Chapter 7: Christmas Eve Morning
1380 Words
December 24. Christmas Eve.
I woke up long before my alarm, the room still dark, the house silent except for the faint hum of the heater pushing against the cold. Snow had stopped sometime in the night; everything outside the window was hushed and white, the world holding its breath.
My body remembered him before my mind did. The ache between my thighs was softer today—less sharp, more lingering. A secret reminder. I stretched under the covers, sheets sliding over skin that still felt too sensitive, and let myself sink into the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he’d whispered my name like a prayer when he came.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand.
One new message. Sent at 3:17 a.m.
Damien: Are you awake, little one?
My heart stuttered. I typed back immediately.
Me: Now I am. Couldn’t sleep?
The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
Damien: Too quiet here. Kept thinking about you in my bed. The way you looked in the firelight. The sounds you made when I was inside you.
Heat flooded me. I pressed my thighs together, already wet.
Me: I keep replaying it too. Every time I move, I feel you.
Damien: Good. I want you sore. I want you thinking about me every second today.
Me: I am. I promise.
A pause.
Damien: Tonight will be hard. The house full. Mia everywhere. Your parents. I’ll have to watch you across the room and pretend I’m not dying to touch you.
Me: I know. I’m scared I’ll give it away. That I’ll look at you too long.
Damien: You won’t. You’re stronger than that. But if you need me—if it gets too much—go to the upstairs bathroom. Lock the door. Text me. I’ll find a way to you.
I stared at the screen, pulse racing.
Me: Okay.
Damien: One more thing. Wear the red dress tonight. The one from the ugly sweater night. No panties.
I swallowed hard.
Me: Damien…
Damien: Say yes, little one.
Me: Yes.
Damien: Good girl. See you at six.
I set the phone down and stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling too fast.
No panties. All evening. Surrounded by family and friends and holiday cheer, knowing he’d be watching, knowing I was bare under the dress for him.
The thought alone made me throb.
I forced myself out of bed. Shower. Coffee. Helping Mom with last-minute prep—stuffing the turkey, arranging the charcuterie board, setting out the good china. Every mundane task felt charged, like I was moving through a dream.
Mia arrived at noon with Damien, arms full of gifts and more peppermint bark. She hugged me tight, smelling like vanilla and cold air.
“You look glowy,” she said, pulling back to study my face. “New skincare or something?”
“Just… holiday spirit,” I mumbled.
Damien lingered in the doorway behind her, snow melting off his boots. Our eyes met over her shoulder—just a second—but it was enough. His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth, then lower, like he was already picturing the dress. Picturing what was missing underneath.
He looked away, greeting Mom with that easy charm.
The day dragged and flew at once.
Guests trickled in throughout the afternoon—neighbors, Dad’s coworkers, Mia’s aunt from out of town. The house filled with laughter, carols on the speakers, the smell of mulled wine and cinnamon.
I stayed busy. Anything to keep from staring at him.
But I felt him everywhere. Every time he moved through a room, the air shifted. When he laughed at something Dad said, the sound rolled through me like a touch. When he reached for a high shelf to help Mom with extra glasses, his shirt pulled tight across his back and I remembered my nails digging into that same muscle.
At five-thirty, I escaped upstairs to get ready.
The red dress hung in my closet—fitted knit, long sleeves, deep V-neck, hem hitting mid-thigh. Festive. Flattering. Dangerous.
I slipped it on, smoothed it down. Turned in the mirror.
No bra—the cut didn’t need one. And no panties, as ordered.
The fabric whispered against bare skin. Every step would remind me. Every brush of air between my legs would be his doing.
I painted my lips red to match. Left my hair down in loose waves.
When I came downstairs, conversation dipped for half a beat—compliments from Mom, a whistle from Mia’s aunt. But I only cared about one reaction.
Damien stood by the fireplace, wine glass in hand, talking to Dad. His eyes found me the second I appeared.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t move.
Just looked—slow, deliberate, possessive. His gaze traveled from my face down the length of the dress, lingering at the hem, then back up. Something dark and hungry flickered across his face before he masked it.
He lifted his glass in a small, private toast.
I felt it like a touch between my legs.
The evening began in earnest—dinner served buffet-style, kids running around hyped on sugar, adults tipsy on eggnog and stories.
I floated through it all, hyper-aware of every sensation: the cool air under the dress when I bent to pick up a dropped napkin, the brush of fabric against sensitive skin when I sat, the constant low thrum of arousal.
He stayed across the room most of the night. Talking. Laughing. Untouchable.
But his eyes followed me.
Every time I glanced up, he was watching.
When I passed him in the hallway carrying empty plates, his fingers grazed my wrist—just a second, hidden by the crowd.
When I leaned over the dessert table, I felt his stare like heat on my thighs.
By ten, gifts were being opened early for the kids, carols were louder, the house chaotic.
I was shaking with need.
I slipped upstairs to the guest bathroom—the one at the end of the hall, rarely used. Locked the door. Leaned against the sink, breathing hard.
Texted him.
Me: I can’t do this. I need you.
His reply was instant.
Damien: On my way.
I waited, heart pounding.
A soft knock.
I opened the door a crack.
He slipped inside, closed and locked it behind him.
The space was small—sink, toilet, narrow floor. He filled it completely.
No words.
He cupped my face and kissed me—deep, desperate, swallowing my moan. His hands slid down my sides, gripping the hem of the dress.
He pulled back just enough to look at me.
“Good girl,” he whispered, fingers confirming what he already knew—no barrier, just slick heat.
I whimpered.
He turned me to face the mirror, standing behind me. One hand splayed across my stomach, holding me against him. The other dipped between my legs from the front, stroking slowly.
“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice rough in my ear.
I did—lips swollen, eyes glassy, dress rucked up around my hips, his big hand working between my thighs.
He circled my c**t once, twice, then slid two fingers inside me easily.
“So wet,” he growled. “All night. For me.”
“Yes,” I gasped.
He thrust slowly, curling, while his thumb kept pressure on my c**t. His other hand moved up to cup my breast through the dress, pinching the n****e.
I bit my lip hard to stay quiet—voices and laughter drifting up from downstairs.
“Come quietly, little one,” he whispered. “Show me you can obey.”
I did—shattering around his fingers, knees buckling. He held me up, drawing it out until I sagged against him.
He straightened my dress, kissed my temple.
“Better?”
I nodded, still trembling.
He washed his hands, calm as ever.
“I’ll go first. Wait two minutes.”
He slipped out.
I fixed my lipstick, smoothed my hair.
When I returned downstairs, he was by the tree again, talking to Mia like nothing had happened.
But when our eyes met across the room, the message was clear.
This was only the beginning of the night.
And we weren’t nearly done.
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