Christmas In The City (Imperfect Match 1.50)

After ‘Silent Night’ came ‘Noel,’ then a hymn I’d never heard before.

Sliding my arm around Ophelia’s waist, I bent to her ear and whispered, “What song is this?”

“‘In the Bleak Midwinter,’” she whispered back, and I didn’t miss the way she leaned into me, staying put instead of shifting away after answering my question.

I also didn’t say what was on my mind, which was something like, Of course the Irish have a Christmas carol with the word ‘bleak’ in it. Nor did I sing. Singing was not one of my gifts to give. Instead, I listened to the choir, to the church goers surrounding us at midnight mass, to the gentle organ accompaniment. But mostly, I listened to the powerful voice—in every way a voice could be powerful—next to me and tried to anchor myself.

I couldn’t. She swept me away. The edges of reality blurred, and she was not a stranger. I knew her. We’d met befo

re, so many times, and we were where we belonged—which was together, anywhere, but always now.

At some point the singing stopped and we sat, my arm along the back of the pew, Ophelia tucked against my side. Readings were read and still we remained close. But when the congregation stood once more, she tilted her head toward the back and mouthed, Let’s go.

Allowing her to lead me back into the night, the door closed behind us on the third Alajuela, shutting out the warmth and the song, but leaving us together, now.

Sending me a grin over her shoulder, she kept hold of my hand while climbing down the steps. “So, did you like it?”

Her voice was husky with use and I liked this new quality to it. In fact, I more than liked it. It sent my blood humming to the four—or five—corners on my body, warm and thick.

I wanted her close again, so I stopped her at the bottom stairs, intending to simply tuck her under my arm again. But that’s not what I did.

Ophelia turned to face me, a questioning smile on her lips and the light of intoxicating happiness behind her green eyes. She gazed up at me, and I think she read my mind, because her grin quickly fell away.

But not the happiness. No. The happiness remained, mixing with anticipation.

Her breathing changed and she licked her lips, taking a shuffling step forward, her lashes fluttering until her stare lowered to my mouth.

My palms slid against her jaw, the soft, warm skin of her cheeks, and I tilted her head back. And I kissed her.

That feeling, that same feeling from earlier when I’d heard her sing for the first time—like my heart had been overwhelmed by a reality too big to be contained—arrested me. She was hot—her lips, her tongue—and yielding, but not uncertain.

I smoothed a hand down her side to her lower back, encouraging her to step more completely into my space. She did.

I threaded my fingers into her hat, pushing it from her head, sifting through her tangled curls while she wrapped her arms around my neck, sucking on my tongue, making me even more crazy for the taste and feel of her.

Keeping friendly company on a lonely Christmas Eve was one thing, but this was no longer anything so simple or harmless. I wanted her and I wasn’t thinking. I wanted her and, if she wanted me, the greediness within said there existed no reason we couldn’t have each other.

“Where—” I pulled away to say the word, but not for long, wanting—needing—another taste before finishing the question. “Where do you live?” I lowered my lips to her chin, jaw, neck, biting and flicking the skin with my tongue. “Are you close?”

“Yes. Very close.” Stretching to give me better access and practically climbing my body, her nails dug into my shoulders through the thick layer of my jacket. Her breath hitched, her hands grabbing frustrated fistfuls of my coat. “Please. Please come over.”

“Absolutely,” I growled against her skin, my hands sliding to her backside, pressing her more firmly against me. I wanted her to know and feel exactly what was on my mind.

Ophelia gasped again, but she didn’t pull away, instead seeking my mouth for another hot kiss, sending any of my remaining good sense packing.

It was Christmas, after all. And I’d been so, so, so good this year.

Until now.

3

Ophelia

“So, this is where you live?” Broderick asked, looking up and down the dark street.

“Yeah, sorry, I know the area is a bit dodgy.” I dipped my head.

“Hey,” he whispered, tipping his fingers to my chin. I brought my eyes to his and his look was intense, like he was reading my mind. “Not what I meant.”