Page 73 of Every Silent Lie

I take the three steps that lead down to a dining area, where a round table is edged with eight chairs. There’s a snug area leading off that. A curved stone-coloured velvet couch has been placed before a wall-mounted TV that hangs above the grandiose cream-stone fireplace. It’s large but cosy, traditional but modern.

Beautiful.

I go to the floor-to-ceiling doors that span the entire back and look out into the garden. Spotlights line a brick pathway through the middle that’s been shovelled clear of snow.

I smile and face the room again, something past the gorgeousness of Dec’s home niggling at the corner of my mind.

There are no Christmas decorations.

Not one thing.

I would wonder if maybe it’s too early. Some people go full-on into Christmas mode on December 1st. Other more conservative types might wait until the first or second weekend. And then there’s the ones who don’t bother with decorations at all. The damaged souls who resent Christmas. Hate Christmas. The souls who wish they could hibernate throughout December and emerge on the safe, less glittery and joyous side of January.

Souls like me.

My teeth sink into my lip, searching for even a Christmas card. Anything to suggest Dec isn’t like me. Doesn’t despise Christmas like me. There are none.

“Were you leaving?”

I jump and spin round, my hand on my chest. “You frightened me.” But that fright quickly transforms into something else, and I’m suddenly a puddle of mush on the dining room floor. Dec. In his boxers. I exhale my awe, taking in every glorious piece of the wonder that is Dec Ellis, and store it to memory.

In case you lose him.

I flinch that thought away, my fingers twiddling nervously together. “I was getting a glass of water,” I say, motioning to the endless cupboards, where I expect there are more than just two glasses.

“So you weren’t leaving?” he asks, his eyebrows arching in interest as he strolls over.

“Nooo.” I stretch the word out, my lips pulling at the edges into something scarily similar to a smirk. “I wasn’t running out on you.”

“Good.” He loops a strong arm around my waist and hauls me into his body, forcing my hands up to his chest, my spine bending back to keep him in my sights. The dark hairs beneath my palms feels soft as I skate them up to his shoulders and hold on. His lips pout in contemplation as he studies me, and I wait, breathless. “You’re thirsty.”

I nod, and he lifts me and sits me on the island before going to a cupboard and fetching a glass, filling it and drinking half as he comes back to me. He puts it in my hand and watches me as I drink the rest.

“Done?” he asks, taking the glass once it’s empty and setting it aside.

“Done.”

“So I can take you back to bed?”

I nod as his lips land on mine, and I close my eyes, opening up to him the moment our mouths brush, falling deeply into his sweet affection. He helps me down and finds the bottom of my dress, pulling it up to my waist with one swift tug. The backs of my thighs heat under his palms as they slide across my skin briefly before he lifts me, my legs finding their place around his waist, my arms around his neck.

And he kisses me all the way out of the kitchen, up the stairs, along the corridor, and into his bedroom, laying me down and swathing me in his body, taking my mouth and once again kissing me into oblivion.

“Can I ask one question?” I murmur, losing my rhythm for a second as I speak.

“Hmmm.” He doesn’t lose his rhythm at all.

“Do you celebrate Christmas?”

He rolls us and bites the edge of my lip, pushing me up to straddle his waist. My eyebrows jump up when his growing arousal pushes into my backside.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I’d known you were going to stop kissing me.”

His muscles ripple as he sits up and takes my nape, pushing his lips hard onto mine. “I have a love/hate relationship with Christmas.”

Interesting. “Is that why you have no decorations or a tree?”

His brow becomes heavy as he regards me, obviously not knowing what to say.