Page 60 of Desert Sky (RB MC #4)

JD

C hristmas at the Northport ranch had never looked like this before. No cold socialite parties with silent judgments and political handshakes. No stiff ties or empty small talk. This time, it was real. It was ours.

Kids ran everywhere—half of them from the Royal Bastards extended family, shouting over one another as they darted between hay bales wrapped in string lights.

The ranch glowed like a damn movie set. String lights zigzagged through the porch rafters.

A thirty-foot pine glittered with a thousand ornaments, handmade and mismatched, beside the fireplace inside.

The smell of wood smoke, cinnamon, and leather was thick in the air.

Edge strutted out in a red velvet Santa suit, belly stuffed with pillows, ho-ho-ho’ing like he owned December.

Regan—God bless her chaos—was in a barely-legal green sequined elf getup, swinging a bell and holding mistletoe over people’s heads.

Tarak was wrestling a toddler off his shoulder while stealing sips of bourbon.

And River? That boy was off in a corner, lips locked with a petite dark-haired girl like she was his lifeline. I’d never seen that look in his eyes before—like maybe he still couldn’t believe she was real.

I leaned over and murmured into Skye’s ear, “They’re putting the newlyweds to shame.”

She laughed, cheeks flushed from the firelight and pregnancy. Her baby bump was visible now, round and beautiful beneath the soft red sweater hugging her curves. Her hand slid over it unconsciously as she smiled down at Jackson playing tag with Amber and Tarak’s boys.

“He’s so happy,” she said quietly.

I nodded, throat thick. “So am I.”

Skye turned to face me fully. Her eyes glittered under the lights, framed by those auburn waves I could never stop touching. “Wanna sneak away?” she whispered.

“You read my mind.”

We slipped upstairs, past the chaos and laughter and clatter of beer bottles. The upstairs guest room had been decorated by Regan—probably with the intention of getting us laid. Red velvet throws, white twinkle lights, pine-scented candles, and a “Naughty & Nice” sign over the bed.

I didn’t even shut the door before I had her pinned against it. Her mouth opened to mine, and I kissed her like I was still trying to make her mine.

“You’re my wife,” I growled against her throat. “Mine, Skye.”

She shuddered as I sank to my knees, lifting that perfect red skirt up over her thighs.

“You think they can hear us over the Christmas music?” she gasped.

I smirked, tongue tracing along the curve of her inner thigh. “They’ll be too busy arguing about who spiked the cider. ”

We made love against the soft throw blankets, the lights from the tree blinking gently behind the frosted windows. Our bodies moved together like music, slow and hungry and claiming. Her moans were muffled by the pine-scented pillow, her fingers tangled in my hair.

Outside, the party raged on. Inside, I gave her everything I had, over and over, until we both collapsed in a tangle of sweat and love and vows spoken not with words—but with bodies.

Merry Christmas to me.