Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

I’m in Damien’s apartment.

This is not the interesting part. I’ve been to Damien’s apartment more than a handful of times over the past month.

The new part is that Damien is not here in his apartment.

I want to tell you it feels weird, that it’s uncomfortable.

It’s not.

I feel . . . at home.

That might be the weirder part. How weird this doesn’t feel.

I dated Richard for four years and never once felt at home there. It was a place where I always thought I needed to be on my best behavior: doing something, cleaning something, and dressing to the nines . . .

And he sure as hell didn’t tell me he wanted me to be waiting for him at his place after work because he’d had a shitty day.

At the time, I didn’t even know that feeling was strange.

Today, Damien asked if I would spend the night. We had a date planned, but his work is running past dinner time.

“I still want to see you tonight,” he’d said when he called me during a court break. “But once I’m out of here, I need to return to the office, grab a few things, and make some calls. I don’t know when I’ll be out.”

“Seriously, it’s fine, Damien,” I said. “We can meet up another day.”

“You’re not listening, naranja.” His voice made me pause. Not angry, but firm. The words he was saying, he wanted me to hear, to understand. “I’m telling you I’m having a shit day. A long fucking day. I’m telling you I can’t go out, but I really fucking want to see you. I’m asking you to be at my place when I get home.” He stopped speaking, but I didn’t pick up the slack in the conversation, staying silent.

Confused.

“Look, if you’re not comfortable—”

“No. No, Damien, it’s not that. I’ve just . . . never done this. It’s new.” It was his turn for silence, but it was a silence he broke.

“We’ll dig into that shit later. We gotta cover all the crazy shit your ex put in your head one of these days. Go over how we can fix it. But until then, can you be at my place?”

“Yeah, Damien. I can do that,” I’d said, because what else do you say in that situation?

This brings us to now. Now, where I’m here at Damien’s apartment, waiting for him to come home. I left work, and he instructed me to let him know when I was ready to head over because he planned to send a car for me.

And he did—when I texted him I had an overnight bag packed and ready to go, he had a black town car outside by my building in ten minutes.

So I’m here, panicking, because what am I supposed to be doing?

Right now, it seems to be that when presented with insecurities and confusion around a relationship, I fall into old habits.

I made dinner—spaghetti and meatballs, the meatballs Hannah’s recipe that she perfected when we were still kids.

I baked the world’s best cookies (also using my sister’s recipe).

I even cleaned up, noticing his apartment was kind of a tornado. I know that the case he’s working on now and Sharon’s case have been taking over his life. He’s been stressed since most things need to be wrapped up before the holidays or else they’ll face an extended recess for the holidays and vacations.

It shows in the way his typically pristine apartment looks.

With all cooking and cleaning options for busying my nervous mind exhausted, I’m stuck sitting on his couch (that I vacuumed) in a pair of leggings and an oversized tee shirt, the sauce and meatballs simmering slowly while I wait.

And it all feels so familiar.

A late night, my incessant urge to make a man’s life easier.

Working my ass off in my free time to do small things to show I care.

Secretly praying that when he gets home, he’ll notice them. That he’ll be grateful or appreciative. He’ll see my worth, that I am someone he should keep around.

God, I am so pathetic.

Especially when I realize just how much the last man really did not care in the least. Realizing that you survived on scraps of affection and convinced yourself it was a whole meal can be the most eye-opening, humbling experience in the world.

And as I hear the key turn in the door, I’m ready to be hit with the realization again.

Though, I tell myself, at least this time it won’t matter as much. It won’t hurt as much. This doesn’t matter, right? This sham of a relationship can’t hurt you.

Maybe if I tell myself that enough, it will become true.

“Honey, I’m home.” Damien comes in the door with a smile, his winter coat covering up the suit I know is underneath and a briefcase in his hand.

In his other hand are flowers.

Not fancy, expensive ones wrapped in cellophane. They’re bodega flowers, carnations and baby’s breath and greenery, and they look a little on the dry side, but goddammit.

The man bought me flowers.

He bought me flowers on his way home from work after a terribly long day, stopping at some random bodega on the street because . . . what? He wanted to surprise me? He was thinking of me?

I stand, walking toward him, meeting him halfway, and he’s got this goofy, cheerful smile that I don’t think I’ve seen before. It barely masks the look of exhaustion in his eyes, but when he drops the briefcase to the floor with a loud thump and wraps one cold arm around my waist to pull me in, I don’t care.

When his lips hit mine, all I can think is this would be nice. It would be a fucking fantastic way to end each day.

The kiss is short, just a sweet greeting before he pulls back.

“I got you these. They kind of look like shit. They were the only ones left, but . . . here,” he says, smiling a boyish smile and showing me the flowers.

“They’re . . . perfect,” I say, and I don’t know how else to react.

The last time I was given flowers, my sister brought them to my college graduation, where she and Sadie screamed so loud when they called my name, I was red for an hour.

“You look exhausted,” I say with a small, nervous smile, pushing the lock of hair that falls to his forehead when he’s been running his hand through his hair back.

“I am. I’m sorry I had to cancel plans tonight. I just don’t have it in me.”

“Stop. You’re fine.”

“What’s that smell,” he asks, stepping back and moving to take off his jacket. I take the flowers and move to his kitchen to look for a cup or a vase to put them in.

“I . . . uh . . . I made dinner? I wasn’t sure how late you’d get h—” I almost catch myself saying “home” and stop. “Here. So I picked an easy meal I could just . . . you know, heat up.” My face is burning with discomfort and just a touch of embarrassment as I fill a tall cup with water and place the flowers inside.

What was I thinking?

This was such a terrible idea.

I should have sat around on his couch and ordered takeout when he came home. There’s no way to cover up this, though, so I move to the stove. Turning the water on to boil, I look down my body, noting the fuzzy socks I have my leggings tucked into, my cold toes winning once again.

Jesus Christ, I could have at least put on something sexier. I should have let him walk into the apartment with me lying on his couch in nothing but a teddy.

Or naked.

Literally, anything would be better than—

“You made me dinner?” The voice is a rumble against my back as his arm wraps around my waist.

“It’s just . . . meatballs. And sauce. Nothing fancy. I can also save it, order takeout.” He turns me, and I try not to look him in the face.

“You made me dinner.” I nod, and he moves his head, looking around his space. “Did you clean up?” My stomach drops.

“I swear, I didn’t touch anything personal. Just vacuumed and tidied up. I did organize your laundry and start a load, but I checked all of the tags, made sure nothing was—”

“Jesus, rubia, you did my laundry?”

“I promise it wasn’t weird. I just . . . I knew you’d had a rough couple of days.” He drops his forehead to mine and breathes in my air. Taking a step back, he leads me away from the stove until my hips hit the island counter. Despite his warm apartment, the marble is cold even through my thick sweatshirt.

“Can dinner wait?” he asks.

“What?”

“Dinner. You said it’s easy, that it can be heated up. Can it wait?” I’m so lost, his scent and nearness scrambling my mind.

“I don’t . . . Wait?”

“Thirty minutes, an hour. Can it wait, Abigail?” This time the hands on my hips move to pull me into him, and I feel it then, pressed into my belly. He’s hard.

Heat runs through my veins, and his hands on my hips grab me, lifting me up onto the counter. We’re nearly face-to-face, and when he moves to reduce the gap between us, I realize his hardness is right at my center.

“Oh,” I say.

“Yeah, oh.” His head dips down, and he nips the line of my jaw, forcing me to suck in a breath. “So can dinner wait? Fuck, fifteen minutes. That’s all I need, rubia.” His nose traces the line of my neck, his mouth breathing into my ear. “I’ll eat you right here on this counter, make you scream my name, then come again as I fuck you standing.”

I don’t say anything.

I can’t say anything.

I never felt this way with any man my age.

It’s like the extra years turned this man feral, helped him learn a woman’s body, the cues, and the subtle changes. It took him no time at all to learn what mine needs, what it craves, and just how to give it that.

“Rubia, answer me,” he murmurs in my ear, pulling the lobe into his mouth and sucking. I let out a shaky breath because what I crave most from him is that damn mouth of his.

“You’ll have to turn off the water,” I say then clear my throat of the arousal that feels like it’s coating it. “It’s set to boil.” He smiles—not something I see but more feel against my skin before he nips me again then backs up, leaving me dazed and sitting on the counter.

“Don’t you move,” he says with his back turned as I move my hands to the counter to lower myself. I stop in place, hyperaware of the cold beneath me and my heated skin. He walks to the stove, turning the dial until it clicks off, and then he’s moving back to me, shrugging off his suit jacket and placing it on a bar stool.

My eyes follow his hands as they move to his cuff, undoing the button and moving to the opposite arm. Slowly he walks toward me, undoing his tie, tossing that to the side, and then starting on the buttons of his shirt. When he hits the last one, he’s still a few feet from me, and I can’t help but continue to take in the look of him. Tan and perfect. He takes care of himself but enjoys himself as well, and it shows. I freaking love it.

With a foot still between us, the shirt falls off his body completely until he’s standing before me in just his work pants, a dark happy trail I like to run my tongue over disappearing into the waistband, his erection thick beneath the fabric.

A jolt runs through me, fire and electricity and need.

He smiles, noticing everything my body does, like always, before closing the gap. A hand goes to the nape of my neck, grabbing the hair and pulling it back gently until I look up at his face.

His lips touch the spot between my eyebrows like he loves to then move to kiss my lips, and the gentle kiss and slow glide of his tongue against mine is a stark contrast to how I’m feeling.

The hand not in my hair moves to my knee, slowly sliding up until his thumb grazes the seam of my leggings, pressing in, and I sigh into his mouth before it moves.

“My girl, always ready for me,” he says, a whisper into my ear before his mouth moves down my neck, nipping and licking and sucking.

“Yeah,” I breathe, my mind already gone as his thumb rubs soft circles against my clit. The fabric grates against sensitive skin, and I moan out, his teeth biting where my neck meets my shoulder.

“I bet you’re already drenched for me, yeah?” My hips move, buck, trying to get his hand to do more—anything to get me closer to paradise. “Answer me. Are you wet for me?” I don’t hesitate, knowing this game of obedience and rewards well by now.

“Yes, Damien. I’m wet for you. God, please.”

“Please, what, baby?” His thumb rubs harder, and I groan out. I’m pretty sure I could come like this, nothing more than his thumb over fabric and his mouth on my neck.

“Don’t stop,” I whisper, again bucking to move with him, to get more.

And, of course, because Damien never does as I tell him, he stops, stepping back with a smile. But his hand stays on my neck, keeping me from tipping forward.

Keeping me safe, always.

Once I’m steady—pouting, but steady—he puts the thumbs of both hands into the waistband of my leggings. “Hands to the counter, baby. Lift your hips, yeah?” I do as he asks, and he drags the black fabric down my hips, releasing one foot but not worrying about the other. Those hands move from my knees, up my inner thighs, spreading me until I’m displayed just for him, cold air hitting my pussy and forcing me to tighten.

“God, my little whore, no panties?” he asks with a smile, one thumb running up my center. I can’t help but let out a moan as he drags wetness up, lightly circling my clit.

“Damien—”

“What? What do you want, baby?”

“I want . . . you. God.”

“My finger?” he asks, then one finger slips in, dragging against my G-spot as it pulls back out.

“God. Yes!”

“Oh, that’s what you want?” He repeats the action with a second finger, pumping twice this time before pulling out and circling my clit again.

“Ahh!”

“No, I want to do something else, I think.” I moan in disappointment, already on edge, and buck my hips. The hand that’s holding me open lifts, slapping me quick and sharp on my inner thigh, making me moan again. The sensation runs to my clit, throbbing there with painful need. “Stay still, Abigail,” he says, and he then moves, taking a knee until he’s face-to-face with my pussy.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Large hands move, stretching my hips almost painfully until I’m spread and at the very edge of the counter.

“Put your hands here, hold yourself open for me, and do not fucking move while I eat this cunt,” he growls, eyes locked to mine.

I do as I’m asked.

“Such a good girl, Abigail,” he says to me, but the words are so low, I almost think they’re for his benefit.

I don’t have time to overthink the meaning or the intention when his tongue flattens against me, dragging from my entrance to my clit where he sucks hard.

The sound that comes out of me is absolutely feral.

His head moves for a moment, and he looks up at me as I watch him through hooded eyes.

“That’s it, baby. Be loud. You tell your man you like what he’s doing to this body.” And then he goes back to work, fucking me with his tongue, grazing my clit with his teeth, devouring me.

“Fuck, Damien! Oh god, it’s so good. You’re so good, honey.” I moan, barely making any sense, but my words spur a moan from him, the vibrations against my clit moving up my spine where they settle, warm and liquid.

And when he takes those two fingers from before and slides them inside me, giving me what I need, I scream, hips moving to get closer, teetering on the edge of the counter, and one hand leaves my thighs to grip his hair.

Until he stops.

And he stands.

And I moan with the loss.

His hand moves to my throat, holding me there and staring in my eyes.

“You be a good fucking girl, Abigail, and you hold those legs open for your man while I make you come on my face, yeah?”

A small moan falls from my lips, and a smile plays on his wet lips.

Wet with me.

“Agree, baby, and I’ll make you come on my face.”

“Yes, Damien. I promise. Please, god!”

He says nothing, just moves back to kneeling, waiting for my hands to return to my thighs. When they do, he continues to stare, waiting for me to spread them to that almost painful width, the ache just adding to my pleasure.

And then his face is back between my legs, devouring me, moaning against me. No matter how much I want to pull him closer, to use his face, I don’t. I behave. I hold my legs open and let him devour me.

Three fingers join now, fucking me as he eats, and I’m unbearably close. He knows, the noises coming out of me inhuman, and I moan his name. His hand travels gently up my sweatshirt, meeting no bra and causing another moan to fall from his lips into my cunt. And as he holds my eyes, pinching a nipple tight, sucking my clit hard and flexing his fingers, he gives me the nonverbal permission I need to explode, screaming his name.

My eyes stay open, locked to his as I continue to come and come and come, lights dancing in my eyes. My body continues to quake as he licks and nips, slowing down the thrusts of his fingers but not fully stopping until he’s standing in front of me.

“You can let go, baby,” he whispers with a smile against my lips, and I didn’t even realize I was still holding myself open. My hands move to his neck, legs wrapping around his hips, and I kiss him hard, tasting myself on his tongue. When he pulls back, a wet hand is on my chin, and he forces my face to look at him. “You are fucking perfect.” And then his hands are on my hips, taking me off the counter and moving up to shuck my sweatshirt. He turns me, gentle hands moving on my skin despite my knowing his body is impatient.

“Now I’m going to fuck you, baby,” he says, forcing my hips to hit the marble again, now warm from my ass, before his hand is on the center of my back, pressing firmly until I bend. He keeps pushing until my entire front is on the cool marble, my head to the side.

“God, you’re so pretty, lying there, waiting for my cock.” The sound of a metal belt fills the room, and soon I feel the thick head of his cock rubbing down my swollen entrance. “Are you going to take me like a good girl, Abigail?” I moan as he notches the head. “I’m going to fuck you hard, baby. You’re going to come again because you like when I treat you like my whore, yes? When I fuck you for my pleasure?”

My breaths are coming out shaky, audible against the counter.

“Yes, Damien,” I say, the words quiet, but I know he hears them.

I know because of his next move.

“Fuck yeah, you do,” he says then slams in with a growl. I scream, my head moving back as he slides through swollen tissues, hitting me deeply, the pleasure and near pain acute. “That’s it, baby. You scream for me.”

He pounds into me, my feet barely grazing the floor as he does, hitting the ache in my belly square with each thrust. Each thrust moves me forward on the counter, the harsh pull of my skin on the marble overwhelming, the build of pleasure in my cunt instantly rising again.

“Fuck, god, Damien.”

“You’re going to come for me again, aren’t you?” he asks through gritted teeth, a hand moving from my hips to land hard on my ass, the strike spiking to my clit. It’s like he’s taking his rough day out on my body like I am his escape, and I love it.

“Yes!” I shout, but I need more. I’m teetering on the edge, and I know he’s not far behind. But I need more.

He knows, of course.

There’s never been a person on this earth who can read me the way he can. A hand moves up my back, pressing me into the counter as it does, as he brutally fucks me into it, until it hits the back of my neck. The hand wraps around my hair and tugs harshly, my neck moving back until I’m looking at the recessed lighting in his ceiling.

“So fucking beautiful when you take me like this, baby,” he whispers, then I hear an unfamiliar noise moments before wet hits the crack of my ass.

Spit.

He spit on me.

The hand on my hip moves, a finger trailing the wet spit down until it’s at my asshole. His thumb pulls my ass cheek to the side as he slows his deep, all-consuming thrusts inside of me, his breathing heavy and erratic.

He’s so close.

“Soon,” he says, and I know he’s staring at my ass, at where his cock is disappearing into my cunt. “I’m going to take this ass soon, baby, and you’re going to scream my name as I do.” A shiver runs through me. “Have you had a man here before?” A finger, wet with his spit, circles the unfamiliar hole. I shake my head.

“I’ll be the first,” he says, that finger continuing the circle, his thrusts speeding again.

“God, Damien, please,” I moan.

“I’m going to fuck your ass with my finger while I fuck your sweet pussy, baby, and you’re going to come for me, yeah?”

“Damien—”

“Yes or no, baby?” he asks, fucking me ruthlessly now, my ass bouncing against his hips, his thumb pressing on my asshole.

I’m shocked that I already love the feel, that the thought of this intrusion is building my orgasm, forcing me to hold back on cresting.

“Fuck, yes, Damien, now!” I shout, and then a thick finger enters me as he fills me, and I’ve never been so damn full in my life. I scream and clamp down, coming on him, the world going black as I shake uncontrollably against the marble. I buck violently against him as he presses deep, filling me with his cum as he moans loud, so loud I’m sure the neighbors must hear.

But I can’t seem to care.

The world has stopped spinning, and the only thing I know is this man buried inside of me, making me whole.

It takes long, long moments for the world to become real again, for breathing to slow, and for Damien to slip out of me.

“Okay. Now we can eat,” he says, moving his hands to my hips once more, placing me on the floor, turning my body, and holding me until my Jell-O legs stop moving.

And then I laugh, laugh hard because this whole situation is insane. Damien bends, pulling up his boxers but kicking his slacks and belt to the side, and then he’s laughing, too, pulling me into him tightly.

And when his lips press to mine, his hand moving to the back of my neck to pull me in and hold me in place, we’re both still laughing.

And I feel free.

After dinner, we’re lying in his bed, Damien’s head on my belly. Gently, he presses his lips there, the feeling warm and melting through my nerve endings deliciously.

“Thank you, naranja,” he says, looking up at me.

I love how this man looks at me like I’m stunning and beautiful, despite being in a messy bun with a clean face and ready for bed. It’s like I could be in a paper bag and he’d still offer to buy me ten more in different colors because I look gorgeous in it.

“Seriously, it was no big deal,” I say. “I’m sorry if I crossed any boundaries. I know we’re not . . . that, but you had a long day, and I had extra energy.” My face burns.

“Stop. There’s no need. Why on earth would you be sorry?”

“This is your home. You asked me to be here, and I . . . kind of took over.”

“This place is clean for the first time in a week. I’m usually better at keeping things together, but cases have been piling up. Plus, I’ve been trying to spend any free time I have inside of you. I haven’t gotten to it.” I shiver at his words, and he laughs.

“Yeah, I like that better than cleaning, too,” I say.

“But you didn’t have to do it—it’s not a requirement or an expectation. Let me just say that now. When I invite you here, it’s just so I can see you when I’m home. Not because I want you to clean.”

“I like that kind of stuff,” I say, biting my lip and fighting the all-consuming urge to look away. “Taking care of people. Hannah did it for me when I was growing up; she loves doing it now.”

“And you always want to be like your sister,” he says with a smile, and I laugh.

“You have an excellent memory.” He shakes his head, disagreeing. Before he explains, he moves, caging me in as he lies on top of me, his face above mine.

“No. I pay attention to what you tell me, that’s all.” Again, his words remind me how damn low my bar has been. “I like you taking care of me,” he says and tucks hair behind my ear the way he always does. “Again, not saying I expect it, but it’s nice.”

“Hmm. Well, maybe next time you’re working late, I’ll sneak in and make you dinner again. I make a mean lasagna,” I say with a smile.

“God, how are you still single?” he asks, and my belly churns.

I know then.

I need to tell him.

This is the right time.

It could fuck everything up, but I don’t want to do more damage to this—us—than I have to. Maybe admitting everything now can salvage it.

“Damien, I need to tell you something,” I say, my voice low.

“Is it that you’re not, in fact, single?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“No, but—”

“Is it that you’ve got kids hidden away somewhere?”

“No, I—”

“Is it that you’re a serial killer or a gold digger or on the run?” He’s smiling big now, and I can’t help but laugh.

“Then we’re all good. Not tonight. I want this. Me and you and easy. Tell me another night when I’m not full of home cooking and lying in bed with my dream woman, yeah?”

My heart stops.

“Your dream woman?” I ask, my voice low. Damien rolls until we’re lying side by side, his lips pressing to mine softly before answering.

“Oh yeah. Hot and blonde and sweet and a good cook? Fuck, you’re a wet dream, Abigail,” he says, and I laugh, but he doesn’t. “I know we’re not that, but remember that I told you I wasn’t sure about the future. That things could go great and things would grow,” he says.

“Hmmm,” I murmur, not wanting to push the conversation.

“I’m just saying. Let’s get over the holidays and then maybe have these big conversations.”

“Big conversations?”

“Your big reveal, what’s happening between us.”

“Oh,” I say, and he just smiles.

“Yeah, oh. The entire next month will be a shit show with Sharon’s case and a few others we’re working on before the end of the year. Plus the holiday party and the holidays in general—shopping. I’m sure your work hours are insane this month,” he says, and I nod. “So we’ll step into the chaos next year, once things settle. Deal?”

“Deal,” I say, agreeing.

I’m not sure if I should feel appeased or more anxious after this conversation, but at least I can’t say I didn’t try. And he knows that there’s . . . well . . . something. Just doesn’t know the what.

And he wants more.

God. More with Damien.

“So, what are your holiday plans?” he asks, and it takes every last synapse in my body not to confess, despite my failed attempt moments before.

He’s going to ask.

I don’t know how I know, but I do know this. I do know what comes next.

With that in mind, I answer carefully.

“Going back to Springbrook Hills for Christmas Day. Auntie Santa needs to bring her big bag.” His smile stretches, and I can feel it on my bare skin. He looks younger, not 42, and surely not some high-powered lawyer.

“Of course. You must make all the little girls’ and boys’ Christmas wishes come true. Do you wear a costume?” His eyes go warm and soft. “Maybe one of those little Santa dresses?” I grab the small throw pillow he likes to use to lift my hips when he fucks me here and hit him in the head with it.

“You’re a perv.” His laugh is deep, and he moves, rolling until his face is near mine and he’s hovering above me. Most of his weight is held in his upper arms while his bottom half squishes me into the bed.

“Maybe we can keep that just for us,” he says, raising his eyebrows like some cheesy come on. I laugh, watching him shake with my movement. “So after Christmas? And before?”

“Nothing and nothing. I took a few days off, which will be magical because I’m already beat from the holiday rush and I hate returns season, but I have gloriously nothing to do.”

“What about the 23rd?” God, the restraint I’m using to force my body to stay still is near painful.

“That’s a Thursday?” I ask like I don’t know, like that date hasn’t been circled in my calendar for months.

The question makes me nauseous from knowing I’m adding another layer to the deceit.

“Yes. It’s also my work’s holiday party. I think I mentioned it?” I nod, unable to speak. “Anyway, it’s a big thing, tons of fun, in the Rainbow Room.” Again, I remain silent. “Would you—” He pauses, clearing his throat and reaching for my hand before twining his tan fingers with my own, tipped in pink.

Holy fuck, he’s nervous.

Something about that is beyond adorable and endearing.

“Would you want to come? As my date?” he asks, his thumb rubbing soothing paths there.

I should say no.

I should insist on telling him everything.

I should say anything but what I say next.

Because what I say next seals my path.

“Yeah, Damien. I’d love that.”

The problem is when I say that, I’m not thinking about all the reasons it’s wrong; I’m not thinking about the end goal or my revenge plan.

I’m thinking of walking into a room of people Damien spends every day with, smiling on his arm, and him bringing me because he wants me there.