Page 79 of Daddy's Little Christmas

A sacred kind of quiet.

And the weight of Rudy in my arms, still, peaceful, boneless with sleep—God, that did something to me. Something small and devastating.

His cheek was pressed over my heart, lips parted just the tiniest bit. He looked… soft. Not regressed, just resting. Trusting. Like he’d finally put down every shield he’d carried in with him ten days ago.

My hand—without asking permission from my brain—smoothed down his back, fingers tracing the dip of his spine.

He murmured something, shifting closer. His thigh brushed mine, bare skin on bare skin, and my breath caught.

Last night came back in flashes.

His voice, broken and desperate in my ear.

The way he’d opened for me with such fierce trust.

The way he’d fallen asleep in my arms afterward, warm and loose and perfect.

And now—this.

He blinked awake, slow and sleepy, eyelashes fluttering against my chest. “You’re staring,” he rasped, voice sanded with sleep.

“I’m admiring,” I murmured.

A blush bloomed across his cheeks instantly, crawling down his throat. “That’s… unfair,” he whispered.

I smiled, tugging him up so I could kiss the crown of his head. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

He made a small, pleased sound—half laugh, half sigh—and nuzzled into my neck. “Merry Christmas, Daddy.”

My pulse jumped. Fast. Hard.

He didn’t even realize what he’d said, not until a beat later when his body suddenly went still. He tipped his head back to look at me, wide-eyed.

“I—I didn’t mean—well, I did mean, but—this is adult, I wasn’t trying to—”

I shut him up with a soft kiss.

A slow kiss.

A morning kiss.

“Rudy,” I breathed against his lips, “I like hearing it. Anytime you say it.”

Relief washed over his face, followed by something tender, something still learning how to believe me. He kissed me again—sweet at first, then hungrier. His fingers curled in my hair, tugging lightly, and I felt myself responding instantly, body waking up in ways that made my hips shift beneath him.

He felt it too.

“Oh,” he whispered, voice full of mischief and heat. “Hi.”

“I’m forty-five,” I said, brushing my mouth along his jaw. “Not dead.”

He laughed—God, that laugh—and straddled my hips, settling down slowly until I groaned. His palms pressed into my shoulders, warm and sure. “We don’t have to get up yet,” he teased.

“No,” I agreed, sliding my hands to his waist. “We really, really don’t.”

His smile softened, eyes darkening. He leaned down, kissing me with a sweetness that made my chest ache… then rolled his hips, slow enough to be torture.

Jesus.