Page 47 of Daddies' Holiday Toy

Holly at twelve, sitting cross-legged on the couch with a juice box, trying to listen in on our poker games like she was one of the guys.

Back then, the idea of looking at her this way would’ve been unthinkable.

Disgusting, even.

But she’s not that little girl anymore.

She’s all grown up, and now every part of me knows it.

I curse under my breath, the sound swallowed up by my empty room.

The rush of blood coursing through my body refuses to settle, even as I tear myself away from the door.

My movements are jerky, too uncoordinated, after coming that hard but I need to dosomethingelse with my hands before they betray me again.

I grab a handful of tissues from the nightstand and wipe my palm clean, but it does nothing to erase how dirty it still feels.

Touching myself like this is wrong on so many levels.

And so is wanting her scent to cling to me, not just the memory of it in my head, but on my skin like a brand.

Fuck, I can’t stay in here if I’m going to be acting like this. I’ll find myself back in that room before I know it.

But what’s the alternative?

Going back outside and pretending like everything’s fine?

Or forcing myself to remain locked behind my door until this weekend is done and over with?

I wouldn’t be able to go more than an hour with that last one without Jack and Reece noticing.

Then the questions would start.

I can already hear them:Why’d you disappear right after bringing her to bed? What’s your deal? What happened with her?

Either way, it’s a disaster waiting to happen.

I force myself to breathe and zip up my pants, fingers stiff against the metal teeth.

The bathroom is my next stop—an easy excuse if anyone asks what’s taking me so long.

I brace my palms on the counter and let the cold water run until it stings to the touch, then splash it over my face a few times, the cold shocking whatever remaining burn still left in my body.

When I finally meet my own gaze in the mirror, I almost don’t recognize it.

I take one more breath before flicking the light off and heading back down the hallway, ignoring the ache in my gut to push open the door across the way and check on her.

When I step outside again, the cold hits harder than before.

The bonfire’s still going, flames tossing gold and orange light into the darkness.

Reece is leaned back in his chair with a beer loose in his hand, boots crossed at the ankles, toes stretched toward the fire.

He looks comfortable.

Jack’s nursing his whiskey, gaze locked on the flames.

Whatever’s on his mind, it’s chewing at him.