Heart Thaw (14 page)

He half sits up, his hands moving back to my ass, which he kneads frantically.

“Sadie,” he groans, those black eyes wild on me.

It should be the fact that his dick is in me, that we’re pressing and sliding against each other that makes me come. I’ve always been able to let go and come when I clear my head, go blank, and let my body take over.

But, as usual, Trent breaks all my rules.

It’s his body. Oh, damn, it’s his body that has me wet and panting and wanting this to never end. But it’s not just the animal physicality of the two of us pressing and rubbing against each other. It’s the way my name sounds out of his mouth and the wild look he has in his eyes that unhooks my firm grip on my control.

He sits up, dragging me back so he’s braced against the headboard and our bodies are rubbing against each other from shoulder to thigh. Our legs are tangled, our arms are twisted around each other, and he’s not slowing down. He’s crashing into me, his eyes locked on mine, one word coming out between his gritted teeth:

“Sadie.”

I cry out, high and loud. The sound shocks me and makes him pump harder. I cry out again, and grab at him, my nails raking his skin, my forehead pressed so hard to his it hurts.

“Trent, Trent, Trent,” I chant as I come to the edge, spread my arms wide, and fall.

Fast. Hard. My screams of total pleasure echo off his walls, threaded through with his low, deep groans as he swallows me in his arms and holds tight. I shake and shudder, so hard my teeth clatter. And when the vibrations of pleasure stop, I slump, heavy and sweat-slicked against his body, my ear pressed to his chest, the sound of his thumping heart perfectly loud.

We both gasp for a few long minutes, and Trent makes a couple attempts to lift his arms. Finally, he manages to tuck them around me and roll me onto my back. He looks down at me, his calloused fingers rough on the side of my face as his thumb strokes my bottom lip.

“Merry Christmas, Sadie.”

He presses his lips softly to mine.

“Merry Christmas, Trent,” I warble back.

As the last perfect echos of giddy eroticism fade, I’m left with a bold reality.

Trent and I had sex again. And we have to go to my mother’s house and celebrate Christmas with his mother dead and his sister pregnant and everyone missing Eileen and unsure how to even navigate all this.

And I, who swore to make things better, have complicated them beyond saving.

“I’m gonna take a shower. You want in?” Trent asks.

“Another one?” I ask weakly.

He shrugs. “I’m a dirty boy. Are you in?”

In the shower. With Trent. Hot, soapy water running over his naked body. My naked body pressed to his. The logical answer is, ‘
No, that would be tempting fate even more than we already have
.’

But I find myself following him out of bed, my voice saying, “Sure,” my mind clicking to some kind of safe mode where I just stop thinking about all the ways I’m definitely ruining everything normal and sane in my life and focus instead on the way Trent’s hands slide over my body as he soaps me up. 

Chapter Eight

My eardrums are still ringing a little from all the moaning and very satisfied screaming that went on in Trent’s gorgeous glass shower, my body pressed against the iridescent blue tiles while Trent whispered a thousand naughty things he wanted to do to me—then did them.

Every. Single. One.

And the memory of what we did only intensifies the awkward silence we’ve slid into now that we’re both in my car.

Trent clears his throat.

“I could have taken my bike. Should’ve. Someone will have to drive me home later.”

“I’ll drive you home,” I say, my voice gasping around the words as I imagine exactly what that could entail.

He turns his head to the passenger window, breathes on it, and uses his fingertip to trace a star.

“Sadie, I can hear your brain buzzing from here. I get it if you regret what we did.” He looks at me with one eyebrow raised high. “Twice.”

“I...don’t...know,” I stutter, then slam my hands on the steering wheel. “It’s not
just
sex, Trent, and it’s not just you. It’s...it’s life, okay? I have all this shit weighing on me. All this stuff that I can’t talk to anyone else about. I love Georgia, you know that. But she’s going to be dealing with being pregnant and insurance and childcare and rent and this whole set of real, adult worries. How can I tell her how my thesis on women’s bodies in renaissance art just isn’t gelling?”

“Maybe it’s not gelling because that’s a huge thesis topic,” Trent says, stamping his booted feet on the car floor. It
is
cold. I lean over and turn up the dial on the heat. “Are you narrowed down by geographic location? Biblical or ancient Greek and Roman depictions? Hell, you could just do one or two prominent artists. A lot of them were prolific enough to support a senior thesis paper, even with a more centralized subject topic.”

The tires are crunching over the gravel driveway outside my mother’s house. I park the car and stare at him. He catches my gaze and scowls.

“What?” I demand.

He shakes his head. “You look shocked.”

“I just...are you taking classes? I didn’t know,” I say.

His jaw tightens. “Of course you didn’t. You didn’t
ask
, Sadie.”

“I’m asking now,” I argue. 

“And it’s blowing your mind,” he accuses, his hand on the door handle. “Is it really that much of a stretch to imagine me in college? I mean, I know I didn’t always have the firmest grasp on all the rules, but I wasn’t a total slacker.”

“I never said you were.”

He snorts, and I can’t really defend myself. Because I never thought he wasn’t. I realize now I was wrong about that, but I’m still adjusting to just how wrong.

I want to keep talking to him about this. To plead my case so I can come off looking like something other than the judgmental asshole I know he thinks I’m being. But Ella is bounding out the door in her one piece red pajamas, Santa hat, and elf boots. I notice how dark the rings under her eyes are. And how bright her smile is in contrast.

Ella is going to make this Christmas work, dammit.

I blush when I imagine what Eileen would think of the way I tried to “fix” Christmas this year. I should have put on silly holiday pajamas and danced a little jig with her instead of going to Trent’s house at dawn to screw his brains out.

I’m going to hell. The kind of hell Jacob Marley is doomed to roast in for all eternity. And I deserve it, no questions.

“Hey! Mom and Georgia have the French toast on the table!” Ella screams, hurtling herself into Trent’s arms the second he steps out of the car. “I’m not saving you any bacon, son. You get to the table and dig in or too bad, so sad for you.”

She backs up and pokes Trent in the chest, then jogs in place in front of him, jabbing and ducking like she’s having a pretend boxing match.

“Wow. What the hell is your anti-hangover remedy, because we need to patent that shit,” Trent says, pulling her in for a tight hug.

He kisses her on the cheek and settles an even, frosty glare my way.

“I think I just needed to get it all out,” Ella says, her entire jolly elf persona disappearing for a flicker. “I needed to just rage and cry. I don’t know if I ever really did that when your mom died. But last night, I got my chance. Honestly? I have a splitting headache and I actually might hurl after breakfast.” Her tight smile grows wide. “All the better for you. That way you might actually wind up with some bacon. Hope you like leftovers.”

My sister pretends to dry heave.

“Ella,” I chide, but, as usual, my sister gets away with saying the grossest thing she can think to say and has Trent laughing.

I realize I’m insanely jealous of her ability to do that. I want to make Trent laugh. I mean, I loved making him moan. I loved making him want me. But I want to make him laugh in that easy, loose way.

He slams the car door and he and Ella head up the steps, their arms around each other. Nothing in the world seems less likely in this moment than the possibility of my getting him to laugh.

And that freaks me out more than anything in my life this far has.

“Merry Christmas, sweetie!” Mom is on the porch in her naughty elf apron, waving a spatula around. “That was sweet of you to get Trent.” She pulls me close and kisses my cheek as I plod up the steps, then pauses. She looks at me for a long time. “Your hair is wet.”

I put my fingers up to the damp strands and my mind blanks. I towel dried my hair at Trent’s, but I didn’t bother to ask for a hair dryer. I didn’t even think of it, my brain was so full of the gorgeous beauty of his long, lean body, accented with coiling tattoos and defined with muscles that must have developed sometime when I was trying hard not to pay attention to him.

“I showered before I left this morning,” I mumble.

I can’t read the expression in Mom’s eyes, but I have a feeling she knows more than she’s letting on.

And that she doesn’t approve.

I think back to how Trent mentioned he wanted my mother to know, hoping she’d be on his side. I assumed my mother would be pissed at me for leading Trent on, but now I have a feeling she might be pissed at the idea of my being with Trent at all.

Before I can give it more thought, Georgia bursts out the door.

“Sadie! Merry Christmas!” Her face is glowing, probably in part from the heat of the stove, but also from the happiness growing inside her. “You need to get inside before our siblings eat the entire breakfast spread.”

“Merry Christmas,” I say to them both as an afterthought.

Neither one pays me any attention, because they’re talking a mile a minute over my head as they bustle me in the door where every single thing is the same as it has been on every Christmas before...even though it’s completely different.

I keep thinking I see a flash of Eileen here and there—the curl of her hair, always moving and shaking just like Georgia’s; the hot pink press of her lipstick on someone’s cheek or forehead; her favorite Santa Baby mug filled with coffee so strong, it could pass as motor oil...or, better yet, a reindeer glass filled to the brim with a mimosa mix light on the orange juice, extra heavy on the bubbly.

But she isn’t here. And we’re all being loud and smiling and eating—not like we’re forgetting. How could we ever forget someone like Eileen? It’s more like we’re putting on a good show for her, because no one loved Christmas like Eileen, so we owe it to her to not mope and cry like we want to.

Damn do I want to.

I run my finger over the saucy frog in a bikini dangling from the tree and glance at the breakfast table, getting sucked in by Trent’s eyes. Which are trained on me like lasers. He even manages to beat my sister in a crazy grab for the last piece of bacon while keeping his eyes glued on me. If my mother notices his smoldering stare, she doesn’t let on, and Georgia is snuggled in the living room with a big glass of ginger ale, looking green.

“You okay?” I ask, sitting next to her and running a hand over her messy curls like I’ve got nothing to hide.

Like I didn’t just have mind-blowing sex with her younger brother when I was supposed to be honoring the peace and joy of this holiday season.

“Just feel so gross,” she says, smiling like feeling gross is the prize she’s worked her entire life to win. “As long as the baby is growing strong, I’ll be happy to puke through the whole pregnancy.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Trent gripes around a mouthful of bacon.

He’s leaned back in the chair at the table, watching us both with barely disguised disgust. Georgia’s head shoots up, her gaze switching from adoringly maternal to murderously venomous in a few quick seconds.

“Who the hell asked you?”

“You need to eat. Especially breakfast. Especially the kind that doesn’t have a hole in the center and isn’t covered in frosting and sprinkles. If this kid’s gonna have a snowball’s chance in hell of growing up normal, it’ll need some vitamins.”

He stabs his fork into some French toast, fury emanating off of him so strongly, I’m surprised it’s not rattling the dishes on the table.

“Do
not
call my baby ‘it,’ Trent,” Georgia threatens.

I’m waiting for my mother to jump in and calm this all down, but she’s watching, transfixed, like Ella and I are.

“Uh, okay. I wasn’t trying to insult you. English just doesn’t have a very good gender neutral possessive pronoun in the singular.” He looks over at me and winks, but it’s not an adorable, fun-filled wink. It’s like a one-eyed sneer. If that makes any sense. “I learned that in
college
,” he says for my benefit.

My eyes go wide. I want to ask him...
everything
. But not here, with everyone watching and his temper flaring.

“Let’s open presents,” my mother says suddenly.

Her tone isn’t necessarily mean or even irritated, but all conversations come to a standstill. Everyone stares at their hands for a few sheepish seconds before we move in a herd toward the tree.

Trent sits right next to me, like he’s daring me to say anything or make a big deal about the fact that his knee bangs against mine.

How have knees become a body parts that, when rubbed together, make me think such dirty, sexy thoughts? Only Trent Toriello can bring this out in me.

Mom passes out gifts to each of us, and Ella wiggles under the tree to snatch the presents she told me she squirreled away for Mom. Even though I sent half the money the day she told me—and even though Ella went a little overboard, and I wound up dead on my feet catching extra shifts at work to get it all together—I feel guilty. I didn’t even ask to see the gifts, not that it would have mattered. Ella had them all wrapped up by the time I got home.

I should be glad I’m here at all. I could have been shivering alone in my depressing apartment. I try to focus on that so I’ll feel grateful, but my perverted mind goes right to Trent in my bed, Trent on his motorcycle, Trent looking and feeling so damn
right
, and I have to stop.

“Mrs. J, you didn’t need to do this,” Trent says, staring at the present wrapped in snowman paper he’s holding in his hands.

“Are you kidding me? I have to spoil my kids on Christmas. Open it.” She smiles at him, and every one of us sees it and looks away.

Because we’re all thinking of Eileen, and we all know Mom is holding this together for our benefit. We know she needs to break down and weep over her best friend not being here with her babies this Christmas. So we put on a good show, all four of us, for Mom and for Eileen, too. They deserve better than we’ve been behaving.

Trent slides a finger under the folded slit and loosens the tape. “What can it be?” He smirks at Georgia.

“Stop opening it like that!” she screeches, ripping hers apart just to show him how it’s done. Her gasp makes us all stop. “Mrs. J! When did you pick this up?”

“I had to elbow a few ladies—and I use that term
very
loosely—to get to it in a crazy Christmas Eve sale after you all went to bed last night.”

I suck my breath in as I wonder...did my mother hear Trent and me last night? Is that what her weird looks are about this morning? But she doesn’t give me a clue. She just smiles at George, so wide it strains her cheeks.

“I can’t wait to see the little pumpkin in it next year.” Mom claps her palms together, the tiny gems in the center of the poinsettias on her fingernails catching the light.

“Is it an elf costume?” Ella squeals. Georgia nods and holds up a ridiculously cute green and red pajama set with little bell-adorned shoes and a tiny hat with pointed elf ears sewn on it. “I’m getting a matching one! Me and Baby Toriello will be twin elves next year!”

“It’s so perfect,” Georgia says, wiping her eyes with her fingertips. “Thank you. Oh my God, I’m being such a baby! I’m sorry.”

Mom half stands and hugs Georgia tight. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. I can’t wait to have a little one excited for Santa to come again.” Her voice goes all cracked, but she laughs it off and pokes Trent with her glittering snowflake slipper. “Much better than waking up Christmas morning to all you snippy punks.”