ChristmasInHisHeart (8 page)

Chapter Eight

He was shaking. He could pretend it was from the cold, but the truth was, it was from reaction.
No Christmas in your heart.
Those words had hammered at him, driving nails into the coffin of his not-relationship with Xander for the whole drive, seventy-five miles per hour down the highway. No. Christmas. In. Your. Heart.

No. Christmas. 

No.

No!

His hands shook so hard he couldn’t get the key in the lock. Dermot was becoming frantic. Xander would be here any second, and he couldn’t be caught like this, trembling and weak. But he couldn’t brush off the memories, or the
yeah but
he’d wanted to fling after Xander for that little dig.

Yeah but…

It was hard to keep Christmas in your heart when Christmas was responsible for ripping out your heart and shriveling it to a cold lump of coal.
When was the last time I enjoyed Christmas?

Like you don’t know.

Thirteen years earlier. He’d gotten a video game system and a ski pass. His younger brother, Bryan, had gotten a bike and a cell phone. They’d played Call of Duty for twenty-four hours straight, gulping Mountain Dew and hot Cheetos and ragging on each other until they’d passed out from sheer exhaustion.

The next year qualified as the worst Christmas of his life. That year, had been the end of Christmas for him. Bryan’s death had spelled the end of Christmas, and the end of his family.

“I don’t have any freaking reason to keep Christmas in my heart.” At last the key hit the lock just right and slid home, grating metal on metal. The door swung outward, and Dermot hit the light switch. A weak yellow glow spilled into the alley.

Slinky emerged from the shadows, meowing loudly. Automatically, Dermot reached into his pocket for a treat, a bit of salmon jerky he’d cured and kept on him at all times for the independent feline. The proud tabby prowled up and down the alley, making her rounds of all the shops, and all the shop owners and staff seemed to indulge her.

The cat coiled around his ankles, leaving traces of cat hair on his trousers and accepting the salmon with a purr. Footsteps approached the alley, and Dermot knew without looking up that Xander had arrived.

He had just a few minutes to get his emotions under control, and keep them that way while listening to Xander’s whatever it was he had to say.

He knew how it looked, had had more than one boyfriend freeze up or blow up over the whole issue in the past. At first he’d tried to fight the depression, the fear that lurked as soon as he started seeing Christmas hit the stores, but inevitably, they all noticed, and while some had accepted his excuses, most hadn’t made any effort to get past it or compromise.

Why was he always attracted to the exact wrong type of guy? Even when they met completely outside the holiday season, every man he dated turned into a freaky bubble of glowing lights and sparkly shit at Christmas. One glance at Xander and he’d known exactly what the man would be like in December.

He’d first seen Xander in late summer, a tall, slim refreshing sight in black shades and a killer smile, chatting and laughing and twisting balloons into animals for small children at a sidewalk sale. Outside refilling sampler platters of hors d’oeuvres, Dermot had been entranced and lingered, watching the handsome man when he should have been tending his restaurant.

Even in summer, with the mid-day sun beating down on him, and sweat beading on his brow, he’d been like a giant elf on holiday. Everything about him, from the joyful smile to the fact that he actually worked in a craft store screamed stay away, trouble on the hoof to Dermot.

He’d learned to just avoid long-term relationships, and Xander had relationship written all over him, right next to I Believe in Christmas Magic and Somewhere Over the Rainbow.

Well, Dermot Alasdair didn’t do Christmas, and he didn’t do relationships.

A few days ago, he’d made the mistake of doing Xander. And that mistake would haunt him for a long time.

It was the best thing to happen to you in a long time.

He’s the best thing to happen to you in a long time.

No.

Not getting involved with someone so possessed of the Christmas spirit that he wears cherry red sweaters and a baseball cap that says Mistletoe.

Never mind how good Xander’s hand on his arm had felt at the flea market, how reassuring his presence had been in the face of the leather-wearing dealer’s advances. Dermot could take care of himself. He’d been doing it for a very long time.

It was better than piling the angsty memories with every boyfriend who broke up with him around the holidays on to the ever present memories of the house fire, his brother’s death, and the way it had destroyed his parents’ marriage and his family. At first, he’d been shocked how many grown men were addicted to gaudy displays of Christmas lights, how many people found a few holiday decorations worth breaking up over.

But he’d come to accept it. What other choice did he have? The approaching footsteps stopped, and Xander’s green Vans parked themselves in view, inches from Dermot’s feet. Slinky instantly meowed loudly and altered her pattern, coiling in a dual figure eight from Dermot’s feet to Xander’s and back again.

“I’m not really a grinch, you know.” He hadn’t intended to confess any such thing. It felt too much like explaining himself, and hadn’t he just spent what felt like a lifetime rationalizing how he didn’t need to do that?

***

Xander bit his lip to stop the smile from forming. “I have no doubt that you aren't, well not many.” He lost the battle with his mouth and a grin spread across his face.

He wasn’t sure if the joke or the amused look triggered Dermot’s prickle, but the man came at him full force.

“Sure, go ahead and laugh, but some of us don’t have anything to smile about.” Dermot humphed then turned around, giving Xander his back.

No matter how nice of a back it was, Xander very much wanted to look into the man’s bottomless green eyes. He wanted to put a little twinkle in them for the world to see…and he wanted the world to know that it was for him alone. When had Xander become so damn possessive?

He closed the distance between them and leaned forward, almost resting his chin on the other man’s shoulder, thanks to their similar heights.

“I can’t guarantee I won’t smile again. It’s my safe go-to for any emotions I may feel, but I can assure you that this thing between us is no laughing matter.”

Xander closed the remaining distance between them with a small step, pressing his body against Dermot’s back.

“Feel that?” he whispered over Dermot’s shoulder, rubbing his bulge against the other man’s ass. Fisting his ponytail, Xander jerked it to the side, exposing a succulent earlobe waiting to be tasted. After a quick nip he slightly pulled his lips away. “That’s what happens when I think about you. When I see you, hear your voice, hell, even when I smell you all my blood runs south. You star in all my dreams—whether I’m sleeping or awake.”

Xander stepped back and spun Dermot around so they were finally eye to eye. Staring into those beautiful green peepers, Xander saw Dermot’s signature stubbornness, but hiding behind the gruffness was fear and unsurety.

There were secrets hidden in this man that caused him pain and prevented him from truly living. Xander wanted to be the one he confided in, wanted to show Dermot how good it could be between them—not only physically but completely.

He cupped Dermot’s face in his hands. “I dream about all the nefarious acts we can entangle ourselves in under the blankets…but I also dream about spreading out on the couch with you watching a movie while we munch on popcorn and talk about our day to each other. I have hopes that one day when you create a new recipe, you’ll call me up and insist I rush over to try it, or when a sappy song comes on the radio I’m the one that fills your thoughts.”

Their lips met in the softest kiss imaginable. “I’m not asking for the world from you, Dermot…not yet. Just equal time in your mind, like you have in mine.”

A bird squawked in the distance and the cat started pacing between the two men’s legs, making a gallant effort to rub up and down both of them simultaneously, and Xander stood with his heart in his throat, waiting for some sort of sign or answer.

“I don’t…there are things…the lights…” Dermot gestured to the buildings, and even though there were no lights out back there, Xander understood.

Which was why he purposely steered clear of any reference about Christmas. That was obviously a hot button with his chef that probably shouldn’t be pushed until their footing together became more secure.

A part of Xander itched to demand reasons now, of course. Hell, Dermot blurted out that he wasn’t a grinch…who wouldn’t be curious about his exclamation?

A gust of wind blew through the back alley and reminded Xander he was freezing. He shook his head, the things you forget when your attention was on a hot man.

“We need to get inside and warm up some.”

Xander snorted at the face Dermot gave him.

“Seriously.” Xander raised his hands in a nothing-up-my-sleeves gesture. “We can even go get coffee since
Alimentaire
is closed, if that makes you feel more comfortable,” he offered, even though he didn’t prefer that idea.

Dermot straightened his posture and bristled at Xander—obviously not appreciating the insinuation hidden behind Xander’s suggestion. “I would never air my personal life in my restaurant or the public for all to see.”

Xander followed him inside the open doorway, once again taking the opportunity to admire the strong flexing muscles on display in front of him. It started as a simple drool worthy place for his gaze to fall…but observing Dermot’s muscles clenching and releasing with every stair he climbed…Xander’s cock swelled to ready-set-go proportions and was accompanied by a throb that would send any blood pressure monitor into hysterical beeping.

My god, I’m addicted to his ass.

He couldn’t help it, his mind went there and pictured Dermot plowing into him, alternating his strokes—Dermot would enter him in one quick hard thrust, but then he’d linger there for a moment before languidly pulling out, making sure Xander felt every inch of his retreat just to slam back in without hesitation. God, his ass would clench with each forward plunge…

“You wanted to talk? Or have you decided it’s not necessary?”

Xander blinked. Shit, he was still in the stairway, gazing up the dozen steps or so at Dermot who held open his apartment door.

Huh?
“What do you mean not necessary?” Dermot suddenly couldn’t look him in the eye, and that bugged the hell out of Xander. “What did you mean?” he asked again, more forcefully this time.

He thought the shrug would be his only answer, but then Dermot spoke. “I meant I’d understand if you decided we didn’t need to talk, that’s all.”

Xander nodded as he took the rest of the steps two at a time, stopping at the top and invading Dermot’s personal space. “Oh, I understand. You, on the other hand, seem to have no clue, which is quite discouraging considering all the hints I’ve shoved in your face.”

Xander crowded him against the wall, leaving no room for Dermot to pull away, and took his mouth in a delicate yet hungry kiss.

Chapter Nine

Xander’s festive red sweater landed somewhere on the other side of the table, probably on top of Dermot’s coat and button-down shirt.

The two of them had managed to bump and grind their way over to the couch without untangling their limbs or separating their mouths—except for the undressing moments—and now he could feel Dermot’s lean chest rubbing against his broader one. A sensation he missed out on the last time they were in this apartment, but one he definitely wanted to feel numerous times over in the future.

This was certainly one way to warm them back up…but Xander couldn’t let them fall down the same hole they had last time. He already knew they were compatible when it came to sex, but he wanted more from his chef than a mere taste of his sausage.

With all the willpower he possessed, Xander broke their kiss and scooted back for some breathing room. The uncertain eyes staring at him almost pulled him into their embrace again, but much to Xander’s body’s dismay, there were other ways he had to shed those doubts from Dermot that a roll and tumble couldn’t do.

Situating them on the couch in a less
fuck me
position and more
talk to me
manner, Xander spoke softly. “You don’t know how badly I want to rip the rest of our clothes off and make you say my name, but before that happens, we really need to talk.”

He didn’t miss Dermot’s flinch. The man spoke volumes with his movements and expressive looks. He stroked Dermot’s cheek, brought his hand lower to hook around his neck, leaned in for another taste…and bounded right off the couch to pace the room.

He knew damn well if he stayed sitting, the only talking he’d do would be to beg for more. “Do you even realize how addicting you are?” he mumbled the question under his breath, not really meaning for it to be heard by anyone.

“Me?”

Xander stopped his pacing to stare at the completely oblivious man. He had no shirt on, his Dockers were unbuttoned, and he seemed to be missing a shoe somehow, yet he still looked elegant and poised, if not a tad bit confused.

“I don’t want us to fuck and then you kick me out again.” There, he said it.

“I had to get back to work; you can’t hold that against me. I own the restaurant, I have responsibilities that you don’t seem to comprehend,” Dermot tried to defend his actions.

Xander smiled, not necessarily out of humor, but more from the knowledge that for once he believed he just might win this time against his prickly grinch.

Dermot stood abruptly, probably wary of Xander’s suddenly happy face. “What?” he questioned. “It’s the truth.”

“Bullshit. But hey, sure, you had to get back to work. Fine, I’ll grudgingly concede that one to you. What about the time before that, when I brought you coffee? What was your excuse that day? What are you so afraid of, Dermot?”