Three Nights Before Christmas: A Holiday Romance Collection Read online

  With another groan, he begins stroking his shaft with his right hand. “Fucking hell, I can’t stop this. Your mouth feels too goddamn good.”

  I try to make it better, sucking harder. His curled fingers rhythmically bump against my lips, wrapped around the flared rim, and when I frantically rub my tongue along the underside of his cock head, that rhythm suddenly increases. His breath shudders before he drags in another, his broad chest heaving.

  “Baby— Ah fuck.” His head bows, lips drawing back in a grimace. The clenched fist on his thigh opens and convulsively closes again even as his right hand pumps faster and faster. “You’ve gotta stop— Holy shit, I can’t… I’m gonna— Audrey, ah fuck, fuck—”

  On a harsh grunt he curls forward before his entire body turns to iron—except his cock, which throbs beneath my tongue as his salty release fills my mouth. He’s absolutely beautiful as he comes, his features flushed and taut, his eyes glazed and unseeing. With awe expanding in my chest, I watch the orgasm overtake him.

  Immediately I want to make him come again, to witness this one more time. And although my body is on fire, my pussy aching, I feel utterly content in this moment, knowing I’ve just given him the same ecstasy that he’s given to me over and over again. If Caleb felt even half this satisfied after making me come, then it’s no wonder he was able to keep his jeans on. I would love to fulfill my own need right now, but it’s only physical desire. Emotionally…I feel completely sated. And so pleased.

  Swallowing a mouthful of cum is an effort, but as soon as I manage it, I grin up at him. “No laundry this time.”

  He chokes on a laugh and catches my face in his hands, hauling me forward. His mouth captures mine in a hot, deep kiss that ends far too soon, with Caleb resting his forehead against mine, his breathing still ragged. “Christ, I’ve never gotten off so fast. But the sight of your lips wrapped around my dick, and the way you were looking up at me… It was too fucking much. Now you say it.”

  Against his mouth, I murmur, “I want your long, thick cock deep inside me.”

  Gruffly he asks, “You want this cock enough to marry me?”

  If that was the only thing I wanted…? I still would. “Yes.”

  That earns me another kiss before he pulls away. “You’ll get it, baby. Just three more days. You’ll be a virgin for our wedding but I’ll be taking your sweet little cherry about two seconds afterward. We’re going to shock all the guests.”

  I laugh, but then a tiny worm of uncertainty wriggles under my skin. Because…I’m a virgin. I don’t think of myself that way very often, because it’s a label I don’t put any real stock into. I don’t think it matters much to Caleb either—aside from his planning to be gentle that first time.

  Because it’s supposed to hurt.

  “You okay, Audrey?”

  “Yes.” I can think about my virginity later. The car is slowing, so I quickly return to my seat and reach under my skirt to peel off my drenched underwear. A few tissues take care of most of the wetness, then I snag a new pair of panties from the small bag of toiletries I brought with me. I slip them on and smooth my skirt down.

  Caleb watches the whole process with his expression showing a combination of lust and bemusement. “You came prepared with dry underwear?”

  “Of course. You keep making me wet. So I have a new ‘Caleb keeps making me wet’ kit. Do you need to wait a few minutes?” I gesture to his cock, which he’s shoving back into his pants—still partially erect. “That looks painful.”

  “Meeting the Wyndhams will shrivel it.”

  “If I had one, it wouldn’t shrivel.” Not after what Bradford told us today regarding his investigator’s findings. “Instead I’d be rock hard with anticipation and ready to spew loads of spite all over them.”

  When my driver opens the door, Caleb’s still laughing so hard he staggers getting out. Then he staggers a little more—but this time it’s because he got his first look at the mansion, I realize.

  “Holy shit,” he breathes. “I thought it would be like the Bennet House.”

  Which is Neoclassical in style, whereas the Wyndham mansion is a dramatic Gothic structure of gray stone, with steep gables and gargoyle-studded towers and forty thousand square feet of living space.

  Still appearing slightly stunned, Caleb glances at me. “You were going to buy this thing?”

  I shrug. “It’s not to my personal taste, but I thought students would like it.”

  “Were you going to build a Quidditch stadium, too?”

  “Don’t tempt me. I’m a Slytherin, by the way.” And I bet he’s full-on Hufflepuff. I take his hand as we head for the front door. “So are you changing your mind about selling it?”

  He shakes his head. “If I kept it, I’d burn the fucking thing to the ground.”

  The large arched door is opened before we reach it, but not by one of the Wyndhams. Instead I recognize Mr. Ferry, Eleanor’s butler. Attired in a crisp black suit, the elderly gentleman first greets me and welcomes me back to the mansion before turning to Caleb.

  “Mr. Moore, I believe that I speak for the entirety of the staff when I say how very pleased I am to make your acquaintance.” He bows slightly, inclining his head. “I am David Ferry, and I am at your service.”

  “The staff. Shit,” Caleb mutters under his breath before reaching out and shaking the man’s hand. “Good to meet you. We’re here to see the Wyndhams.”

  “Yes, sir. They await you in the drawing room.”

  “The drawing room. Great.”

  Ferry’s lips quirk. With a sweep of his arm, he ushers us inside and begins showing us down a long hallway. “If I may be so bold, sir—I had the pleasure of knowing your mother for a short time. We were all quite shaken by what befell her.”

  Caleb’s reply holds the same raw edge that always deepens his voice when he speaks of his mother. “She only had good things to say about all of you. Especially the housekeeper, Mrs…?”

  “Mitchell,” Ferry supplies.

  “That’s right. Mrs. Mitchell made sure my mother had a place to stay when she was trying to get back on her feet. Is she still around?”

  “Mrs. Mitchell retired two years ago, I’m afraid. But I can make certain to pass on her contact information.”

  “That’d be good. Yeah.” Caleb abruptly frowns. “Hold up. Are all of the employees being kicked out when the Wyndhams are?”

  “No, sir. I’m pleased to report that this has become a very merry season for us, indeed—and will be even merrier in two weeks. We are employed by the estate, not by Mrs. Sylvia or her children, so we retain our positions until Mrs. Eleanor’s will is settled.”

  When most of them should be able to retire, because Eleanor had been gracious enough to gift each member of the staff a substantial sum and establish a pension. But while the Wyndhams contest the will, their future remains uncertain.

  “Mr. Ferry,” I ask him, “have the Wyndhams indicated that they’ll honor Eleanor’s gifts to the staff if the will is invalidated?”

  He smiles thinly. “Mrs. Sylvia is of the opinion that, since the staff will still be needed when she and her children inherit the estate, we shouldn’t be given incentive to retire so young or require such a large pension when we do eventually leave.”

  No wonder Ferry was so pleased to see Caleb, then. And Caleb appears pissed off by that revelation—angered by the injustice done to the staff, not just driven by spite and hatred.

  And it’s just another reason that I keep falling deeper and deeper in love with him.

  “Change of plan,” he says in a low voice to me as Mr. Ferry opens the drawing room door and announces us. “I don’t burn it down. I let the employees do it—with the Wyndhams still inside.”

  “The staff will receive their gifts and pensions when we win,” I remind him, my gaze skimming the large room as we enter. It’s a rather small and quiet engagement party. Only the Wyndhams themselves seem to be here—Sylvia, the new matriarch, and her children Christopher and Me
redith—along with an all-too familiar couple seated on a blue sofa.

  Ice splinters through my gut. My fingers convulsively tighten on Caleb’s.

  “Caleb,” I whisper through stiff lips. My entire face feels frozen. “I need you to stay right by my side. And don’t let anyone touch me.”

  He abruptly stops, ignoring Christopher’s greeting as the man approaches us. Frowning, he asks quietly, “What is it?”

  I’m on the verge of hyperventilating, yet I can barely manage the breath to answer. “My parents.”

  10

  Audrey

  Caleb’s face darkens and he throws a dangerous glance in my parents’ direction. “Those two are?”

  “Yes.” I can hear the high-pitched panic in my voice. “We can’t stay long. I don’t want to stay long.”

  “Fuck this, then. We’ll go now.”

  “No.” I stop him as he pivots toward the door. “Let’s say what we came here to say. Just…be with me.”

  “I will.” He presses a warm kiss to my palm before turning to Christopher—who resembles Caleb in his coloring and the overall shape of his features, yet without any of the fascinating rough edges and irregularities. “You invited those assholes?”

  Christopher doesn’t even blink. With a smooth smile he replies, “Yes, of course. An engagement party should include the families of the happy couple, shouldn’t it? We all wish to offer our congratulations.”

  “Sure you do,” Caleb tells him, then looks to Mr. Ferry. “Congratulations will go over better when my fiancée has a glass of champagne. Will you please see that she gets one?”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Warmth fills me, melting some of the ice. Caleb knows I rarely drink alcohol. So he must have noticed the trick I’ve been using in public to escape touching and too many handshakes—by holding a glass in my free hand while I hold on to him with the other.

  I love him so much.

  I cling to that love as tightly as I cling to his hand as we walk farther into the drawing room, fighting to keep my gaze away from my parents. It’s hard. Because they’re so wrong here. They’re so wrong anywhere. And I’m not looking at them but they’re all I can see.

  Everyone stands at our approach. Before we reach the group, Mr. Ferry returns carrying a silver tray topped by a single glass, which I gratefully take. But it might not have mattered anyway. Bristling with anger, Caleb doesn’t bother to shake hands, either. Introductions go around but I barely hear them. Only his replies. I focus on the sound of his deep voice so I don’t drown in the bloody wound that ripped open in my chest when I saw my parents.

  The wound was only a scar before. A scar that ached now and then—especially after I met Caleb, as if to remind me of the damage that can be done when your heart is open and vulnerable to someone.

  Caleb will be more careful with me, though. Even when our marriage ends, I believe he’ll take better care with my heart than my parents did, because he’s a rough man but also a good one. The wound might be deep and bloody, but not delivered cruelly or thoughtlessly—and I’m walking into our marriage with my eyes open, knowing it’ll end. I’m choosing the eventual wound over never having him at all.

  My parents, though…I could have done without them.

  We’re invited to sit. Caleb escorts me to a love seat adjacent to my parents’ sofa, then sits forward slightly on the cushion, as if using his big body to shield me from their sight—or to block them from mine. Whatever his intention, having them out of view helps me begin to relax and listen to what the others are saying.

  In an elegant Chanel suit and pearls, Sylvia graces a wingback chair positioned to preside over the conversation. Yet Christopher does most of the talking, seated on the sofa across from us with Meredith at his side. I can imagine what the Wyndhams think of my attitude thus far—and my icy silence—but I don’t care. They had to know I’ve shut my parents out of my life, because it’s common gossip in these circles, yet my parents were invited anyway. Which tells me the Wyndhams wanted to knock me off-kilter. Well, they managed that. Point to them. But it’s the only point they’ll get.

  Christopher offers another smile, just as smooth as before but tinged now with melancholy. “Tonight we celebrate a happy occasion, yet we must acknowledge the tragic event which truly brought us together. I’m only sorry we couldn’t have done this before my grandmother’s passing.”

  Meredith chimes in, “I believe that it would please her very much to know that we have all come together now.”

  “Yes, it would,” Christopher agrees solemnly. “And it is our hope that—in the healing spirit of the season—we might repair the rifts that have estranged us…and make apologies that are long overdue.”

  Both Meredith and Christopher turn to Sylvia, who wears a delicately earnest expression. To Caleb, she says in remorseful tones, “To properly apologize, I must first explain how terribly shocked and grieved we were when we lost Robert so suddenly. He came along much later than I did, you see. I was already married and with Meredith on the way when my mother gave birth to him. And so Robert was not like a sibling to me at all, but another son.”

  “And an older brother to Christopher and me,” Meredith adds with a soft, nostalgic smile.

  “So when Robert’s yacht sank”—Sylvia’s voice quavers—“we were simply devastated. And in the rage and denial of our grief, I regret that we closed our minds and our hearts to your mother’s truth. Because with one look at you, there is no denying your parentage. I know that this apology should have been made to her. I honestly can’t say what prevented us from doing it. Cowardice, perhaps. Or a stubborn unwillingness to revisit our loss and pain, and to never consider what we might gain by welcoming you both into our family. Perhaps fear, too—fear that she would never forgive our overreaction.”

  Throughout this speech, Caleb’s fingers slowly tighten on mine. Angry? Affected? I can’t tell. But I hope he isn’t falling for this manipulative hogwash. Because I can usually spot a gimmick, and they are pushing their grief harder than any used car salesman ever pushed a lemon. The only thing their rehearsed apology lacks is a solitary tear rolling down Sylvia’s cheek.

  Oh oh!—and there it goes. Her lips trembling and her eyes shimmering, Sylvia turns her face away, as if overcome by emotion.

  If my parents weren’t here, this might be fun.

  Christopher picks up the script from there. “So we hope, Caleb, that we might put the past behind us and welcome you into our family as we ought to have done so many years ago.”

  “In the healing spirit of the season?” Caleb responds, and I still can’t read him.

  “Exactly.”

  With a nod, Caleb turns to address my parents. “And you have an apology, too?”

  I stiffen beside him. Whatever they feel sorry about, I don’t care to hear it.

  But apparently the Wyndhams didn’t tell my parents that apologies were on tonight’s agenda or give them time to prepare. A few moments of silence pass before my mother’s stammering, “Well, ah… Of course.”

  Without even seeing them, I know exactly what’s happening now. My mother glances at my father in a wordless plea for help. My father would rather eat rusty nails than apologize for anything, so he leaves it to her to handle such a troublesome matter.

  For many years, I was the troublesome matter that he left to my mother. And even after decades of him continually denying her pleas for help, she still looks to him first. Perhaps hoping this will be the day he gives her the love and support she so desperately needs. For the longest time, I gave her mine—or I tried to. Because what I had to give certainly wasn’t what my mother needed from me.

  Now I’ve got nothing left. Except this raw wound in my chest.

  And Caleb, so warm and strong beside me, holding my hand and silently offering his protection. He has no use for my love, either—he’s only marrying me for spite and sex. Yet I think we have become friends, too. And simply being next to him softens the wound enough that I can list
en without running away to hide from the pain.

  Haltingly, my mother begins, “I suppose…that we were also guilty of overreacting. Or I was. Your father was…”

  She hesitates over what he was, so I suggest flatly, “Weak.”

  “Audrey!” she gasps, as she always does whenever I speak too bluntly. She gasped often while I was growing up.

  I try again. “Selfish?”

  “Of course not. You know your father is a very generous man.”

  Only if generosity is defined by how much money someone gives. “Indifferent, then.”

  “No,” she denies emphatically. “He was not to blame. That’s all I meant to say. And that I was unprepared for a child like you were, Audrey. I was unprepared for your screaming or your tantrums—or how cold you were.”

  “Catherine, my dear,” my father interrupts tightly. “Perhaps you and Audrey should take this discussion to another room.”

  “Oh, should we?” I shift forward to look past the shield Caleb made of his body. My father’s expression is taut and remote, his posture clearly of a man in extreme discomfort, while my mother’s face is flushed with emotion and effort. I got my pale coloring from him and my facial features from her, but in every other way, I can’t see myself in them at all. “Is that so you won’t have to listen to all these troublesome matters? Or is it because you don’t care for the Wyndhams to hear? Are you embarrassed for them to know you had such a difficult and emotional child? I am not embarrassed by it because I don’t care what they think.”

  “Perhaps you don’t care that this is making them uncomfortable, either.”

  “Not really. Though I suspect you’re the only one who’s uncomfortable, Father, because the Wyndhams are probably delighted by this little drama.”