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TWENTY-SEVEN

SEBASTIAN

I t's Christmas morning, and for the first time in years I wake up not thinking about hockey.

Correction, I wake up thinking about Derrick, which these days feels like the same thing. My mind no longer differentiates between the two. They've become intertwined in a way that should terrify me but somehow doesn't.

The light spilling through the wide windows is soft and low, draping itself over the bedroom in ribbons of pale gold. The lake beyond the glass is still and silver, the early chill misting the dock. Somewhere outside a bird calls once and then quiets.

I watch Derrick sleep for a minute before I move.

His curls are a wild halo against the white pillowcase, lashes fluttering slightly with whatever dream has him right now.

The blanket's slipped low around his hips, revealing the sharp dip of his waist, the line of his spine I've traced a thousand times with my fingers and tongue.

I've memorized every muscle, every freckle, committed them to canvas and memory alike.

It's been nearly two months since the gallery.

Since the statement. Since the world found out that I'm B.

Ardent and Derrick is not just my muse but my partner.

Mine. The thought fills me with complete satisfaction.

He is mine in all ways. Not just professionally, not just sexually, but emotionally, all the territories I'd kept barricaded for so long.

We've had paparazzi in speedboats trying to photograph us through the kitchen windows.

Fans yelling "We love you, B!" outside the arena.

I've had to hire security to monitor the house, and Christian's phone hasn't stopped ringing.

Hell, mine hasn't either. The price of visibility is constant scrutiny, something I'd managed to avoid for years by compartmentalizing my identities.

Despite it all, we've carved out something real. Something private. Something. . .soft.

The kind of softness I've never let myself have before. The kind of soft I never had with Lachlan. He's not a secret, we don't have to hide who we are to each other. Never again will I live in shadows, diminishing parts of myself to make someone else comfortable.

I slide a hand under the blanket, running my palm along the warmth of Derrick's thigh. He shifts with a sleepy groan, burrowing deeper into the pillow, his body responding to my touch even in semi-consciousness.

"Too early," he mumbles, voice scratchy and thick with sleep, the words almost lost in the pillow.

"It's Christmas," I say, bending to kiss the curve of his shoulder, savoring the taste of his skin. "You can't sleep through it. Don't forget we have a guest. Elaine is downstairs, Princesse."

He cracks one eye open. "I haven't forgotten," he smiles, shooting me a shy grin that makes him look younger than his now twenty-three years. "You gonna make me get up for presents?"

I lift a brow, feeling a slow heat build in my core. "It looks like my present is already up and waiting for me to open it," I say running my hand over his morning wood making him hiss, his body arching slightly into my touch.

"My dick is already yours, Bast," he whispers, the raw honesty in his voice catching me off guard. "I wouldn't consider it a present."

"No," I murmur, lips brushing against his skin, inhaling the scent that's become home to me, "But making you cum in this bed for me is all the gift I need."

Derrick stretches slowly, catlike, then turns over to face me. His smile is lazy and crooked and absolutely lethal. A smile that still, after all these months, makes me forget my own name.

"By all means, if that's all you want. Unwrap me," he teases

I push the blanket aside with deliberate slowness, savoring the gradual revelation of his body, and press into him with a hunger that never seems to diminish.

My mouth finds his with the practiced certainty of a man who's finally found his sanctuary.

The rasp of morning stubble against my chin sends electricity down my spine as his hands slide over my head, fingers pressing into my scalp, anchoring me to this moment, to him.

His lips part beneath mine and our kiss deepens, his tongue meeting mine with a languid confidence that makes my cock throb against his thigh.

He tastes of heat and comfort and cinnamon from last night's cider.

I ignore the morning breath, too caught up in the sweetness lingering on his tongue to care.

I drink him in greedily, this flavor I never thought I'd deserve, this intimacy I never believed someone would freely offer me without conditions or limits.

I pull back just enough to breathe him in, the scent of his skin familiar and intoxicating.

Derrick’s fingers trace the line of my jaw, his touch gentle yet firm, a silent command for more.

I oblige, trailing kisses down his neck, his collarbone, his chest, each press of my lips a whispered promise of what’s to come.

His skin is warm and slightly salty under my tongue, a taste that’s become a craving, an addiction.

His breath hitches as I move lower, my hands exploring every dip and curve of his body.

I know this terrain well, every sensitive spot that makes him gasp.

I take my time, savoring the taste of him, the feel of his pulse quickening under my touch.

This is my safe place. Here, with him, I am just Bast, his partner, his lover, his port in the storm.

“Bast,” he whispers, his voice a raw, needy sound that sends a shiver down my spine. It’s a plea, a demand, a surrender all at once. I smile against his skin, feeling a rush of power and tenderness. This is what he does to me, makes me feel invincible and vulnerable all at once.

As I reach his lower abdomen, I can feel his dick, hard and eager, pressing against my chest. I tease him, my breath hot against his skin, my lips barely brushing over the tip.

His precum like candy, teasing my tongue, making me groan in pleasure.

He squirms beneath me, his hips lifting slightly, seeking more contact.

I chuckle, a low, throaty sound, enjoying the torture I’m inflicting on him.

“Patience, Princesse,” I murmur, my voice a low rumble. “Good things come to those who wait.”

He groans in frustration, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He knows the game, knows that the wait will be worth it. . .and so do I.

Derrick’s fingers stroke the back of my head as I reach his hips, his breath coming in shallow pants.

I glance up at him, our gazes locking, and the trust in his eyes steals my breath.

He’s given me everything, his body and his heart, and I’ve given him mine in return.

We’re bound together, by the truths we’ve shared, the silence we’ve broken, and the shadows we’ve chased away.

I dip my head, taking him into my mouth, taking his dick to the back of my throat and he arches off the bed with a soft cry.

His hands in my hair, holding me in place, but I need no encouragement.

I want this, want him, want to feel him come undone beneath me.

I want to give him this pleasure, this release, this gift.

His body tenses, his breath coming in sharp gasps, and I know he’s close. I redouble my efforts, slurping and sucking hard. My own body aches with need, but this isn’t about me. This is about him, about us, about the unspoken words that binds us together.

He cums with a cry, his body convulsing, his hands gripping my nape tightly. I stay with him, riding out his orgasm, until his body relaxes and his breath evens out. Only then do I move back up the bed, gathering him into my arms.

He snuggles into my chest, his fingers tracing patterns on my skin. “Merry Christmas to me,” he murmurs, his voice soft and sated.

I chuckle, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Merry Christmas, Princesse.”

By the time I pad down the stairs in bare feet and a worn thermal shirt, the house smells like cinnamon, brown sugar, and the warm salt of roasted meat. The scent wraps around me like the softest wool, coaxing me into the kind of quiet I rarely allow myself to feel.

Elaine is already up, seated in the sunlit corner of the living room in the armchair we moved down from the upstairs den.

The cane rests lightly beside her, a quiet reminder of her condition that somehow doesn't diminish her presence.

She looks peaceful, elegant in a cranberry wrap dress that complements her dark complexion and thick wool socks folded neatly at the ankles.

Her hair is braided, the silver-gray plaits woven into a tidy updo that speaks of practiced hands and quiet dignity.

Gold-rimmed glasses are perched on her nose, catching prisms of morning light.

A book is open on her lap, though I don't think she's read a word, her gaze has been fixed on something beyond the window, something only she can see.

"Good morning, Miss Elaine," I say gently, not wanting to startle her from whatever peaceful reverie she's found.

Her eyes lift, brown like her son's, warm and sharp with an intelligence that illness will possibly never dull. "Sebastian. You finally woke up. I was beginning to think Derrick wore you out."

I blink. Stunned. The words hang in the air between us, and heat creeps up my neck.

God, I hope she didn't hear me making her son scream my name this morning.

Then something unexpected happens. I laugh, the sound bursting from me like water breaking through a dam.

"Ah, he did but don't let him hear you say that.

He thinks he's the one who lets me rest." Guess there's no point in being embarrassed.

We're both grown ass men, and Miss Elaine doesn't take me for a woman who pretends reality isn't what it is.