes from the candy to the TV, back to the man lying next to me. He’s all relaxed, a soft heaviness to his eyes that could be owed to Charlie Brown or the afterglow of an orgasm. But either way, it’s like he didn’t kill a man tonight. As if he didn’t force me to eat his cum. As if he’s not my jailor, holding me here against my will.

No, he acts like it’s the most normal moment in the world, and although I never, ever, let my guard down, I do allow myself to snatch the candy from his hand.

Buzzz!

I startle at the sound, and Nick’s loose shoulders stiffen. He picks up the phone, blue eyes jumping up to the camera in the corner before answering.

“Yes, sir?”

The sound of Daniel Payne’s voice barks through the line, “I said a Christmas bonus, not a Christmas vacation!”

Nick slides off the bed, dragging the yellowing bedspread with him. “I know. Just lying low like you told me to.”

Daniel isn’t as audible once Nick moves away, but I can still make out, “Get your ass downstairs in three minutes. Someone will pick you up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nick hangs up, but he doesn’t speak as he grabs his things, pushing his feet back into his boots and shrugging on his jacket. I watch from the bed as he methodically checks his gun, sliding the clip back in. His eyes flick back and forth between his things and the screen, a subtle thread of a weariness flickering in his features before it hardens back into the sharp lines of a soldier. I’m struck by a moment of weakness. I’ll come to feel embarrassed about later.

I think I might feel bad for him.

It isn’t until he’s at the door that he finally looks at me again. When he does, it’s just to tip his chin in a nod, eyes snapping to the camera once before he says, “Merry Christmas, Little Bird.”

And then he’s gone, melting away into the frigid chill and oppressive darkness, the door closing behind him. My makeshift paper snowflakes rattle in the breeze before stilling. On the screen, Lucy is hounding Schroeder to play a Christmas song.