Chapter 1: The Pretend Sleep
The blue-white flicker of the TV was the only real light in the room, apart from the soft constellation of fairy lights strung along the ceiling. A plastic pine scent from the tree mixed with the sharper, cleaner bite of peppermint from their empty tea mugs on the coffee table. Ashleigh’s head was a warm, familiar weight on Eamon’s thigh, her blonde hair fanned out across the worn corduroy of his jeans. He’d been absently stroking it for twenty minutes, the conversation dwindling into a comfortable silence as some forgettable comedy played itself out.
He’d missed this. Missed her. The whole ten-month gap since his last visit dissolved in the quiet of her living room. Connor was away visiting his own family until the twenty-seventh, and a secret, shameful part of Eamon had thrilled at the empty apartment, at having her to himself.
“You’re asleep,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath in the dimness.
“I’m not,” she murmured back, but she didn’t move. Her eyes were closed, long lashes dusting her cheeks. A strand of hair had caught on her lower lip. He carefully hooked it away with his thumb, letting the pad of his finger brush the plush curve of her mouth. She didn’t flinch. A quiet, impossible energy began to hum in the space between them.
His hand, of its own volition it seemed, drifted from her hair, down the slope of her shoulder, coming to rest on the sharp jut of her hipbone
A quiet, impossible energy began to hum in the space between them.
His hand, of its own volition it seemed, drifted from her hair, down the slope of her shoulder, coming to rest on the sharp jut of her hipbone. The silk of her nightgown was insubstantial, a whisper against his palm. It was a strappy, navy blue thing, nothing special except for how short it was. The hem had ridden up her thighs as she’d settled against him, and now it was a dark band across the very tops of her legs, doing little to hide the swell of her ass or the long, toned lines of her bare skin. The thin straps cut into her shoulders, and he could see the delicate architecture of her collarbones, the shallow rise and fall of her chest. She’d changed into it after their movie started, a casual, “Don’t mind me, just getting comfortable,” that had nearly short-circuited his brain.
He could feel the heat of her through the silk. His thumb began a slow, hypnotic stroke along the ridge of her hip, back and forth, a territory he had no right to map. He waited for her to stiffen, to sit up, to laugh it off with a cousinly shove.
She didn’t.
She let out a soft sigh, a barely audible release of breath that wasn’t sleep. It was permission. It was a crack in the world.
His fingers tensed, curling slightly, pulling the slippery fabric taut against her skin. His own body was betraying him, a heavy, aching thickness growing where her head lay. The denim felt like a prison. She had to feel it. The knowledge was a hot wire in his gut.
Ashleigh shifted, just a fraction, turning her face slightly into his thigh. The movement pressed her cheek more firmly against him. It was deliberate. It was an answer. Her hand, which had been lying limp on her own stomach, drifted down, coming to rest on the back of his wrist where it held her hip. Not to move it. Just to feel it there. Her fingers were cool. The contrast against his burning skin was electric.
“Eamon.” His name was a murmur, lost in the laugh track from the television.
“Yeah?”
“Nothing.” A pause. The air in the room was gone, replaced by something thick and charged. “Just… your hand is warm.”
His control, the easygoing facade he wore like a second skin, frayed completely. His hand slid from her hip, around the incredible curve of her waist, his palm flattening against the concavity of her toned stomach. He felt the subtle tension in her abs, the hitch in her breath.
He felt the subtle tension in her abs, the hitch in her breath.
“Is this okay?” The words were gravel in his throat.
Instead of answering, Ashleigh shifted. She turned her body, sliding down the couch just enough so her head now rested not on his thigh, but on the softer plane of his lower stomach. The pressure was exquisite, maddening. Her left hand came to rest high on his leg, her fingers splayed. The other arm curled beneath her, a pillow.
“Mmm,” was all she said, nestling in.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He let his hand resume its journey, tracing the pronounced dip of her waist, skating over the silk covering the incredible, full curve of her hip. His touch was feather-light, a ghost of a caress over the swell of her ass, down the outside of her thick thigh. Every pass of his hand pulled the thin nightgown tighter against her skin, outlining everything.
Her breathing deepened, slowed. It became a measured, artificial rhythm. She was pretending to sleep. This was the fiction they were building together, a fragile shield against the reality of what was happening. Her fingers on his thigh tightened, then relaxed completely.
He watched the faint flutter of her eyelids slowly closing in the tv reflection and after a few minutes wondered if she’d really fallen asleep.
“Ash?”
She didn't stir.
He strained to hear even a change in her breathing, but there was only the artificial, heavy rhythm of her act. The silence was a blanket, smothering every rational thought. In its place, a vile heat rose in his mind.
She was leading him on. She knew what this was, what it was doing to him. They always pretend to be angels, a dark, oily voice whispered in his head. Laying there, all helpless. Wanting it, but wanting you to take the blame. He pictured her small, subtle smirks at the family barbecues, the way her eyes would slide away from his, the times she’d leaned into him just a little too long. A web of little traps, spun over years.
She’s playing.
Love for her surged, a desperate dam against the ugly thoughts. This was Ash.His Ashleigh. That’s your cousin, you twisted fuck, he screamed at himself. This is how you ruin everything. She trusts you.
But his hand didn't listen to any of it.
It slid, a traitorous animal, from the subtle curve of her waist and hip, down to the lush, impossible swell of her ass. It seemed to bloom beneath the thin silk, the place where 90% of her softness had been deposited. He swallowed hard.
She didn’t shift. Didn’t tell him to stop. Her breathing remained that same, steady, false hum.
Encouragement.
His heart hammered, a frantic drum against her ear. He let his palm cup her fully, the heat of her searing through the fabric. He squeezed, gently at first, then again, his fingers sinking into the pliant give. He kneaded, his thumb tracing the lower arc, feeling the strength of her thigh meet the glorious softness above it. Each touch was a lightning strike to his own nerves. He was painfully hard, and he knew she could feel every ridge of denim, every straining inch of him pressed against the side of her face.
He was painfully hard, and he knew she could feel every ridge of denim, every straining inch of him pressed against the side of her face.
The rhythm of her breathing was too perfect. A metronome of deceit. It fueled the darker current in his blood. His hand slid from the lush curve of her ass, tracing back up the silk, over the sharp plane of her stomach. His fingers trembled as they found the delicate ridge of her lowest rib. He traced it, a phantom cartographer mapping forbidden land.
He could slip his hand under the hem now. He knew he could. The fabric was loose, the angle perfect. His fingertips brushed the elastic edge of her panties, a mere whisper of contact. He stopped. The air in the room was syrup in his lungs. The laugh track from the TV was a distant, mocking echo from another world.
“Ashleigh.”
He whispered her name again, double-checking she’s asleep. It was barely a sound, just the ghost of a breath shaped into her name. A final, flimsy token of consent he was pretending to seek.
No response. No flutter of an eyelid. No change in that deep, steady inhale-exhale. Just the warm, living weight of her against him, her body pliant under his touch.
The fiction was complete. She was asleep. He was a guardian, a cousin keeping watch. And in this story they were telling themselves, nothing that happened now was real.
His index finger hooked under the silk hem of her nightgown. It slid upward, an inch, then two. The backs of his knuckles grazed the warm skin of her belly. He felt the fine, soft hair there, the sudden goosebumps that rippled out from his touch. Her stomach tightened, a subtle, instinctive flinch.
His breath caught. He froze.
Her breathing didn’t change. It remained deep, even, a performance of profound slumber.
The flinch was just a dream, then. A sleep reflex. The permission, absolute.
His hand moved again, more deliberately now, pushing the navy silk up past her waist. The cool air of the room hit the newly exposed skin of her lower back, the top crest of her ass. His palm settled there, skin on skin, and the heat was almost shocking. It was a different texture than the silk—smooth, alive, charged.
He let his hand roam, stroking the small of her back, tracing the pronounced dip of her spine until it disappeared beneath the waistband of her panties. They were simple cotton, he could feel that much. He curled his fingers over the top edge, tugging gently, just enough to feel the resistance, to feel the tight clasp of the fabric against her hip. He didn’t pull them down.Not yet. He just held the edge, his thumb stroking the strip of skin just beneath it.
His other hand came up, almost of its own accord, and brushed the hair from her neck. His fingers trailed down the column of her throat, over the delicate flutter of her pulse. It was racing. A frantic bird trapped against his touch.
She was awake. She had to be. Every nerve in her body was screaming it. And she was letting him. She was pretending to let him.
The duality of it was the most intoxicating thing he’d ever known. His head spun with it. He leaned down, his lips hovering just above the shell of her ear. He could smell the clean scent of her shampoo, the faint trace of peppermint on her breath.
“You’re so still,” he breathed, the words a hot rush against her skin. A challenge.A confession.
A shiver racked her, a full-body tremor she couldn’t suppress. It traveled from her shoulders down to where his hand rested on her hip. She pressed her face harder into him, a silent, desperate motion. Her hand, which had been lying limp on the couch cushion, fisted into the fabric.
His control shattered. The careful, exploratory touches vanished, replaced by a hunger that was primal and single-minded. His hand slid down, fingers slipping definitively under the waistband of her cotton panties. His palm cupped the full, incredible swell of her bare ass. The skin was like heated satin.
He groaned, the sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest. He kneaded the firm, yielding flesh, his fingers digging in, claiming it. He pulled her tighter against him, his hips arching up instinctively, grinding the unbearable hardness of his denim-clad cock against her shoulder, her cheek.
He pulled her tighter against him, his hips arching up instinctively, grinding the unbearable hardness of his denim-clad cock against her shoulder, her cheek. The friction was agony. A need so sharp it felt like violence coiled in his gut.
The fiction of her sleep was a brittle shield, but it was all they had. He couldn’t shatter it. Not outright. But he could bend it, stretch it over this new, impossible shape they were creating.
With a slowness that was pure torment, he shifted. His left hand, which had been tangled in her hair, drifted down his own body. The sound of his zipper in the silent room was seismic. A harsh, metallic whisper that seemed to scream. He held his breath, listening to hers. It hitched, just for a fraction, then smoothed back into that artificial, even rhythm.
He pushed his jeans and boxers down just enough, freeing himself. The cool air was a shock against his heated skin. He wrapped his left hand around his cock, a strangled gasp catching in his throat at the contact. He was painfully hard, flushed and throbbing. He began to stroke, a slow, tight rhythm that sent currents of electricity straight to his core.
His right hand never stilled on her. It kneaded the full, bare curve of her ass, possessive and rough, then slid forward, tracing the secret line where her thigh met her body. The silk of her nightgown was rucked up around her waist now, a messy puddle of navy. His fingertips brushed through the soft, downy hair, and lower, until he found the soaked, hot center of her.
Ashleigh went absolutely rigid.
A full-body flinch she couldn’t suppress. A tiny, choked sound died in her throat. He felt it vibrate against his hip.
He froze, his left hand stilling on himself, his right hand a breath away from her folds. The world hung suspended in the dim fairy light.
Then, with a deliberate, aching slowness, she exhaled. The tension in her shoulders melted, forced away. She settled her weight more fully against him, her body going lax once more in the pantomime of sleep. Her head turned just a little, her nose pressing into the fabric of his shirt, as if seeking a more comfortable position in a deep dream.
It was the most explicit consent he would ever get.
A groan rumbled in his chest. He resumed the slow stroke of his left hand, his grip tightening. His right hand dipped lower, a single finger sliding through her slick heat, finding the swollen, tight bud of her clit. He circled it, once, twice, a feather-light tease.
A tremor wracked her. Her thighs trembled against his leg. From where she lay, he could see the frantic pulse in her throat. Her lips were parted, her breathing now a shallow, controlled pant she tried to mask as sleep. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on her temples.
He applied a little more pressure, rubbing slow, deliberate circles. His own hips began to move in a slight, helpless sync with his left hand, fucking his own fist. The sensations blurred together—the silken heat of her under his right hand, the tight friction of his own grip with his left. He was lost in a feedback loop of touch, every nerve ending screaming.
A low, ragged moan escaped her. It was immediately swallowed, cut off into a muffled whimper as she pressed her face harder into him. Her own hand flew up, not to stop him, but to clutch desperately at the front of his shirt, twisting the fabric in a white-knuckled fist. Her back arched, a subtle, pleading curve, pushing herself against his teasing fingers.
“Ash,” he breathed, the word a ragged prayer. He couldn’t tell if it was a question or a plea.
She didn’t answer with words. Her answer was the hot rush of wetness over his fingers, the choked, stifled gasp she bit into his shirt, the way her entire body bowed taut as a wire for one suspended second before collapsing, shuddering, back against him.
He watched her fall apart in silent, fake sleep, and the sight undid him completely. His left hand moved faster, rougher. His breaths came in short, sharp grunts. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and sweat and this terrible, beautiful secret. His right hand kept working her, gently now, drawing out the last waves of her climax as his own gathered, a torrent ready to break.
He was right there, on the edge, his whole body tensing—
His right hand kept working her, gently now, drawing out the last waves of her climax as his own gathered, a torrent ready to break.
He was right there, on the edge, his whole body tensing—a coil wound too tight. The sight of her, pliant and shuddering in his lap, the scent of her skin and sex, the feel of her wetness on his fingers—it all fused into a single, blinding point of need. A rough sound tore from his throat, half-groan, half-sob.
“Ash… look at me.”
The command was ragged, desperate. It shattered their silent pact.
Her eyes flew open. They were wide, glassy, dark pools reflecting the flickering TV light. There was no sleep in them. Only a shocked, vulnerable awareness, and beneath it, a hunger that mirrored his own. She didn’t move her head from his lap. She just stared up at him, her breath coming in quick, visible puffs in the cool air.
It was the permission he’d been starving for.
His left hand moved faster, a frantic, twisting rhythm. His hips jerked. He watched her face, her lips parted, as the first intense pulse gathered at the base of his spine. It was too much. The visual of her watching, the knowledge of what he was about to do.
“I’m gonna—” The warning was choked off.
The climax ripped through him, violent and uncontrollable. A guttural cry escaped his clenched teeth. His body bowed forward as the first hot rope landed across her cheekbone, startlingly white against her flushed skin.
She flinched, but her eyes didn’t close. She held his wild gaze, mesmerized, as the second spurt striped her chin and throat. The third painted her parted lips. She made a small, choked sound—not of protest, but of awe—and her tongue darted out instinctively, a fleeting, shocking touch to her own skin.
He kept coming, pulse after pulse, each one a shuddering release that left him gasping. It streaked through her blonde hair, dotted her forehead, pooled in the hollow of her throat. She lay perfectly still, absorbing it, her body still vibrating with the faint aftershocks of her own pleasure. The only movement was the rapid rise and fall of her chest and the slow, deliberate blink of her eyes.
Finally, it was over. The last drops fell on the navy silk tangled at her waist. A profound, ringing silence descended, broken only by the ragged symphony of their breathing and the inane chuckle of a commercial for toothpaste.
Eamon’s hand fell away from himself. He stared down at the ruin he’d made of her face. The reality of it crashed into the room, cold and huge. The fairy lights twinkled idiotically on. The pine scent from the tree was suddenly cloying.
Ashleigh’s eyes were still locked on his. They swam with a thousand unspoken things—shock, yes, but also a dark, dawning complicity. A sticky strand clung to her eyelash. Slowly, as if moving through deep water, she brought a hand up. Her fingertips touched her cheek, then came away, glistening. She looked at them, then back at him.
No one moved. The world had narrowed to this couch, to this sticky, silent truth between them.
A car alarm blared somewhere in the distant street, a jarring, mechanical scream. It broke the spell.
Ashleigh slowly sat up, the movement stiff. The evidence cooled on her skin. She didn’t wipe it away. She just looked at him, her expression unreadable now, a mask settling over the vulnerability.
“Well,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady, though a little raw. “That’s one way to say Merry Christmas.”
The words hung in the air, a bizarre punchline to the surreal, silent explosion that had just torn through the room. Eamon couldn’t process it. His mind was a blank, white static, with one horrifying, gleaming image superimposed over everything: her face, painted white.
He blinked. “Oh, god. Ash. Jesus. I’m… I am so sorry. That was… I don’t know what that was.” The words tumbled out, clumsy and thick. He fumbled for the box of tissues on the coffee table, knocking over a peppermint candy cane in the process. “Here, I… let me…”
Ashleigh took a tissue from the box he thrust toward her. She dabbed lightly at her chin, then looked at the smeared result. A weird snort escaped her—a bubble of hysterical laughter that she quickly swallowed. She looked at him, his panic so palpable it was almost a third person in the room.
“Sorry?” she repeated, her voice still husky. She dabbed at her cheekbone, her movements slow, almost thoughtful. “For the mess? Or for the…” She gestured vaguely between her legs and then to herself.
“For… everything. All of it. I crossed like… fifteen lines. I’m a fucking monster.” He buried his face in his hands, the scent of her and his own release on his fingers a nauseating reminder. “Just… tell me to leave. I’ll pack right now. I’ll get a hotel.”
Another silence. Then, a sound. A soft, choked giggle. He peered through his fingers.
Ashleigh was shaking her head, a real smile breaking through the stunned expression. It was shaky, bewildered, but it was there. She looked down at herself, at the sticky mess cooling on her skin and nightgown, and the giggle turned into a full, breathless laugh. It was a release of pure, unadulterated tension.
“A hotel?” she wheezed, tears of mirth or shock or both glistening in the corners of her eyes. “Eamon, you just… you came on my face. A Holiday Inn isn’t the fix for that.”
Hearing her say it so bluntly, and laughing while she did it, shattered his spiral of guilt. A disbelieving huff of air escaped him. Then another. Suddenly, he was laughing too, a ragged, relieved sound that hurt his ribs. It was absurd. It was catastrophic. It was the most intimate thing that had ever happened to him.
“I did,” he gasped, running a hand through his hair. “I really, really did.”
“You really, really did,” she echoed, still grinning that wobbly grin. She wiped carefully under one eye. “Super not sleepy anymore, thanks for that.”
They laughed together for another minute, the sound fraying at the edges until it finally died down into sporadic, shaky hiccups. The air in the room had changed. The shock had morphed into a strange, giddy complicity. The forbidden thing was out, naked and messy between them, and they had, somehow, survived its unveiling.
Ashleigh took a deep, steadying breath and swung her legs off the couch. She stood up in one fluid motion. The rucked-up navy silk of her nightgown stayed exactly where it was, pooled around her waist.
Eamon’s laughter died in his throat.
She didn’t pull it down.
She turned, not toward the bathroom to clean up, but toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. She took a step, and the full, perfect curve of her ass, pale and marked faintly from the seams of the couch, came into view. It was completely bare. The sight of his own spend, stark and dried in streaks across her shoulder blades and the small of her back, made his breath catch.
She took another step. The muscles in her thighs flexed. The cheeks jiggled, a subtle, captivating bounce with each movement that was entirely unconscious, a natural consequence of the powerful, toned body she worked so hard for. The fairy lights caught the sheen on her skin.
He was paralyzed, his apology forgotten, the laughed-off tension snapping back into a wire-tight band of pure, raw wanting. He stared, drinking in the retreating view: the narrow waist, the dramatic flare of her hips, the incredible, jouncing fullness below, the long, strong legs. The evidence of his possession glazing her skin.
At the mouth of the dark hallway, she paused. She glanced back over her shoulder, not at her own state, but directly at him. Her eyes found his, locked onto the blatant hunger he knew was written all over his face. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips, still swollen and slightly parted.
She winked.
Then she turned the corner and was gone. A second later, the soft, definitive click of her bedroom door echoed down the hall.