Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

Hours later, I’m lying in Damien’s bed, a little sleepy but incredibly satisfied. It’s like any tiny molecule of pleasure Damien could sense in my body was wrung out through sheer will alone.

But now we’re in that awkward phase that I haven’t had to live through since college. When the hookup is over, it’s time to separate, but you have to do it without making things weird.

Men hate clingy women, after all.

Okay, time to head out, Abbie, I remember Richard saying after one of the first times we had sex. You don’t want to wear out your welcome. He’d said it with a smile, and I remember being 24 and stupid and thinking it was cute. Funny, even. I smiled back, got dressed, and kissed him, leaving him in his bed while I walked out the door and into a cab.

I should have fucking run.

But still, the reality is even if Richard was more . . . upfront about it, all men are the same. I’m sure Damien’s no better when it comes to wanting alone time.

I can respect that, really.

“I guess I should get going,“ I say, trailing a finger down the center of his chest, my eyes trying not to document the ridges of his abs that are way hotter than any man has the right to be.

No wonder Richard hated him. Hot as fuck, more successful, outstanding in bed, and he looks like this under his clothes. Anyone should hate him.

I would probably hate him if we didn’t just have the most amazing first date and he didn’t just fuck me into another solar system.

“Why would you do that?” he asks, and I move my face to look up at him. He’s looking at me with a strange expression on which I can’t quite put my finger. A bit of confusion, but maybe also a hint of . . . disappointment?

“Because . . . you have to be up early? Work? I’m sure you have things to do tonight,” I say. My mind moves to a million nights where Richard and I would go out, have drinks, go to his place to fuck, and then I’d head home because he had some work to do and then wanted a “good night’s sleep.” I apparently am difficult to sleep with, moving around a ton. And hey, being a lawyer isn’t for the faint of heart, and Richard needed his sleep.

I never held that against him.

“It’s midnight,” Damien says with a smile, those straight white teeth gleaming in the dim light.

“But you need your rest, I’m sure. I’m kind of a crazy sleeper; I move a ton. So I wouldn’t want to . . . mess with your sleep.” His brows furrow, the smile faltering.

“I don’t . . . You lost me, rubia. I’m not sure what you’re trying to say.” I don’t respond, feeling weird about this conversation. Instead, my eyes move to my fingers drawing patterns on his chest, my mind trying to think of what to say. His hand is warm when it meets my chin, tipping it until his hand can move just below my jaw, wrapping my neck and forcing me to look at him.

I officially feel self-conscious and like an idiot with his eyes on me, scrutinizing me.

“Hey, no. Fill me in on what’s happening in that pretty head of yours.” I blink at him once, twice.

He’s not letting me out of this, no matter how much I want him to.

“Men . . . like you . . . You need to sleep. To be well rested. You can’t do that with a woman in your bed.”

“Men like me?”

“Lawyers, people with important jobs. People who—”

“People with important jobs?” That thick eyebrow is raised, and a small smile has come back to his face. I can’t help but return it.

“You know what I’m saying, Damien.” I smack his chest with a laugh, but his eyes narrow, the smile slipping. His face is so damn expressive. I’m able to read every thought, every emotion on it. I wonder how on earth he wins in the courtroom if that’s how he always is.

“Is your job not important?” he asks, and I laugh, rolling off him and onto my side. He follows, so we face each other, and his fingers run through my hair, pulling it away from my face.

“I do makeup at a department store.”

“And?”

“It’s just makeup. I don’t command a courtroom or keep the scales of justice in balance.” I expect him to smile or laugh. He doesn’t. Instead, concern crosses his face.

“Just makeup.” He says it like he’s talking to himself, like he’s trying to process my words.

“Yeah . . . I just . . . do makeup.” I don’t understand where this conversation is going.

“Okay. I see where this is going,” he says then rolls until he’s over me, propped on his elbow on either side of me. He bends down, brushing his lips against my own.

“What is?”

“I like you,” he says, and I smile, but he keeps speaking before I can reply. “I like you, and I like this. This is good. We work. You’re cute, and you’re fun, and you’re a dream when I fuck you.” A blush burns my face, and I try to turn my face to hide it. But he moves, holding himself on just one arm now and putting that damn hand round my throat again, pressing in a way I can feel in my clit until I look at him again. “No. Absolutely not. You do not get embarrassed about that, especially not with me. We are explosive in a way I’ve never had.” I lick my lips as a thrill runs through me, and he smiles.

“There she is.” I scrunch my nose in annoyance, but he just laughs, pressing his lips to the spot between my eyebrows. “As I was saying. I like you. I like this. But it will not work if you pull that shit.”

“What shit?”

“That you’re a lawyer and I’m a lowly makeup artist.”

My gut drops, and I rub my lips together, a nervous tick I’ve had for years.

“You are not just anything. Are you passionate about what you do?” I move to open my mouth, to answer, but that hand presses, quieting me. “I know you are. You spoke about it at dinner, and I saw it. You help people feel their best. That’s admirable. Better than I do, most days.”

“What you do is impo—”

“This won’t work, even if it’s just fun, if you see yourself as lesser than me.” Every molecule in my body stops moving.

The noises in my mind silence.

I think I stop breathing for a moment in time.

“I don’t understand.”

“A relationship is like the law. It needs balance. If it’s out of balance, if one person sees themselves as less valuable, if another sees themselves as more valuable, the balance isn’t there.” His dark eyes are boring into mine with his words, and any words I could say are stuck in my chest.

“You are not less than me. I am not less than you. We are humans who do what we can to help people.”

Silence.

I don’t respond.

I don’t . . .

This man was supposed to be an ass.

At best, a nice guy who was a little stuck-up and into himself.

I could handle that.

I could handle a man who has a bit of a superiority complex, especially if he could fuck me into tomorrow and help me get my revenge.

A no brainer, really.

But this?

A man who is kind and caring and understanding and can fuck me into tomorrow?

I don’t know what to do with it.

So I just say, “Oh.”

Like an idiot.

And for some reason, Damien doesn’t find my loss of words annoying or stupid. Instead, he just smiles at me and shakes his head like he finds me sweet.

“Yeah, oh.” He leans forward again, pressing his lips against mine. “I want you to stay the night. Here, with me.”

“Damien, that’s sweet, but I really am a crazy sleeper.”

“Are you saying that because you don’t want to spend the night here or with me? Or are you saying that because you’re worried about my sleep quality?” He says it with a smile. I scrunch my nose but don’t answer.

His eyebrow raises, and the smile spreads.

We’re in a standoff.

“Your funeral,” I say in a mumble. “If I kick you in the balls in my sleep and you can’t walk straight tomorrow, not my fault.”

Damien just smiles, pressing his lips to mine again, but not in that soft, sweet way.

“Yeah, well, let’s see if I can tire you out. Help you sleep well. Maybe we can make it so you’re the one who can’t walk straight tomorrow,” he says, then his lips move to my neck, licking and sucking a path down.

And you know what?

I sleep soundly all night in Damien’s bed, his leg hitched up over my hip, keeping me pinned in place the entire time.