Dirty December Dripping wet
"Tonight, you're mine. Tomorrow we'll figure out tomorrow."
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
He carried her back to the bed, and this time, when he pulled her against him, she let herself sink into the warmth his skin, the sheets, the soft glow of the dying fire. He pulled the duvet over them both, and she felt his arm wrap around her waist, his lips pressed to the back of her neck.
The fire popped. The snow fell. Somewhere in the city, church bells began to ring, ushering in Christmas morning.
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