#rss 2021

Maybe that’s what kept drawing her to the pawn shop; the blessed silence. There were the collections, sure; from the glass unicorn mobile that hung by the register to clocks and paintings that hung on the walls. The display cases were full of rings and bracelets, necklaces and brooches; rows and rows of faceted jewels in ornamental settings, all naked gleam and gloss. But most of all, she loved the quiet. The diner, the grocery store, the very streets were alive with nothing but Frosty the Snowman after Jingle Bells, and if she didn’t have the excuse of libraries having to be quiet places she’d never make it through the Christmas season.

And even above the splendor and the silence, there was the owner, one Mr. Gold, who had appeared from his back room looking put together as always in his suit and tie.

“Miss French.” He tilted his head in greeting. He looked to see the bag she was carrying, and he nodded, wholly unsurprised. "No good again?"

"No good again." She set the bag on the counter, taking out the present he had wrapped for her not two days before. "Apparently, Ana already thought to get him something like this."

Mr. Gold sighed, shook his head. "Lucky you caught it early then.”

He picked up the box, started to unwrap it. Belle hated to see the paper go—it was a beautiful wrapping job—but it was just as nice to watch Gold carefully unearth the black box with his long fingers. No matter the task, he displayed a learned competency that made Belle think she could watch him do just about anything and be riveted. He took out the bracelet, holding it up for their inspection between his fingers.

It was a lovely bit of work, the silver gleaming in the light, the links strong and heavy. He brushed his thumb against the metal.

"Well, do you want to look for something else?" He asked, voice neutral. "Or would you prefer a refund?"

The sun was setting; Belle had meant to come in on her lunch break, but had gotten distracted with a new shipment of books that arrived early. It was nearing four o’clock, and as she looked out at the snowy street, she saw the traffic had all but disappeared as people got ready for Christmas, their shopping done.

"You'll be closing soon, won't you?"

"I'll stay open as long as I have a customer. Take your time." Gold placed the bracelet back in the box, then turned and put it on a shelf behind him.

"But it's Christmas Eve."

Back still turned, she watched him shrug. "Nothing special to me."

Through the window she saw Marco across the street in the doorway to his shop, waving to someone out of Belle’s sightline. The fairy lights in his window were already on and flashing a merry red, green and white.

In fact, every shop along Main Street was decorated for Christmas, either with garlands or window displays. Every one except for Mr. Gold’s pawn shop, whose display went unchanged year-round; a spinning wheel and a mini-windmill, alongside some cheap but flashy jewelry and vintage clothing.

"Don't you celebrate Christmas?" she asked.

He turned back and placed his hands against the counter, his hip popping slightly as he leaned on his good leg. His gaze was inscrutable.

“It’s just another day on the calendar, Miss French."

“No presents, no special dinner?” she pushed. “No traditions at all?”

"No. I prefer to be alone. Alone suits me."

Belle turned her eyes to the glass counters in front of her, looking at what she had looked at dozens of times before. Gold put on a show, in his nice suits and prowling around town, but there was something wounded in him. It was buried deep under layers of snarling teeth and threats, but there was no mistaking it. She saw it clear as day.

Feeling warm, she pulled at the scarf around her neck. The snow was still falling and the sun was low enough that the only shadows were cast by the streetlights.

"Buying a gift shouldn't be so hard," Gold said, breaking the uneven silence that had settled. "I'm sure Mr. Scarlet will appreciate any gift from you, regardless of what it is."

"He will,” Belle agreed. Her gaze wandered, unseeing, to the shelves lined with bobbles.

“Mr. Scarlet is fortunate to have you for a friend” Mr. Gold continued. Something in his voice made her look at him, but his face was unreadable as before.

"He deserves a present he likes, that’s all,” she said, making a face.

That was close enough to the truth, anyway. No need to reveal that Belle always intended to return any gift she bought in exchange for another; she’d been picking out random things from the shop all month only to bring them back a few days later with a new excuse.

Mr. Gold nodded, having no reason to think she was lying. "I have more stock in the back. Let me bring some out—there might be something you’ll like."

Before she could protest, he disappeared behind his curtain, returning with a black velvet jewelry tray. Inside were necklaces decorated with a host of stones: tiger-eye, opal, an intensely blue lapis lazuli.

What caught her eye were the diamonds, and only because they were perhaps garish; dozens of small stones were inlaid in a tear-drop pendant, the centerpiece diamond flawless and large. The chain on either side was made up of more sparkly stones, cinched together in tight silver that met thin links, allowing the necklace to hang at her collar bone, the pendant resting right above her heart.

It would easily cost a year’s salary if the diamonds were real, and she suspected they were.

“May I?” Belle asked, boldly.

She was prepared for Gold to laugh in her face, but instead he lifted it up, motioning for her to turn around. She felt the heavy silver settle against her sweater, then heard Gold make a noise to indicate he was finished. She wasn’t sure why it felt like a loss, not to have felt his fingers against her neck.

Still, the diamonds settled right where she thought they would, and they glowed against the dark wool, their weight drawing an eye to her breasts. When she looked up at Mr. Gold, he stood there, at the counter, staring.

“I don’t think this quite matches Will’s style,” Belle said.

Gold shrugged, unable to draw his eyes from the necklace he’d draped her in.

“Perhaps you should get it for yourself,” he said.

“Myself?” Belle blinked. Her hand raised to the pendant, still cool underneath her fingers. Gold trailed her movement, something hungry in his eyes.

“You wear it well,” he murmured. He shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “And it would save you time, is all.”

“Have I been wasting it?” she asked, a little confused, and a little hurt. She liked coming to the pawn shop, and Gold never seemed to lament her company, even though she had a habit of staying longer than was perhaps necessary.

“It’s only…” he trailed off before he began, a hand raising halfheartedly.

“Only what?”

“Mr. Scarlet came in, about a week ago,” Gold said, finally lowering his gaze to the velvet tray. He adjusted an already perfectly straight chain. “He was asking about an engagement ring. For Ms. Lewis.”

Belle opened her mouth, understanding dawning. But Mr. Gold seemed on a roll.

“He is quite set on marrying her, and I have no doubt Miss Lewis will say yes when she is asked. I know this can’t be easy to hear, Miss French, and certainly from me, but—”

Belle placed her hand over his on the tray, cutting him off.

“He and Ana are sickeningly in love, aren’t they? I do love Will, but he is my best friend,” she said, squeezing his hand, warm and still. “He isn’t the one I’m interested in.”

The lights in Gold’s shop were not glaring; they did not blind, did not spotlight any piece of his collection. Instead, with the sun now set and the street lights unable to reach inside, they emitted a warm, humming glow that surrounded them like a hug.

It was from that warmth that she drew her courage now.

“What else do you have in the back?" she asked.

He blinked at her, trying to catch up. His eyes strayed back to the necklace around her neck, and his eyes sparked with a new interest.

Maybe he was feeling brave too.

"Lock the door, dear. And turn the sign,” Gold said. “Then I'll show you."

The back of the pawnshop was just as cluttered as the front; the biggest difference was what looked like a worktable, scattered with tools and a half-put together wooden clock, the insides in a small dish. She also spied a mini fridge and a shelf of tea and cookies next to an electric kettle tucked into the far corner, across from a small twin bed.

While she’d been looking around, Gold had swept away the clock and had laid out more trays of jewelry.

“I circle through my stock, from time to time, depending on the season.” He scooted a tray of rings away from the edge of the table. “Or if I’m just tired of seeing something in the front.”

He stood over her as she studied the display. Belle’s hand landed on a golden chain, delicate as if spun from spider silk, the links serpentine. From it hung a quarter sized chunk of onyx, the stones inky black, consuming.

However, Belle reached for a different gold chain, this one a little sturdier with an oblong moonstone pendant. She held it up to the light; it was a shade more opaque than the stone in Mr. Gold’s signet ring.

“Let me,” Gold said. He took the necklace and stepped close to her.

Belle didn’t turn. Neither did he motion for her to do so. Instead, she held his gaze while he lifted his arms and encircled her, the moonstone coming to rest on her chest, knocking gently against the diamonds. This time she felt the brush of his fingers as he settled the clasp against her neck.

“Anything else catch your eye?” he asked.

They looked through his collection of rings and necklaces and bracelets and earrings. He brought out tray after tray, his stock endless. He wrapped the bracelets, the glittering emeralds and sapphires and amethyst around her delicate wrists, sliding ring after ring with gilded bands and sparkling gemstones onto her slim fingers, each shiny and alive.

The necklaces he’d bring to her neck with a quiet reverence, the stones hanging from her collar bones, laying in the valley between her breasts, one or two even clung to the hollow of her throat.

She wore foxtail and Singapore chains; double anchor and rolo and braid, and all of them bearing something precious: pink sapphire and tanzanite and every color of rock crystals. Her wrists were garnished in pearls and jasper and glittering glass beads.

Gold made them tea with his kettle, and as the leaves steeped, he told her about the pieces left on the table, and the ones she wore. Gold knew the names of all of them, knew how they’d been shaped and set. He knew all of their stories, who had sold them and how long they'd been in his shop. He told her which stones were lucky and which would bring her nothing but ruin and heartache.

The snow still fell softly past the window and the silence of Christmas Eve descended, but they didn’t notice. Gold poured her more tea.

Soon, Belle’s glass was empty again, and Gold’s glass was empty and there was silence but it wasn’t awkward, wasn’t lonely, it just was, and his hand was on her wrist, her hand practically cradled in his, and he traced the chain of a bracelet so carefully.

He said, just as careful, “If you’ll tell me their name, I’ll help you.”

Belle made an inquiring sound, lost in the trance of his voice and his light touch on her skin.

“The person you’re interested in. I’ll help you find the perfect gift, something no one could turn down or be disappointed in.”

“You’d do that?” she asked, leaning closer to him, to the smell of woodsmoke and his deep whisky eyes.

“Yes.” He ducked his head, his hair swinging past his cheek. “Of course I would.”

Something warm and light and glowing was bubbling in her chest. Despite the heavy jewelry she wore, she felt like she might float away, if not for his hands still clasping hers.

“Mr. Gold.”

He nodded, eyes reaching for hers again. “Yes?”

“That’s his name,” she said helpfully. “The person I want.”

He blinked, confusion warring with hope on his face. Before he could do something foolish, like run away, Belle leaned in and kissed him. And he was there, tilting his face down to her, letting himself be kissed. She opened her arms, and Gold came to her, wrapping her in his embrace, and when Belle lifted her hands to his hair, the gold and silver bracelets clanked against each other softly.

Belle wanted, and in that moment, Gold wanted too, and whether this was bravery or loneliness, or just the soft ache in the night before Christmas when everyone waits for a miracle, she didn’t know. She didn’t care. All Belle knew in that moment was she never wanted to stop kissing Gold in the back of his pawn shop.

They broke apart eventually, but neither went far. Gold’s eyes racked down her chest, and she felt strangely exposed despite the layers. Belle was dripping with gold and silver and precious stones, and maybe somewhere else, some other time, it would have looked ridiculous, but not then. Not when she was feeling so brave and so beautiful and so wanted.

Together, they pulled off her sweater. It wasn’t an easy task; they agreed silently that she wouldn’t remove a single thing. As such, Gold pulled at the neck, stretching it out, then over the chains, while she stripped it off over her head. The necklaces were cold against her skin, but warmed quickly.

Next step was easier. She stepped out of her boots and Gold peeled her leggings down her legs and threw them to the floor, before helping her slip off her skirt. Boldly, Gold cupped her bottom, smooth and warm in his hands, thumbs trailing the lace of her panties within reach. He kissed her cheeks and her chin and the bridge of her nose; anywhere he could reach.

In his distraction, Belle pushed his suit jacket off, uncaring where it landed. She then went for his tie, sliding it through his collar before going for the buttons on his shirt. She kissed every bit of skin she revealed, her tongue dipping into his belly button when she reached it. Soon he was panting above her while she kneeled, hands now on his belt.

She undid the buckle, unzipped him, and then was pushing his pants down his legs. Belle allowed herself a moment of admiring his bulge through his boxers before leaning forward and mouthing at him through the fabric.

Gold thrust his hips forward, seeking her warmth.

“Fuck, Belle,” he panted. His mouth was open, his eyes pools of black want and Belle had never felt more powerful, there on her knees before him.

Before she could free him from his last layer, he gripped her arms and pulled her up, kissing her fiercely. Gold reached behind her, clutching at her skin; hands warm against her shoulder blades, the hollow of her spine. And then he was unhooking her bra, letting it slide down her arms. The straps got caught in the bracelets, but Gold freed them without a thought before discarding it behind them.

There, in the back of his shop, Belle gleamed like a garland, a gilded Christmas ornament.

Gold kissed her again, and they leaned against the table. He parted the wreath of necklaces with his nose to reach her naked breasts, small and delicate and perfect. Her nipples were hard and exquisitely sensitive; when he took a nipple between his lips, Belle gasped and brought her hands up to tangle in the hair at the back of his neck. He sucked and swirled his tongue around her, then trailed kisses to the other breast, doing the same. He cupped her in his palms reverently while she moaned.

Belle squeezed her thighs together, his attention sending spikes of heat straight to the core of her. Few of her previous partners had paid much attention to her chest, but Gold was worshipping it, laving her in reverent kisses so sweet she was sure was melting.

Then he trailed down her stomach, licked his way to her hip before mouthing at the skin above her lacy panties. Pulling her panties down, he breathed deeply the heat of her. Now he was the one on his knees, coaxing her open gently, looking at her like he was a common peasant, unworthy to kiss her feet.

"Here," he said, lifting her leg and placing one foot on the table. Her other hung to the floor. It opened her completely, and Gold was riveted.

Belle leaned back on one jewel-encrusted arm and watched as he pulled a chair over and sat down, sparing his ankle. She quivered in anticipation, glistening with excitement. Fuck, but Belle could smell herself, as open and ready as she was. She permeated the air.

With Gold settled, he kissed his way up the inside of her thigh. Finally, finally, his tongue dipped down to lick her and she threw her head back and exhaled softly.

He leaned forward, spread her apart and sucked at her naked cunt. In all the jewelry she felt like a queen, the center of the world, and Gold was more than content to stay there and pleasure her while he watched the rapture on her face. God, but he was good at it.

His hands were on her ass again, pulling her harder against his mouth, increasing the friction as she ground against him.

Gold pushed into her with two long fingers, mouth latching onto her clit, and Belle wailed. She broke against him, riding out her high as he fucked her with his fingers, leaving sucking kisses on the inside of her thigh.

“Gold,” she gasped, as he eased out of her.

“Belle,” he answered, licking his recent mark. She’d be spotted purple in the morning, she knew.

“Oh, Gold,” she repeated. She planted one foot on his chest, pushing him back. His surprise turned to delighted shock as she reached down and parted her labia. She dipped her fingers into her cunt, keeping herself open for him.

“Do you like this, having me spread out in nothing but your finest pieces?”

“Yes,” he hissed, eyes sharp as they tracked every move her fingers made.

Belle groaned, rolling her clit between her fingers, then dipping them inside and grinding against the heel of her hand until her legs started to shake with an impending orgasm.

“Do you like watching me?” she asked.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he gasped. His boxers were still on, and Belle watched as his hand cupped himself, trying to take the edge off his aching cock.

Her breathing was fast and shallow, her hard nipples peaked out from the wreath of chains around her neck. She stroked her walls more firmly. She imagined his heavy balls, how desperate he must be to come—to come inside her. Or perhaps to come over her, drape her in him as surely as she was draped in his other finery.

It was that thought in her head and Gold’s breathy moan in her ears that brought her to a second orgasm, her legs shaking as she gasped from the force of it.

Belle opened her eyes, not realizing she had even closed them. Gold was still in his chair, staring at her in rapture. When their eyes met, he liked his lips.

"Take me. Belle, please. Take whatever you want from me."

“Get on the bed,” she ordered. “Lose your pants.”

With flattering haste, Gold was spread bare on the narrow bed, holding a hand out to keep her steady. Her jewelry jangled as she threw her leg over his, put one ring-covered hand on his shoulder and reached beneath her with her other so she could fit the head of his cock at her opening.

She moaned as she spread her thighs, and shuddered. She felt full and warm and wanted. She sank down on his cock until it was all inside her, every bit of it, her thighs trembling with the strain.

She started moving, slow at first. With her previous releases, she was in no hurry, and for how hard Gold was, and how he clutched at her waist, he seemed content to let her do whatever she wanted to him.

It was a dream to feel him, lifting herself off his cock and then plunging back down, the necklaces swaying and beating against her chest, the silver and gold gleaming in the dim street lights coming in the window. When her legs began to give out, when her head felt hazy with the pleasure and the nearing crest (and if she ground her hips just there she’d come, she knew it), he held the tops of her thighs as his thrusts grew more erratic and desperate.

Gold held her up, fucking into her while he said how good she was, how he’d never felt anything like her, how he would give her anything she wanted as long as he could keep fucking her like this—

She came gasping, clenching around him. She was heat and sparks and it was inside her and she was hot enough to melt the jewelry right off her, surly.

The only thing keeping her up were Gold’s hands at her waist. With a breath, she collapsed against him, the chains pooling around their necks.

He rubbed her back soothingly, hands trailing from her ass to her rib cage. He kissed her hair, whispered how lovely she was. She moaned, still feeling him hard within her. He hadn’t come.

Gold turned her over and laid her down on the bed below him, careful not to trap a chain underneath her. He ran his hands over her face, smoothed her hair back so he could see her, and then he plunged into her, hard. He fucked her with a sharp snap of his hips, and she could only wrap her legs around him and hold on.

Gold was on fire for her, thrusting like it was his only chance to do so. He fucked her so hard that the chains rattled on her chest, the stones knocking against each other and falling in a disorganized heap around her neck. Belle held him tight, digging her nails into his shoulders.

She held him so close that all she could feel was her tight heat gripping him, the cold gleam of the jewelry trapped between their bodies with every thrust. She arched her back, her breast rubbing against his chest. She came again, and that pushed him over, exploding inside her with a release so deep that his whole body snapped and shuddered. He poured into her, giving her everything he had, again and again and again.

OOO

It wasn’t long before they were pulled out of their afterglow by the grating noise of what she thought might be an out of tune radio.

“Turn it off,” Belle muttered, pressing herself deeper into the cocoon of blankets Gold somehow got around them. Could radios be out of tune?

“Turn what off?” he asked, kissing her temple.

The noise was getting louder, the sound of bells closer.

“That. Make it go away.”

“You mean the carolers?”

Belle frowned, sitting up. Her arm was half-asleep and indented from the bracelets.

“Oh, god,” she groaned. “Isn’t it too late for them to be out?”

It was a known Storybrooke tradition for the local convent to go caroling during the holidays. It was also tradition for stragglers to join them as the nuns made their way through the town, so that they grew in size, sometimes three fold, by the time they made it to Main Street. After giving an encore in the square, the group would pile into the Grannie’s diner for some deserved hot chocolate and whatever pie was on the menu.

“It’s barely past seven.” Gold adjusted one of the chains from where it had twisted when she was horizontal. “Want to listen? We can—”

“No, thanks,” she said quickly.

Too quickly, because Gold was looking at her curiously.

“I was just going to open a window,” he said. “They won’t see us together.”

“It’s not that,” she said, quietly, frowning at the assumption.

“What, then?”

Belle sighed. “I hate Christmas music.”

A beat. Then Gold burst out laughing.

“What?” she asked.

The sound of the carolers was sweet and clear as it penetrated the walls of their sanctuary. They’d gotten quite a number this year.

Angels we have heard on high

Sweetly singing o'er the plains

“You? You don’t like Christmas music?” His smile was wide and open and Belle wanted to spend the rest of her life making him smile like that. “Lovely Belle French, in her elf ears organizing Santa’s visits to the library, hates Christmas music?”

“It’s overplayed,” she muttered. “Hollow. And there’s too many sad ones.”

And the mountains in reply

Echoing their joyous strains

“Those are the worst, hm?” Gold kissed the back of her hand, sliding off one ring, then another. Belle hadn’t covered herself with the blanket, but neither one of them seemed to mind.

“They are! Christmas is supposed to be a happy time, celebrating everything good in the world and what you have, not about lamenting what you’re without.”

Gold freed her hand of the rings, then started unclasping the bracelets. Each piece was laid on the table next to them with care, but not much thought.

“I don’t know,” Gold said, kissing her freed wrist. “There’s room for both, certainly.”

Belle saw it again, the cavern of hurt within him. She wondered what had caused it, if there was anything she could do.

Gold kissed her palm, her arm completely free from accessories. She presented the other, allowing him to peel each item from her.

“Do you really have no plans for Christmas?”

He shrugged instead of answering. The carolers moved further down the street, their voices becoming lost.

“I bought a bottle of wine. A good wine,” Belle hedged. She reached out a hand and ran it along his still naked forearm. She didn’t touch him enough tonight, she decided. A grievous oversight. “It’d be nice to have someone to share it with.”

Gold stilled, his warm hands clasped over her hand.

“You can come over for dinner, if you’d like. Tonight. Or tomorrow, if you’d prefer. But it’d be nice to have company.”

“You want me there?” Gold asked, his hold tightening.

“Yes,” she said, leaning to bump her nose against his. “I want you.”

“Oh.” Gold kissed her, just a soft brush of lips against her own. “Good.”

**

Giggling, only the slightest bit tipsy if she were honest, Belle leaned toward Ruby and said, “Can you keep a secret?”

At Ruby’s nod, Belle leaned closer still, and whispered the words before she could change her mind.

“Belle!” Ruby yelped. “Oh, my God! Seriously, T. M. eye, girl!” Ruby’s undeniably squicked reaction brought more laughter from Belle, at least until her friend asked, a wicked twinkle in her eyes, “So how was Imaginary!Rush?”

“Ruby!” Belle blushed to the tips of her ears, glad of the relative darkness of the Students’ Union Bar, not to mention the current of sound that flowed in and out of the bar’s patrons, affording the privacy to have conversation like this one.

“Well, don’t look now,” Ruby added, nodding behind Belle, “but the object of your nocturnal fantasies is staring right now.”

“What!” Belle yelped and began to turn around, until Ruby caught her arm.

“I said don’t look,” she said. “Jesus, Belle, what the fuck!”

“What is he doing now?” she asked, shifting first one way, and then the other to try and catch sight of him in the mirrored decor of the bar. She couldn’t see.

“Writing something in that stupid notebook of his,” Ruby scoffed.

Belle huffed, picked up her drink and knocked it back in one swallow, gasping afterwards to catch her breath. “Right!” she said after a moment, and picked up her clutch from its place on the table, and took a step or two toward the bar before Ruby caught her arm again.

“What,” her friend said, “are you doing?”

“Going over there,” Belle said.

“Are you crazy?”

“What’s the worst that could happen?” she said with a shrug to hide the delicious shiver that went down her spine at the thought of what she wanted to happen… mingled only with the smallest sliver of guilt that she might be about to try and take advantage of a drunken man.

**

He didn’t see her coming.

After he realized he was staring, he dragged his attention back to his notebook and began, in greater earnest, to work through the lines of his calculations as if they were the only thing that was going to keep his head above water, above whiskey, he thought wryly as he tossed back the contents of yet another glass.

The first he knew she was there was when the fingers of a cool hand slid over the back of his wrist and plucked the pencil from his fingers. When he half turned to protest the trespass it was to see the short, dark skirt ride up still higher on the pale skin of her thighs as she mounted the stool at his side, and slid his notebook toward her.

“Really, Miss French, I—” 

Words died in his mouth as he watched her tapping the end of the pencil against her lips as her eyes ran over his figures and symbols. It was almost mesmerizing, and pulled at his loins in a way that made him shift uncomfortably in his seat, and he tried to get the end of the sentence to emerge from his brain, the part that told her he had to be getting home. It was late, and he really had to get some sleep before tomorrow’s meeting with the dean. The words wouldn’t come, instead he watched with growing fascination and increasing arousal as she slowly began to write down the next line in the equation.

“You were saying, Doctor Rush?” She looked up from the notebook, pencil poised and blue eyes warm and inviting, a tropical ocean just waiting for him to dive in.

“I… should,” he began slowly, sliding his eyes upward until he could find hers, not at all pausing to take in the way her shirt hugged tightly against her firm curves, “be getting away home.”

He reached his hand into his pocket, as much to adjust and hide the obviousness of his reactions to her being beside him as to reach for his car keys - even though there was no way he’d pass a sobriety check if he got pulled over.

In answer, she closed the notebook, and slid it, and the pencil across the bar toward him.  Then she hopped off the stool and held out her hand, palm upward. He looked at her and frowned.

“Keys,” she said firmly.

“I really don’t think—” he began, and staggered slightly as if got off his own bar stool, forcing him to reach for the top of the bar, where, in cover of his inebriation, he snatched up the notebook and pencil.

“You either give me the keys, or I will reach into your pocket and find them myself,” she said, “There’s no way I’m letting you drive home like this.”

He shivered. Part of him wanted to be angry and indignant at the suggestion that he needed to be driven home like some teenager that couldn’t hold his liquor. A larger part of him - the part that was overwhelmed by loneliness and had been for as long now as he could remember - wanted to reach out, hold on, and never let go.

“Well?” Belle raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her hand still steady in the air between them.

**

It was sheer luck that the math came to her as she looked at the notebook, total coincidence that she’d been studying similar equations just before Ruby came to drag her out instead of letting her study in private.

After that, she had no idea. Sheer ballsy determination to try and rid her of the midnight notions she kept on having, night after night. The threat had slipped from her lips unbidden, and once uttered she couldn’t take it back, and then she started to be curious as to what Rush might actually do.

There was a long, awkward moment where she stood with her hand outstretched, and then he leaned toward her, and with a heated growl pressed, “My keys, my car,” right against her ear, the heat of him close beside her rushing straight to her core at the challenge.

Without thinking about it - because if she did she was certain she’d lose her nerve - she grabbed the front of his shirt in one hand, and pushed her other hand deep into his jeans pocket, her fingers searching. She found heat and the hardening shape of his trapped member, that made the heavy, settled warmth between her own thighs pulse needfully. She smoothed the pads of her fingers along it, down deeper still into the tight pocket.

“Belle,” he growled, and his fingers clamped suddenly around her wrist, and tugged her hand away and out of his pocket, but he didn’t let go.  Not until he’d pulled his keys - and a couple of bills for his bar tab - from the other pocket and pressed the keys into her hand.

**

He knew what he was doing was really stupid and could get him fired, but as he slipped his hand down to the small of her back to guide her toward the exit, he was too blinded by the feeling of the way her fingers had felt against him, even through his jeans - to really care too much about that. She certainly didn’t resist.

As he pushed open the door, however, the outside air was like a slap in the face, and went a long way toward sobering him with caution.

“Miss French—”

“It was Belle a minute ago,” she said, “and I”m still not letting you drive home, so…”

She shivered, hardly surprising given what little clothing covered her, and without even a thought he slipped off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. For a moment he watched her standing, looking around her, a lost look on her face - though he noted she did tug his jacket closer around herself.

“So…” he began as she ended her last sentence to him, “how are you planning to drive me home if you can’t even find m’car?”

“You,” she said, “are going to take me to your car, and then tell me your address so that I can drive there.”

He started walking in the direction of the faculty car park. “And if I can’t find it?” he asked, and he wasn’t sure in that moment if he was teasing or serious.

“Well then you’re drunker than even I thought,” she answered, adding, “and we’re both fucked,” under her breath.

**

Desire warred with something far more dangerous as Rush wrapped his jacket around her against the cold.  She told herself she shouldn’t read anything into it more than the lingering remnants of a gentleman somewhere underneath the alcohol dulled veneer. Honestly she couldn’t tell which side of him had a greater hold on her in that moment: the sarcastic, hard to please professor, or this hard nosed, soft centered, smoldering inebriate that was leading her to his car.

The car itself was nothing to write home about. It was practical. It was well used, and it was parked in the farthest corner of the staff lot that it was possible to reach.

“Jesus,” she huffed under her breath, “Even your car is antisocial.”

He laughed; she melted, but she couldn’t let him see that his mirth had somehow reached deep inside of her and squeezed her emotions until they came bubbling almost to the surface.

“Anti-social?” he queried as the laughter died away. “Is that really how you see me?”

She unlocked the car, and with a nod of her head told him wordlessly to get into the passenger side. She spent the time it took for him to walk around the car to do as he was told adjusting the seat so that she could reach the pedals. She also thanked all the gods she could name in that moment that he didn’t drive a stick.

“Address?” she said as she buckled the seat belt and waited for him to do the same.

“You didn’t answer my question.” He answered.

“Most of the students, yes,” she answered. “Address?”

“Most,” he echoed. “Including you?”

“Right now, I think you’re being an irritating bastard,” she snapped, starting the car and putting it into reverse ready to back out of the parking space. “Doctor Rush, don’t make me ask you ag—”

“Nicholas,” he cut her off.

“What?” She blinked. She hadn’t expected that. Hoped, yes, but not expected.

“It’s my name,” he said, “You know damn well it’s my name, so if you’re going to be driving me home, and insulting me to boot, you can use it.”

“All right,” she nodded, and hoped like hell he couldn’t tell she was blushing almost a neon red in the dark corner of the parking lot, “Nicholas… but I’m not going to be driving you anywhere if you don’t—”

He cut her off again, this time by answering her question and giving her his address, and a strange kind of relief stole over her as she began to drive away. Luckily she knew how to get to that area of town, though she didn’t know the neighborhood itself. An old boyfriend of hers lived on the outskirts of it, a boorish idiot that she was much better off without.

It wasn’t that long of a drive, and he fell silent as they turned out of the college and onto the main street, and he remained that way, so she spent the whole of the journey stealing surreptitious glances at him out of the corner of her eye.

**

By the time they reached the car, he wasn’t nearly as drunk as he had been when they left the bar and he probably could have gotten away with driving himself home, except that he strongly doubted that Belle would have allowed it. Why she cared though? That was a mystery to him. Washed up has been. He hated that he got maudlin as he started to sober up after a evening like this one.

He glanced out of the corner of his eye as they drove in silence, taking in the concentration on her face in an effort to stop his gaze from drifting down to take in the way her thighs moved as she accelerated, or pushed the brake pedal to slow them down. It wouldn’t do. It just wouldn’t do at all.

He shifted in the seat, trying to adjust himself without being obvious. Then he broke his silence at last. “It’s up ahead, second left from here.” She followed his directions, and then as they came up on the driveway, added, “You can pull up on the drive.”

A deeper silence descended as Belle parked the car on the driveway and turned off the engine. It didn’t take long for the cold of the outside to seep in on the warm nest the car had become, pricking slender, frigid fingers inside his shirt and drawing a shiver from him involuntarily as his nipples pebbled. Embracing the cold, and the respite it provided from his rising inner heat, he opened the car door, then turned his head to look over at Belle as he said, “I may be an irritating bastard, but I’m not a complete philistine. Please… come inside for a nightcap - cocoa, I promise, while I call a cab for you, to get you home.”

“Thank you,” Belle answered, and he thought he detected a slight wobble in her voice.

“No,” he said, “thank you. It’s been too long since someone gave a damn.”

Before he gave her time to respond, not wanting to hear the awkwardness of his impromptu confession he reached and took the keys from the ignition, backed out of the car again, and led the way to the front door, trusting Belle to follow.

Warmth embraced him as he stood holding the door for her. He closed it behind her, and nodding toward what passed for his lounge, said a soft, “Make yourself at home, I’ll… go make the cocoa.”

As he walked along the hallway toward the kitchen, he took a mental inventory of what she would find in the lounge. He didn’t remember leaving it in too bad of a state, mostly on account of the Christmas tree he’d made himself put up this year. It had forced him to tidy the room to make it fit; it stood in the corner where the end wall met the bay window. The curtains were open, and there was a fire laid in the hearth. In fact, the state of the room made him seem positively normal. Not so much the office, but there was no reason for her to go in there.

**

The Christmas tree was a surprise; not at all what she expected. However, he’d said to make herself at home, so she followed the wire at the bottom of the tree all the way to the switch and turned them on. Then she pulled the drapes across the bay window, transforming the lounge into somewhere inviting.

She perched on the couch, finding herself filled with a kind of nervous energy, uncertainty what made the want that settled inside of her all the more acute. She hadn’t missed the fact that he’d laid a fire in the hearth. It would be too much to light it, wouldn’t it?

“I wasn’t sure how you’d want it.” His sudden presence made her jump, and in starting, she came to her feet, but he shook his head. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Looks good, cozy.” He added, gesturing to the lit tree with one of the cups he held, then as if that made him remember them both, he held one out in her direction.

“Thank you,” she said, and took the cup, cradling it between her two hands. “You have a nice home,” she added a moment later.

He made a face, and she read denial in it. “It’s not usually,” he gestured again with a cocoa mug and the rich, chocolaty liquid sloshed in the cup, in danger of escaping onto the area rug beneath their feet. “Only looks this way because of the tree. Y’should see the study…” he trailed off.

“I’d like to,” she said softly, and he looked at her, long and hard until she felt the blush climbing upward from her neck and onto her cheeks.

“Serious?” he breathed, still staring at her intently, as though he couldn’t believe what she’d just said.

“Yes,” she said. Her insides trembled with a sudden sense of warmth and anticipation that chased away the chill she had been feeling. Before she could think on it too hard, however and talk herself out of the desire - the need to see him as he really was - the warmth of his hand closed around hers and he began to lead her from the lounge and to a closed door almost opposite.

“Behold,” he said as he let go of her hand and reached for the handle, “the mess that is Nicholas Rush.”

He pushed open the door and a whole new world leaped into existence before her. Gone was the ordered neatness of the lounge. Everything inside was chaos. The walls were covered in sticky-notes of all colors, each of those covered in the hieroglyphs of mathematical symbols she was more used to seeing in the lecture hall and seminar rooms where Doctor Rush conducted class. On the desk, piles of papers spilled over onto a desk calendar that was filled with appointments, yet in the margins, all around the printed squares were fragments of equations and scribbled words.

As if in a daze, she moved slowly forward, turning full circle to take everything in. She brought  the cup to her lips as she did, and drank slowly from the cup. Spotting something from the corner of her eye, she moved toward one of the walls, where a string of symbols dripped like lime down toward the ground Written on three linked sticky notes, the math made her frown, then she snatched up a pencil from a nearby cup that was filled with pencils, like some kind of strange arrangement of flowers, only useful; they stood on a nearby shelf, sharpened and waiting to be used.

Her mind still flashing with strings of numbers and equations, she added to the sticky notes, her handwriting legible in contrast to the spider scrawl of Rush’s work. Once more she turned, and on another string of numbers, expressions that were only half complete, she made her mark, adding to the cacophony of logic that existed within the room.

Finally she turned back to Rush, who leaned in the doorway, a strange, half smile on his face.

“What?” she asked.

“That’s the second time you’ve done that tonight,” he answered completely without anything other than vulnerable honesty. “Added to my work.”

“I… just…”

“It’s fine,” he said with a half laugh. “More than fine.”

She set down her cup in a space on top of a cabinet. “Come inside. Come here,” she murmured softly.

**

He hesitated to move at the first, but at the second, soft calling he crossed the threshold, setting down his cup as he came on an empty shelf in the narrow book case by the door. He moved to stand in front of her, looking down. He took in her face, her eyes… the heat he saw there. A silent moan escaped him as his lips parted, as if to speak.

She reached up, a hand either side of his face, silk against his soft scruff. Her fingers pushed into his hair, and she guided his face toward hers. In the instant before she captured his mouth with hers, he felt as if the universe had paused on an indrawn breath. Then all the desire rushed out from him, and he reached to crush her closer, taking control of the kiss and advancing toward the desk, pushing her back, even as she let her hands slip from his hair to grasp the front of his shirt.

His tongue delved deep into her mouth, and she moaned softly, the vibration of the sound against his lips urging him on.  He lifted her as they neared the desk, not caring about the papers covering its surface. He moaned in his own turn, a soft growl as her clasping hands tugged his shirt, heedless of the buttons, and then ran her fingers over his chest. He leaned over her, releasing her mouth, trailing heated, open mouthed kisses over her cheek, down onto her neck, nipping sharply before he soothed the sharpness with his tongue; he tasted her, wanting more.

His abs twitched beneath her fingers as she trailed them down toward his belt, fumbling with the buckle in her haste to reach him. He glided his fingers upward along the soft skin of her inner thigh, toward her heat, feeling the damp of her panties against the back of his hand as he teased, letting his thumb explore her covered folds until she gasped his name, and finally got the button of his jeans free of his button hole.

“Fuck, Belle!”

His ears began to ring as her questing fingers pushed inside his underwear, finding his cock and circling their way around until the head of him met the palm of her hand, and he pushed against the touch.

“Want you,” she gasped. “Want you deep—”

Her words cut off suddenly at the insistent sound of the doorbell, and only then did he realize that the ringing sound was not the result of his need, but of whoever-the-fuck it was that was hanging on his bell. He cursed again, this time at the interruption, not at the surge of desire she brought from him, and with a frustrated sigh, pushed away from her.

“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll get rid of them.”

She nodded, still, it seemed, fighting to get her breathing under control, and with a final look back at her flushed face, at her clothing in disarray from the touch of his hand as he’d cupped her full breast, he slipped through the barely opened door, fastening his jeans, and rearranging his shirt the best he could with no buttons to keep it closed.

He pulled open the front door, he would like to have thought, with more vigor than he intended, but no, the force with which he opened it was entirely intended. He frowned as he saw the colleague with whom he had been arguing earlier about the possibility of FTL travel.

“Nicholas, hi,” the man said, then frowned, evidently taking in his still slightly disheveled state. “Am I disturbing you?” he asked then.

“Yes,” Rush said, one hand on the door, the other high on the door frame, making a barrier of his body.

“May I come in?”

“No,” he said in the exact same tone.

“Only I thought—”

“I’m busy,” he snapped.

“Oh,” the other professor sounded disappointed for a moment then understanding dawned over his face in a red blush as he drew out the sound of the second, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he breathed out the word as a sigh. Rumors of his conquest of some unknown woman would be circulating the department before class the following Monday.

“Well, I’ll… I’ll leave you too it, then,” the other man said almost apologetically, while trying to peer past him, and through the barely cracked open door of the study.

“Yeah,” he said. “Fuck off.”

He closed the door before anything else could be said, and then leaned his forehead against the wood. She deserved better than he had been about to serve her; not that he wanted her any the less.

Acting before he could think too much of it, he turned, not to the study, but to the lounge, where he lit the fire - made easier by the fire-lighter nestled in the midst of the kindling, before pulling the cushions from the couch and the chair and making a bed of them before the growing flames. Almost starting out of his skin when Belle spoke from behind him, from the doorway.

“I should maybe—”

Still kneeling on the cushions he held out his hand to her. “C’mere,” he said, and tugged her down when she crossed the room to take his hand.

**

When Doctor Rush left the room, Belle let out a long, slow breath and sat up, straightening her clothes. What the hell was she doing, What I’ve wanted to do for months, she answered her own question, then wondered on why she shouldn’t. They were both adults. They clearly both wanted the other… so there was the slight issue of the fact that he was her professor, and that sleeping with students was likely to get him fired, if they found out, and… she growled softly in frustration, and listened to the stilted conversation from the front door. Who the hell came calling at this time of night?

She ran her fingers through her hair. This was probably a really bad idea, but she wanted him so much she ached. She squeezed her thighs together as she stood waiting, hoping to dull that ache so that she could think clearly, and do the right thing. The front door closed, and she expected the study door to open any second, only… it didn’t. After another several minutes, having resolved that no matter how much she wanted to stay, she should probably leave, she went in search of Rush.

She didn’t have to look far. The moment she opened the door to the study she could see him. The fire was lit in the grate and he had pulled the cushions from the couch to make a bed of sorts in front of it. Her belly lurched, and her good intentions began to melt.

“I should maybe—” she began, and she saw him start slightly, then he turned, still kneeling, and held out his hand to her, inviting her closer. What resolve she had remaining evaporated and she crossed the room to take his hand, allowing him to tug her down onto the nest of cushions he had made.

“This is nice,” she said after a time of sitting, gazing into the fire, still holding his hand, and he had made no move to let go either. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did,” he argued softly, cutting her off and releasing her hand, finally, but only to reach and turn her toward him. Then he cupped her face between gentle hands, teasing his fingers into her hair. “You… deserve better than I was about to give you back there.” He ran a thumb across her cheek as it heated in a blush.

“As I recall,” she answered, finding her voice thickening with new desire, “I was the one started it.”

“That’s as maybe,” he said, “but that doesn’t give me permission to be a Neanderthal about it.”

She couldn’t help but chuckle a little bit, and he smiled. It changed the whole of his face, and her stomach tightened around a new feeling. She liked it. She reached out to caress the skin of his chest where his shirt had fallen open again. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. He let out the breath slowly, and drew her closer, sliding one arm around her waist, and one more deeply into her hair, and then his lips met hers again. Slowly this time, the softness of his lips in contrast with the prickle of his scruff, or short beard, depending on your perspective, she lost herself to the kiss, and to him, as his tongue swept into her mouth to tangle with her own. Supporting her, he laid her back on the cushions, never once breaking the kiss, and stretched out half over her, enough to feel him swell against her hip where he covered her.

She tugged the back of his shirt fully out from his pants and ran her fingers over the skin of his back, feeling the ridge of each vertebrae, and suddenly thinking he was too thin. The thought was fleeting, however, as his fingers slipped beneath her small shirt and teased at the curve of her lace covered breast, just his fingertips brushing against her through the lace. She gasped softly, breaking the kiss and arched enough to encourage him to take more of her breast into his hand.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured as he cupped her, the maddening brush of his fingertips now teasing her nipple into life. She moaned softly at the touch, pressing her lips against his neck, before lifting her face to his to capture his mouth once more.

Her fingers teased around the waistband of his jeans, creeping slowly toward his belt again, wanting him free, wanting to cup him in her hand. She wanted the heavy heat of him hard against her palm, and loosened the belt at last, then slipped her fingers in to find him risen and wanting.

He moaned deeply, pushing against her touch and pulled away from the kiss, abandoning her breast to slip both hands beneath her shirt and tug it off over her head as she lifted her shoulders to help him. He took a moment to shrug off his own shirt, and she took the opportunity to unclasp her bra and cast it aside, watching the smoldering hunger kindle in his eyes as he looked on her, uncovered as she was.

He returned to her then, to cup her breast and lift it to his waiting mouth as he leaned over her. She let out a soft cry at the hot, wet sweep of his tongue over her nipple, arched into his touch and squirmed beneath him, rolling her hips against the hardness there, before returning her hand to the fastenings of his jeans, and freeing him from the confines of his clothing.

“God, Belle,” he breathed against her nipple, pulling away from one to give equal attention to the other, while his fingers began a slow and teasing climb between her thighs. She blushed again to know how wet her would find her, how swollen with need - a desire that spread into her belly in a soft, but insistent ache.

**

Light flared inside him the moment her hand closed around his cock. It had been so long, and he wanted, so much, to sink himself inside of her, but even to feel her long, slow caress once she had freed him from his pants left him breathless against where he nipped and teased at her breast. She was beautiful, perfect… and she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

At last, his fingers met the soaked lace of her panties, drawing a moan from him as he thought again of sinking into that wet heat. She pushed against his touch, and not wanting to deny her, he slipped his fingers beneath the lace, to tease between her soft folds.

“Nicholas,” she breathed, arching beneath him. Her hand faltered, but barely, on the glide over his hardness. He turned his hand, just slightly, to circle the swollen bud of her clit with his thumb, as he slowly eased a finger inside of her. She keened quietly and he let out a growl as her walls squeezed against his touch. He withdrew the digit, added another and then stroked more deeply. She bucked beneath him, and he repeated the teasing glide, in and out of her, teasing with his thumb more firmly, then lighter, before withdrawing the touch altogether, to reach for the waistband of her underwear, and her skirt, and tugged both down her legs.

Without her hand surrounding him, he felt bereft, but he could bear it for the promise of what they would share. Before returning to her, he kicked off his jeans and underwear, and she reached for him as he rose over her; she parted her thighs for him, and drew him against her with the press of her heels against the back of his legs.

“Belle,” he murmured.

“I want you,” she answered, moving beneath him to bring the head of his cock closer to where she needed him to be. Then, with a mutual cry, he sank inside of her, the tight clasp of her muscles caressing every inch of him as he took her deeply.

“Fuck,” he breathed, dropping his head to her shoulder, and stilled a moment to allow them both a breath.

When they next moved it was as one. She pushed her hips against him, and he drew back, to claim her again, with slow, deep thrusts. She gave little mewling cries and gasps to answer the breathy moans that escaped him, and her hands were everywhere on him at once. His thrusts became swifter and shallower, his breath as heated as the passion burning in him. He wanted to last.

“Wait… wait…”

She slowed her movements beneath him, reached up to caress his face, draw him down for a soft kiss, and then pushed at his shoulder, without warning, though not violently, but enough to give them momentum to turn, until he found himself beneath her.

**

Belle could sense the passion, and the tension growing in him, because she felt it in herself. Tight, like a piano wire, with sensations coursing through her. She felt a delicious fullness that stoked the fires of her need and filled her with the tingling awareness of sharing herself with him. Each thrust increased the tingling and the tightness that subsumed her as a part of itself. The weight of his body against hers, the heat of his sac press tightly to her behind whenever he pressed close, everything driving her toward that sweet madness; the trembling that began in her grew until, with breathy urgency, he whispered “Wait… wait…” and stilled, pressed tightly against her, and she slowed her own movements, then stopped to reach up and caress him; kiss him.

She wanted control, to lead the dance of passion they shared; she pushed at his shoulder, at the same time lifting one hip to begin the roll that would reverse their positions, lifting herself to allow him to readjust on the pillows.

Then she straddled him, teased him with her wet folds gliding against his cock that pulsed, proud against his lower belly. He moaned, then chuckled.

“Keep that up,” he murmured, “And I’m not gonnae last.”

His accent thickened, and she moaned softly, clasped his hands from where they rested at her hips, supporting her, and linking their fingers, leaned over him, pressing his hands above his head.

Then kissing him deeply, she took him inside of her again, a soft growl in her throat at the depth with which he filled her as she sank down onto him. She barely stilled before she began a slow, rolling, circling wave of movement over him. He raised his shoulders, fighting against her restraining hands, until he could kiss her neck. Hot, open mouthed kisses traversed her throat and the side of her neck, her shoulders, until she couldn’t stand the pleasure of it as it coursed through her to meet deep in her belly with the pleasure from taking Rush to the hilt.

She moved harder and faster over him, in time releasing his hands, wanting to feel them on her body. She leaned her hands on his chest, rose and fell with increasing abandon until they were both of them gasping and panting in time, and a swirling mass of white heat gathered in her core.

“Nicholas,” she moaned.

“Right here, sweetheart,” he gasped in answer, and suddenly sat up beneath her, keeping her close and thrusting up into her as their flesh slapped together. “Oh, God!”

The gathered pleasure burst inside her, taking all of her and breaking her apart with the intensity of it, followed barely a heartbeat after with a second wash of heat as he spilled himself inside of her, then wrapped her tightly in his arms, both of them panting for breath.

She turned her head and pressed her cheek against the front of his shoulder, and he tangled his fingers into her hair, and whispered against the top of her head, “You beautiful, beautiful woman,” and they remained, wrapped up there together, breathing as one as they slowly drifted back to Earth.

Presently he softened inside of her, and lifted her a little to exit her body, though he kept her in his lap.

“Stay,” he said quietly, and she nodded; She didn’t want to leave.

Tenderly, he lay her down, then padded, unselfconsciously naked, to add more fuel to the fire, returning to her with a downy blanket that he snatched from the back of the couch and lay it over them as he gathered her close.

**

Rush breathed out a long, slow sigh as Belle moved closer and rested her head on his shoulder. He tucked the blanket around her more securely, then nuzzled at the top of her head. Never, in many long years had he felt he would be able to let his guard down like this - not again - but with Belle it was almost as though everything in him demanded it.

Without his bidding, his eyes drifted to the mantle, where stood the one picture of Gloria he had managed to rescue from his grief-filled rage. In the photograph she was smiling, and for the first time he felt peace contemplating what had happened, and though he didn’t believe in much beyond the physical limitations of living, he fancied the smile was meant in benediction.

“What was her name?” Belle’s voice softly interrupted his introspection.

He turned his gaze down to find her looking in the same direction he had been, looking at the photograph.

“Gloria,” he said, then with a slight chuckle he voiced the though that had come, unbidden, into his mind. “She woulda liked you.”

Belle shook her head. “She was beautiful.”

“She was,” he agreed softly, and for the first time since her death, he found himself thinking, and speaking of her without bitterness and anger. He was certain being with Belle was something to do with that, and equally as unbidden as the other thought, he found his eyes stinging with tears, but they were tears of wonder - or something close. “And so are you,” he breathed, tightening his arms around her.

“It’s all right,” Belle said, and he frowned down at her in confusion. “She was your wife,” she explained. “Just because we made love, doesn’t mean I expect you to forget all about her, or never speak of her.”

For a moment, overwhelming emotion filled him, attraction and desire for the young woman in his arms deepening to something more, something real

“Oh, Belle,” he whispered, the only way he could voice the feeling.

“Nicholas…”

“Nick,” he corrected, his belly knotting for barely a moment as he gave her concession, permission, to use his shortened name; not since Gloria—

“Nick,” she echoed softly, and then leaned up, her lips finding his, their long, slow kiss freed the knot, and the fear that it might have been a step too far.

When the kiss broke, he reached up to gently cradle her face in his hands, looking deeply into her eyes and seeing the reflection of the lights on the tree sparkling in them. He held her gaze for a long while, several long breaths, before she wriggled at his side to settled down again with her head pillowed on his chest.

“So,” she said, her breath puffing across his sternum as she spoke, “you plan on us staying here all night?”

There was mischief in her voice.

“Why not?” he asked in answer. “We’ve the tree, the fireplace, a soft, warm blanket…”

“Don’t tell me you don’t have a bed,” she teased, leaning up again to give him an exaggerated look of horrified disbelief.

“I have a bed,” he laughed, “Ye wee minx!”

She chuckled with him for a moment more, before settling down again and adding quietly. “And each other.”

“Hmm?” he asked.

“And we have each other,” she repeated, almost too soft for him to hear.