Copyright © 2020 by A.J. Rivers
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The Girl and The Black Christmas
A.J. Rivers
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Epilogue
Staying In Touch With A.J.
Also by A.J. Rivers
Prologue
Seventeen years ago…
He shouldn’t be doing this.
Everything in him told him to stop. Everything in him told him to keep going.
He couldn’t help himself.
This moment was going to happen. Nothing could have stopped it.
His eyes touched her skin before his hands did. He let them be his fingertips, exploring the slope of her neck and the length of her thigh. The hem of her skirt was too high for the steps she walked down, for the sunlight shimmering bright on her skin.
It brushed just inches beneath the apex of her thighs.
She wasn’t the only one there. Countless others drifted in and out of the buildings, cluttering streets that felt new beneath their feet but would soon hold the impressions of their repeated steps. But he only saw her. Among them all, she stood out.
He shouldn’t be doing this.
That wasn’t a question. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know, or that there was any ambiguity. She shouldn’t have been there, and his fingertips should never have replaced his eyes.
That should have been the end of it. When he watched her walk down the sidewalk and reach out for a slip of pink paper offered up by a hopeful future friend, he should have left everything just as it was. He shouldn’t have imagined himself in that touch.
If he had stopped then, this wouldn’t be happening. If he had just turned away, her belly wouldn’t be trembling under his hand and his breath wouldn’t be mixing with hers, streaming in and out of each other’s lungs.
But he didn’t look away. He didn’t remind himself she wasn’t there for him. He let himself watch her and fall under her spell. When she glanced up as if she felt his stare brush through her hair and along the length of her spine, it was done.
Her mouth was slightly open then, her full lips parted, touched with afternoon sunlight locked in the gloss she was still young enough to wear. There was a smile there. He couldn’t see it yet, but it would come.
Her mouth was open the same way now. Just enough for the breath to come in and out. Long eyelashes swept just beneath her eyes as they fluttered closed. His lips touched each of them softly, then brushed down along the curve of her jaw.
He knew those curves. He knew how the shadow played where her chin dipped. How the light pooled down her throat, her thin skin shivering from her pulse between her collarbones.
She should have been somewhere else. Not there filling his palms. He closed his eyes and wondered where else she should be. All he could hear was his own breath and the drumbeat of his heart.
His hands ran along her sides, counting the ripple of each of her ribs until they found softness. She was warm and smooth. Fulfillment. Undoing.
He shouldn’t be doing this. But he couldn’t help himself.
She didn’t walk out into that afternoon sunlight for him, but the moment he saw her, he knew it would come to this. Nothing would keep her from his hands. Nothing would stop her taste from rolling across his tongue or her smell awakening his brain.
He would have her. It was as simple as that. He knew he shouldn’t. There was never a question in his mind that he shouldn’t. That was the thing no one would understand. Just because he didn’t stop himself, just because he did what flowed through his veins and parked along the paths in his brain didn’t mean he didn’t understand it was wrong.
The choice was never right or wrong.
It was never her or not her.
It was then or now.
He made that choice every time he looked at her. With each glimpse he caught from across the open square, or from the hallway with marble floors the same color of her eyes. She was everywhere.
He made that choice every time.
Then or now.
He ran his hand from the tremble of her belly to the dance of her heartbeat. Breath shuddered up between her lips. He caught the sound of her gasp with his own mouth, so it flowed into him. He didn’t have to share it with anyone.
He’d made that choice so many times. Then or now. Then or now. He’d waited so long. No longer.
He took his time, wanting to savor every touch and the brush of her hair. He wanted the taste of salt and the sound of her breath changing. He’d dreamed of this for so long. It was his; he wouldn’t waste a single drop of it.
Intensity filling him, his hand moved up to her throat. It was so tender, so delicate. It fit perfectly wrapped in his fingers. Her back arched as his grip tightened. He relished the feeling of her fingernails digging into his back.
He could have stopped. But why? It would have meant nothing at that point. It was done from the moment he saw her. There would be no difference now.
She suddenly surged up, but he caught her, held her close. He buried his fingers in her hair and felt the silk of the strands tangle around his knuckles. The heel of his hand pressed against the dip of her collarbones that held
