Power Play (Center Ice Book 2) (12 page)

“So, if you’re okay with, like . . . meeting the family and what-not . . .”

“Are you kidding? I’d love to.” I wink at him. “Plus, I make a killer bread pudding.”

“So that’s what we’re becoming?” Marcus asks. “That cute couple who brings desserts to Christmas?”

“Is that what you want?” I ask him.

He nods and pulls me tighter into his arms. “I want it.”

I shove the guilty voice aside. “Then so do I.”

My parents live in a cute little Craftsman house in Falls Church, Virginia, on a sweet little tree-shrouded street. Everyone pitches in to help light the street with elaborate but tasteful displays and wrap the trees in red biodegradable velvet ribbons. (The street goes all out for every major holiday, too—not just the Christian ones. Ramadan, Rosh Hashanah, Eid, Diwali . . . It’s a little out of control how much our neighbors love to celebrate each other’s festivals.) In fact, it’s kind of disgusting, really, how normal and homemade apple pie my upbringing was. People always want to point toward a broken home or tortured childhood as the reason for kinks, but hey. Some of us were just born kinky.

Fiona’s fidgeting next to me the whole car ride out of the District and into northern Virginia. We’ve wedged a huge stack of presents between us, but I reach across it and squeeze her hand. “Hey. It’s gonna be fine.”

She flushes red—god, it’s so hot when she does that—and looks down. “I know. I’m sure your parent are going to be lovely and perfect in every way. It’s just that . . . I’ve never done this before.”

“Just be yourself.” I smile.

“Actually—” She laughs. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a proper Christmas, period. Mum’s always off on assignment, and my father . . .”

I raise an eyebrow. Fi’s never mentioned her father. From the way she’s talked around him in the past, I was half starting to think he’s dead.

“Well—anyway, he’s not been a part of our lives for so long.”

“What about in school?” I ask. “Before college. Surely you went home to your mom then.”

Fiona shakes her head. “Stayed at boarding school. Had a slice of shepherd’s pie and trifle with the groundskeeper and his wife.”

“Jesus.” I grin. “Well, you’re in for a treat. And if your bread pudding is even half as good as it smells . . .” I exhale deeply. “So am I.”

Mom’s already waiting for us the moment our car pulls into the driveway. Not gonna lie, my mom’s looking pretty good for her late fifties. She’s got this smooth, real dark skin like midnight, and a cloud of hair that wisps around her face. She’s wearing pearls and a demure gray sweater and skirt, like she stepped out of a Sandra Dee movie, and—I am not kidding, this is the sort of woman my mother is—she’s already holding two steaming hot glass mugs of mulled cider for Fiona and me.

“Merry Christmas!” Mom beckons us onto the porch. “You must be Fiona.”

“And I’m your son, Marcus!” I shout at them, as they bustle into the house. “Some help with the presents? You know, the ones I bought for you?”

My sister, Deandra, is waiting in the front entryway. “Hey, loser.”

“Hey, loser. Give me a hand?”

She snorts and crosses her arms. “Who’s the girl?”

“Fiona.” Mom and Fiona are already off in the kitchen, chattering away. I want to be annoyed that I’ve been left in the dust, but secretly, I’m thrilled.

“Cool.” Deandra looks me over. “She know about Rajani?”

I grunt and set down the larger bag of gifts. “Jesus. No, she doesn’t know about—all
that
.”

Deandra shrugs. “So when you gonna tell her?”

“When I’m good and ready. So don’t fucking say anything, okay?”

“Why not?” A sly grin crosses her face. “You must really like her, if you care.”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Okay. I won’t say anything.”

“Thank you—”

“
Buuuut
. . .” Deandra raises one eyebrow at me. “You have to buy me some champagne for my New Year’s party. Good shit. Like, Dom Perignon or something.”

I groan. “Good lord, your taste got expensive quick.”

“I know how much you make. It’s on Wikipedia.” She winks at me, then scoops up the bag of presents. “C’mon. Your friends are already here.”

I follow her into the great room, where, sure enough, Sergei Drakonov, his girlfriend Jael, Brian Osbourne, and Fiona’s friend Mariko are clustered around the 4K TV I bought my parents for their anniversary, playing a hockey video game. A quick glance at the scoreboard shows Sergei and Jael’s team far in the lead, though Mariko seems to be putting up a good fight for her and Brian.

“All right, you scrubs, I get to play the winner. Deandra and me. You in, Dee?”

Deandra wrinkles her nose. “I don’t play video games anymore.”

“Liar. You kicked my ass at Smash Brothers over Thanksgiving.”

“It’ll be fun,” Jael says, dangling a controller in front of her. “Unless you’re scared.”

“Ooh, now you said the magic words.” I laugh.

Deandra grins and saunters over to bump Jael with her hip. “Make room. Lemme see how it’s done.”

I chuckle to myself again and head toward the kitchen, where Fiona’s already been conscripted into helping Mom finish dinner. Ordinarily, I’d be thrilled that Mom already likes her enough to trust her with food prep. But Deandra’s threat has me on edge, and I feel the need to supervise to make sure Mom isn’t saying anything she shouldn’t.

Oh. I should have known better.

What I’m walking into is the goddamned Inquisition.

“Soooo, how long have you known Marcus?” Mom is asking Fiona, as she furiously whisks some egg whites. When she catches sight of me, she shoots me a death stare for intruding on girl time. But I know my place. I snatch a pair of oven mitts and tend to the chirping oven timer for the roast.

“Well, I’ve been watching him for some time, of course—god, sorry, that sounds pretty creepy to say! But we were formally introduced when I interviewed him for an article I’m working on.”

“A reporter, huh?” Mom narrows her eyes.

“Fiona’s mother is Brigid Callahan,” I interrupt, before Mom has a chance to claw Fiona’s eyes out.

Mom’s entire demeanor transforms. “Oh.
Oh,
my god! I heard her latest interview on NPR, you know, the one from right before she headed into the warzone. That woman is so—she is just so brave.”

“Mom’s a bit of a fan,” I tell Fi.

Fi smiles, the pained smile I recognize all too well of a child unmoved by their parents’ accomplishments. I wore that smile every time the Rangers colonels came around for dinner, or the defense contractors trying to lure my dad into military retirement and a second career with their firms.

“Mum’s pretty brave,” Fi says. “A demanding woman. But I love her.”

“And you’re following in her footsteps?” Mom asks. She was temporarily dazzled by Fiona’s proximity to one of her favorites, but Mama Wright is never deterred for long.

“Yep! I’m the editor in chief for my school’s paper. Working on a piece now that’s got interest from both Astro News and Insight.”

“Astro and Insight? Well. Those are two pretty different sources.”

Fi nods, and finishes whatever breadcrumb witchcraft she’s conducting on the tray of green beans. “I’d be thrilled with either one. Just trying to decide what sort of reporter I want to be.”

Good girl. Hold your ground. Not that I’d expect anything less from my dazzling domme.

By the time they get dinner on the table, I’m pretty confident Fiona’s won Mom over—as much as she can in one meeting. And I’m damned sure everyone’s about sick to death of how cute Sergei and Jael are. They spend half the meal ducking their heads together, speaking back and forth in rapidfire Russian, punctuated by frequent laughs.

God, how wonderful it must be to have that effortless of a bond. But Fi and I are doing the best with what we’ve got. Not for the first time, I wish I didn’t have this need burning inside me, complicating my relationships, framing everything in terms of the particular way we have sex. Could I ever have a little suburban house like this with Fiona someday, some simple, unfettered love?

I sigh, maybe a little too loudly, because Fiona reaches over and draws a slow circle against my thigh, with just enough of her nail digging in to add an edge of pain. That gets my attention. No. I wouldn’t trade this thing we’re growing together for the world.

Mom and Deandra love the new Tiffany necklaces I give them, and Dad is ecstatic about some obscure illustrated book about eighteenth century French sailing vessels, because that’s the sort of thing my dad gets ecstatic about. And Fiona is over the moon about the new Moleskine notebook and fountain pen I got her.

“So what story will you use it for to take notes?” I ask, nudging her gently.

She blushes with her whole face and leans into my arms. “It’s a surprise.”

I don’t see what other gifts people exchange, because everyone passes out from a sugar and rum crash after Fiona’s bread pudding. In short, the perfect Christmas.

“You and Mariko seem to be getting along well,” I tell Brian, giving him a halfhearted nudge in the ribs. Minimal movements—we’re both becoming one with my parents’ couch.

Brian laughs to himself. “Oh, I dunno, man. She’s really cool, but—umm, it’s not like that.”

“Cute, funny, loves that stupid gargoyle anime as much as you do . . .” I tick them off on my fingers.

“Maybe so.” Brian closes his eyes and settles in for another nap. “Maybe so.”

Sergei and Jael are asleep leaning on one another with a plate of Jael’s Brazilian cheese biscuits dangerously close to tipping over and landing on the floor, where our chocolate lab, Ellis, is waiting with bated breath. I drag myself out of the couch, rescue the biscuits, carry them into the kitchen, and drop some treats into Ellis’s food bowl as a consolation prize.

Then I notice Fiona’s missing from the living room. Hmm. She was helping Mom clear the dishes, but they’ve both vanished. Mom was saying something earlier about giving her a tour of the house . . . Oh, lord, don’t tell me Mom showed her my bedroom. My creepy perfectly-preserved-from-high-school bedroom.

I dash up the stairs. Snores ring out from my parents’ bedroom; I cross the upstairs to the far end, where my bedroom hangs over the garage. Fiona’s standing just inside, peering at the bulletin board tacked up over my desk. High school hockey trophies and pictures from prom and Spring Break and, of course, games fan out across the wall at haphazard angles.

“You were cute.” She turns toward me with a grin.

I close the door quietly behind me and step toward. “What’s this ‘
were
’ business?”

My hands slide around her waist. She’s got this incredible green emerald satin dress on, shimmering over all her curves. It feels amazing to the touch. I can’t keep myself from stroking the outside of her hips, and dipping my head against her neck, kissing the soft, fragrant skin there . . .

“Well, now, you’ve advanced beyond cute.”

“Is that so?” I murmur.

“Yes.” Her voice hitches, throaty. “Now you’re smoking hot.”

“You’re saying I wasn’t smoking hot in my dweeby-ass prom tux that I busted the seams on?” I gesture toward the picture, still clutching her from behind.

She laughs, bright and merry. “Oh, my god, you’re right. Look at those shoulders! You’re like a stuffed sausage. Poor thing. Such muscle. Too tight. Wow.”

“Are you teasing me, you naughty girl?”

Her back arches against me. The moment her ripe, round ass brushes against my groin, I can feel the Chubbening start up. Hmmm . . . door closed . . . parents asleep . . . Friends just downstairs . . . Yep, I think this is just filthy enough.