Page 80 of Daddy's Little Christmas

My fingers tightened on his waist. “If you keep doing that, sweetheart, breakfast is getting very delayed.”

“Good,” he whispered, and kissed me again.

The sex was nothing like last night—slower, lazier, bodies sliding together under the blankets, heat pooling between us. More laughter. More whisperedoh my godandGraeme, that feels so goodand the occasional breathlessDaddy pleasethat went straight to my spine.

It was the kind of sex you have when the world outside the bed doesn’t exist.

When you want to make the moment last.

When you want to memorize each other.

When you know time is slipping faster than you want it to.

We finally stumbled out of bed around ten, both of us rumpled and smiling like idiots. I tugged on sweatpants; Rudy stole one of my shirts—my soft red henley that hung off him but still looked like it was made for him and not for a man eight inches taller.

I reached for his hand and laced our fingers together, the way we’d already started doing without thinking about it.

“Come on,” I said. “There’s one more thing.”

He let me lead him into the living room. The tree stood by the window, lights still glowing softly against the pale morning outside. Beneath it sat one last wrapped package.

I picked it up and held it out to him. “This one’s for you.”

His brows lifted. “For… grown-up me?” A small smile tugged at his mouth.

“Yes, for grown-up Rudy,” I said.

“Well,” he said, taking it from my hands, “thank you.” He sank down onto the rug and started unwrapping it, careful and unhurried.

Inside were four books, stacked neatly together—matching illustrated covers, all from the gay romance series that was written by Amerie Adams. He lifted the card and read the note I’d written:

I remembered how excited you were to read this series, and I couldn’t stop thinking about that. So I hope these bring you some joy, quiet moments, and all the feelings you love in a good romance. I’m really glad I got to give these to you. Merry Christmas.

—Graeme

Then he looked up at me, eyes soft and a little stunned. “You really do listen,” he said quietly.

“I try.”

He stood and came over to me in two steps, hands sliding into the fabric of my t-shirt as he kissed me—warm, deliberate, unhurried. I kissed him back, my hand at his waist, holding us right where we were.

When we finally pulled apart, his forehead rested briefly against my chest.

“Thank you,” he said again. This time it meant more.

“Anytime.”

In the kitchen, the world outside was white, every window edged with frost. Vermont Christmas mornings were usually like this—quiet snow, clean air, the distant sound of someone’s shovel scraping their driveway.

Perfect.

“What do people in Winterhaven usually eat for Christmas breakfast?” he asked, perched on a stool at the counter, legs swinging lightly.

The way he said it made something twist inside me.

“Well,” I said, brushing a hand over his back, “we usually do cinnamon rolls, scrambled eggs with chives, crispy bacon, and hot chocolate. Sometimes pancakes if you’re feeling ambitious.”

His eyes widened, bright. “All of that?”