Chapter 3: Ugly Sweaters and Hidden Flames
1172 Words
The following evening, I stood in front of my mirror, second-guessing everything.
Red. He’d told me to wear red.
So I did—a fitted knit dress that hugged my curves, ending mid-thigh, with a deep V-neck that showed just enough cleavage to feel dangerous. Over it, the ugliest Christmas sweater I could find: bright red with a sequined reindeer whose nose actually lit up when you pressed it. Ridiculous. Perfect camouflage.
I paired it with thigh-high socks and ankle boots, hair loose in waves. Innocent enough for an “ugly sweater” party. Sexy enough to keep his words echoing in my head all day.
I want to watch it come off you in my head all night.
I’d barely slept, replaying that whisper until my sheets were twisted and my fingers weren’t enough to ease the ache.
Mia picked me up at six. Damien’s house was twenty minutes away—a modern, sprawling place on a wooded lot, all glass and dark wood. Christmas lights outlined the roofline, but inside it felt more sophisticated than festive: high ceilings, a massive stone fireplace, jazz playing low instead of carols.
He opened the door himself.
Black jeans, barefoot, and the most hideous sweater imaginable: green with a giant embroidered Santa riding a motorcycle, sleeves too short on his muscled arms. It should have looked stupid. On him, it looked like a dare.
His eyes raked over me slowly, deliberately, lingering on the red dress peeking beneath the open zipper of my sweater.
“Nice sweater,” he said, voice gravel-rough. “The dress underneath is better.”
Heat flashed through me. Mia was already inside calling my name, so he stepped aside to let me pass, his hand grazing the small of my back again—longer this time.
Their kitchen was huge, island marble, pendant lights glowing warm. Mia had gone all out: charcuterie boards, mulled wine simmering on the stove, cookies cooling on racks. Just the three of us tonight—“cozy,” she’d called it. My parents were at some neighborhood party.
We ate standing up, laughing over the sweaters, taking stupid photos. Mia pressed the button on my reindeer nose until it blinked frantically; Damien watched with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Those stayed on me.
After dinner, Mia declared we needed a Christmas movie marathon. She claimed the middle of the massive sectional couch, leaving me on one end and Damien on the other. Blankets were distributed. Lights dimmed. Elf started playing.
Halfway through, Mia’s phone buzzed. Work emergency—some graphic design client freaking out over a deadline.
“I have to fix this,” she groaned. “It’ll take an hour, tops. You two start the next movie without me?”
She grabbed her laptop and disappeared upstairs to her old bedroom, door clicking shut.
The room felt suddenly smaller.
Damien didn’t move at first. The TV flickered, Will Ferrell bouncing around in tights. Neither of us watched.
I felt him looking before I turned my head. His arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingers inches from my shoulder.
“Come here,” he said quietly.
My heart slammed. “Damien—”
“Now, little one.”
The command in his voice unraveled me. I shifted closer, until my thigh pressed against his. He didn’t hesitate—his arm dropped around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. I fit perfectly under his arm, head against his chest, the ridiculous Santa motorcycle scratching my cheek.
His hand settled on my bare thigh where the dress had ridden up. Thumb stroking slow circles.
“This dress,” he murmured against my hair. “You wore it for me.”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Good girl.”
Those two words soaked me instantly. I bit my lip to stay quiet.
His hand slid higher, under the hem, fingertips tracing the edge of my lace panties. I tensed, glancing toward the stairs.
“She won’t come down,” he said, reading my mind. “But you’ll have to be very quiet.”
I nodded, breathless.
He tilted my chin up with his other hand, eyes searching mine—dark, intense, almost angry.
“Tell me to stop and I will,” he said roughly. “But if you don’t, I’m going to touch you until you come on my fingers. Right here.”
I couldn’t speak. I just parted my thighs a fraction.
His mouth curved—predatory. Then he kissed me.
Not soft. Not gentle. Hungry. Claiming. His tongue slid against mine, tasting the mulled wine on my lips, while his hand pushed my panties aside and found me slick and ready.
I whimpered into his mouth.
He swallowed the sound, one thick finger easing inside me slowly, then two, curling just right. His thumb circled my c**t with devastating precision.
“Quiet,” he growled against my lips. “Or I’ll stop.”
I buried my face in his neck, breathing him in—cedar, spice, heat—while he worked me expertly. Slow thrusts, pressure building fast and overwhelming. My hips rocked subtly, chasing more.
He shifted us slightly, shielding my body with his, the blanket draped over my lap hiding everything.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
I lifted my head. His eyes locked on mine as he drove me higher, watching every flicker of pleasure cross my face like he was memorizing it.
“Come for me, little one. Let me feel it.”
I shattered—hard, silent waves, teeth sunk into his shoulder through the sweater to muffle my cry. He kept stroking, drawing it out until I sagged against him, trembling.
Only then did he withdraw his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking them clean while I watched, dazed.
“Sweet,” he said simply.
Footsteps on the stairs.
He zipped my sweater up calmly, tucked the blanket around me, and turned his attention to the TV as Mia reappeared.
“Sorry! All fixed.” She flopped back down between us, oblivious. “What’d I miss?”
“Not much,” Damien said, voice perfectly steady.
I couldn’t look at him. My thighs were still shaking.
The rest of the night blurred—another movie, cookies, Mia yawning and deciding to crash in her old room instead of driving home in the snow.
Damien walked me to my car at midnight. Snow fell thick and silent.
At the driver’s door, he caged me against the cold metal, hands on either side of my head.
“Tomorrow,” he said, breath warm against my lips. “My office holiday party got canceled. Mia’s working late. Come here after six.”
It wasn’t a question.
I nodded.
He kissed me once more—brutal, possessive—then opened my door.
“Drive safe, little one.”
I drove home throbbing, replaying the taste of him, the feel of his fingers, the promise in his voice.
Four days until Christmas Eve.
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