Chapter 6: Movie Night Inferno
1069 Words
The house was chaos in the best way—blankets strewn across the sectional, bowls of popcorn everywhere, the massive TV queued up with a stack of classic Christmas movies. Mom had dimmed the lights and strung extra fairy strands around the room, making everything glow soft and golden. Snow tapped steadily against the windows.
I’d spent the afternoon baking with Mom—sugar cookies shaped like stars and trees—to keep my hands busy and my mind off the ache between my legs that still whispered Damien every time I moved.
They arrived at seven: Mia first, arms full of fuzzy blankets and her famous peppermint bark; Damien behind her, carrying a bottle of good red wine and a calm smile that didn’t fool me for a second.
He wore a charcoal Henley that stretched across his chest and dark jeans. Simple. Devastating.
Our eyes met across the foyer as he shrugged off his coat. Just a flicker—long enough for heat to rush straight to my core, for the memory of his mouth, his hands, his body inside mine to flood back in perfect detail.
He looked away first, greeting Mom with a kiss on the cheek, shaking Dad’s hand. Normal. Perfectly normal.
I busied myself in the kitchen, pouring wine with shaking fingers.
Mia flopped beside me on the couch, stealing a handful of popcorn. “You okay? You’re all flushed.”
“Hot in here,” I lied, fanning myself.
Damien took the armchair across from us—close enough to see, far enough to behave. Mom and Dad claimed the loveseat. Lights dimmed further. Home Alone started.
For the first twenty minutes I actually watched the screen. Then I felt it—his gaze. Steady, burning. When I risked a glance, he was staring openly, eyes dark, one arm draped casually along the chair but fingers clenched tight on the leather.
I shifted, thighs pressing together under the blanket. The soreness throbbed deliciously.
Mia leaned her head on my shoulder, oblivious. “This is perfect,” she sighed.
Perfect torture.
Halfway through, Mom paused for a bathroom break and to refill snacks. Everyone stretched. Dad started some story about his office party. Mia jumped up to help Mom.
Damien didn’t move.
I felt him watching as I stood to grab another blanket from the ottoman—bending just enough that my oversized sweater rode up, exposing the strip of skin above my leggings.
When I straightened, he was right behind me.
His hand brushed my hip—barely contact, but electricity shot through me.
“Careful, little one,” he murmured, so low only I could hear. “You’re playing with fire tonight.”
I turned slightly, breath catching. “Maybe I want to burn.”
His eyes flared. Fingers tightened on my hip for a fraction of a second—possessive, promising—before he released me and stepped back as Mia returned with fresh popcorn.
We resettled. Lights down again. The movie resumed.
This time Damien moved to the floor, back against the sectional near my feet, claiming more space. Casual. Innocent.
Except his hand found my ankle under the blanket.
I froze.
Thumb stroking slow circles over bare skin. Up to my calf. Higher, to the sensitive spot behind my knee. Every touch hidden by layers of blankets and shadows.
I bit the inside of my cheek to stay quiet.
Mia laughed at something on screen, head still on my shoulder. Mom and Dad murmured commentary.
Damien’s hand slid higher—over my knee, along my inner thigh. Slow. Teasing. Stopping just short of where I was already wet and aching for him.
I shifted subtly, parting my legs the tiniest bit. An invitation.
His fingers traced feather-light patterns, never quite giving me what I needed. Torment.
I risked a glance down. In the TV glow, his face was calm, eyes on the screen. Only the flex of his jaw gave him away.
When the movie hit a loud scene, his hand finally cupped me through my leggings—firm pressure right where I throbbed. I barely swallowed a gasp.
He rubbed once. Twice. Slow circles that made my hips twitch.
Then, cruelly, he withdrew, hand returning to my ankle like nothing had happened.
I was trembling, soaked, desperate.
The credits rolled. Lights up. Everyone stretching, chatting about the next movie—It’s a Wonderful Life.
Damien stood smoothly, excusing himself to the kitchen for water.
I waited thirty seconds, then followed.
The kitchen was empty, lit only by the under-cabinet lights. He stood at the sink, back to me, glass in hand.
I didn’t speak. Just stepped close, pressing my front to his back.
His whole body tensed.
“Lila,” he warned, voice rough.
“I need you,” I whispered against his shoulder blade. “Please.”
He set the glass down hard. Turned.
For a second we just stared—both breathing fast, restraint fraying.
He cupped my face, thumb brushing my swollen lower lip. “Not here. Not like this.”
“I know.” I leaned into his touch. “But I can still feel you inside me. Every second.”
A low growl escaped him. He glanced toward the doorway—no one coming—then kissed me fiercely, backing me against the counter. Hands gripping my waist, lifting me onto the cool granite.
My legs wrapped around him instinctively. He pressed forward, letting me feel how hard he was.
“f**k,” he muttered against my mouth. “You’re going to kill me.”
Headlights swept across the window—our neighbor coming home late. We broke apart instantly.
He helped me down, hands lingering.
“Go back first,” he said, voice strained. “I need a minute.”
I nodded, smoothing my sweater, trying to look normal.
Back in the living room, I curled up under the blanket again. Mia raised an eyebrow. “You okay? You’re all red.”
“Too much wine,” I mumbled.
Damien returned a minute later, composed as ever, reclaiming his spot on the floor.
The next movie started.
This time he didn’t touch me.
But every time our eyes met in the flickering light, the promise was there—burning hotter than before.
One day until Christmas Eve.
One more day of pretending.
I wasn’t sure either of us would make it.
- Writer
