“Tristan.” Poppy's fingers are stroking down my cheek when my eyes flutter open. I don’t remember falling asleep.
She’s standing by the bed, looking sleepy and mussed in one of Vance’s T-shirts. It’s too big for her, ending in the middle of her delectable thighs.
“Come eat with us.” She phrases it like a question.
I look over to where Vance leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, the veins bulging in his forearms. He’s shirtless, the gorgeous expanse of toned muscles tense, his dark nipples hard. He’s wearing sweatpants, his dark, wavy hair wet and curling around his ears.
I scoot up the mattress and swing my legs off the edge of the bed, head bowed.
“Come on, Tristan.” He jerks his head then pushes off the doorframe. “Let’s eat.”
“Is my punishment over?” I ask, scraping my fingers into the bed sheet.
“This part is,” he tells me.
Poppy’s arms slip around my neck, her ass settling on my lap. I’m still very fucking naked, so my cock takes notice of the skin of her thigh heating mine. Fingers brush over the scars on my back but she doesn’t mention them.
“I missed you,” she whispers into my neck as I clutch her waist, breathing her in. Her stomach rumbles, and she giggles. It’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.
Winding my arms under her thighs, I lift her and carry through to the dining room, planting her on a chair before I head back to the bedroom to slip on a pair of sleep shorts.
When I return, Vance has plated up some pasta dish for each of us. As soon as his eyes land on me, he jabs a finger toward the chair beside his. “Sit.”
“Is he always this bossy?” Poppy grins, a beautiful pink flush spreading over her skin. I can’t believe she’s sitting in our apartment, at our table.
A scoff leaves my lips, and he glares at me. “Only when he’s pleasuring or punishing.” I wink at her, and she bites her lip, pushing her food around her plate with her fork.
This is nice. Her in our space. Like she belongs here.
“Eat, Poppy. I can hear your stomach from here,” Vance demands, and her brows raise.
“Yes, sir.” She sounds like she’s army personnel, not using the words the way he intended. I raise my hand to cover my smirk.
“Such naughty fucking brats I have on my hands,” Vance grumbles, tearing some garlic bread then shoving it in his mouth. I moisten my lips, enjoying the way his mouth moves, the tic in his jaw, the undulation of his throat when he swallows.
“Why aren’t there any Christmas decorations up in here?” Poppy asks, steering my focus in her direction.
“Tristan doesn’t like Christmas,” Vance informs her matter-of-factly, pouring himself a whiskey.
Her dazzling green eyes shoot to me, widening like she’s surprised. “Really?”
Christmas reminds me of my parents. The Christmas tree my mother and I decorated when she was in one of her rare giving moods ended up being kindling to the fire that tore through the house while I watched through the window after being locked out for throwing up after a beating.
“It hasn’t been so bad this year,” I say, swallowing a bite of my food. The smile Poppy gifts me warms my chest, and real contentment seeps into my bones.
“What do Christmases look like for you when you're home, Poppy?” At Vance’s question, she sighs, taking a sip of her water before lifting one of her legs and hugging her arm around it.
“Usually, we take turns, spending Christmas with my parents one year and Josh’s the next.” Her gaze seems far away as she claws at her memories. “His parents host for his entire family, soit can get hectic. At my parents’, it’s a little more relaxed. Church then dinner.” She shrugs. “There’s not much I miss about home, but when I lived there, my mom let me put up star lights all over my bedroom for Christmas. I love Christmas lights.” She smiles wistfully. “And tinsel.” She raises her fork for emphasis. “No one has tinsel garlands these days.”
Vance snorts. “My mother fired one of her maids for using tinsel on her tree one year.”
Poppy’s fork clanks onto her plate as she drops it in horror. “Fired her?”
He bobs his head. “Made her cry. She’d worked for our family for years, it was awful.”
“I noticed the tattoo,” I announce, changing the subject because Vance’s mother and Christmas are subjects I hate. “On your hip,” I add, watching her.
She’s intoxicating, and not just the sexual side of her, this side too—just eating and talking about her life. Anyone else might’ve found it mundane, but to me, it’s everything.
