Page 46 of Moody's Grumpy Holiday

He grinned. “Yeah?”

“Yes, it’s quite curious.”

Hudson set his hands on my hips. “You know what I think?”

“Hmm.”

“I think it’s good and healthy to mourn. And it’s okay to be sad. It’s also okay to let yourself be happy. I’m no therapist, but I’ve visited a couple, and I think it’s true that we punish ourselves when bad things happen. As if we deserve to suffer, and that’s not right. You should always give yourself a chance.” He gave a wry half grin. “Trust me, I’ve gone through some sticky emotions over the past year. Anger, grief, hurt, peace…some emotions are easier to swallow than others.”

“And how do you feel now?”

“I feel…hopeful,” he replied.

I smiled. How could I not? I rested my arms on his shoulders and stared into Hudson’s eyes, surrendering to a wave of contentment I hadn’t felt in…years.

“Me too.”

The first strains of Michael Bublé’s version of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” drifted from the speaker. For once, that familiar panicky sensation didn’t grip me and pull me under. It actually did look and feel Christmassy, and I didn’t mind. Not one little bit.

Hudson inclined his chin and kissed me. “Wanna dance?”

I did. I really did. I couldn’t summon any part of me that hated corny Christmas music or dancing, and I didn’t want to, anyway.

I nodded my response and laid my head on his shoulder.

We swayed in the cozy kitchen like an old married couple. Tears clouded my vision as ancient memories flooded my mind—sleigh rides and hot chocolate, homemade stockings and tinsel, and laughter. So much laughter.

And peace.

I felt it now in Hudson’s arms—shuffling in a circle, my secrets and shortcomings revealed in a bourbon-laced eggnog haze. It was good and right. And I wanted to believe it was real.

We stayed up late, baking sheets of gingerbread and cutting them into carefully measured squares and rectangles.

“We can begin assembly tomorrow or the following day,” I said.

“Sounds good.”

“Excellent.”

Hudson turned off the kitchen light and followed me to the foyer. “You all right?”

Fair question. Honest answer: undetermined.

I lingered at the front door, eyes on my cell, pretending to scroll my calendar. I wasn’t ready to leave, but it was late and we’d never had a sleepover. That probably required a conversation.

Don’t do it, Moody. Don’t say anything goofy or silly or?—

“We’ve reached an impasse in our sexual journey that some might construe as crossing a line. I certainly wouldn’t want to impinge on boundaries, literal or figurative, but it occurs to me that we’ve never spent the night at either of our abodes.” I paused to push my glasses to the bridge of my nose, aware that I’d morphed into a verbal runaway locomotive. There was no stopping me now. Unfortunately. “Together in one bed, that is. And I’m definitely not asking for an invitation, nor am I issuing one. Although, I will say that I’m not averse to?—”

“Stay.” Hudson backed me against the door and held my face in his hands. “Stay here with me. Let me make love to you. All night. Please.”

I leaped into his arms.Gah! Yes, yes, yes.

Hudson caught me with anoomph, laughing as he fused our mouths, half carrying, half pulling me to his bedroom.

We undressed in our usual frenzy, but we slowed once we were skin to skin, sucking and licking. His slid his erection alongside mine, rutting and pumping his hips while our tongues mated. I hiked my legs high, wordlessly inviting him to take more.

He prepared me with thick, lubed fingers…one, two, three—dragging them over my prostate until I begged him to give me what I really wanted.