“I’m here,” I answer him, hastily wrapping the item in my hands back up in its parchment. “Just a minute.” My heart beats a little faster as I glanced at the door, hoping he wouldn’t come to greet me himself. Not until I’ve gotten his gift wrapped up again and tucked away out of sight.

I knew it was risky when I pulled it out, but I hadn’t been able to help myself. I spent weeks fretting over what to get Maikel for Christmas. What do you get the man who has everything he wants, who buys anything he desires without a thought for the price? For a while, I’d despaired that I’d ever find anything for him.

And then, as though by miracle, not a week before Christmas, I’d been walking through De Wallen to pay a visit to Elise and there’d been an artist set up on the side of the street. But the scenes on his easels were not paintings, and the strange sight of them made me hesitate, and my steps slow.

Heliographs, he’d called them. Not paintings but true images, imprinted by the sun. One of the display stands held a picture that I couldn’t help but reach out and take into my hands. It was an image of Amsterdam’s canals, much like the one we were standing beside. In the image, they were sun-drenched and bright.

Maikel hadn’t seen his city in the daylight in over a hundred years. A thrill ran through me at the thought of giving him this, a glimpse of what he’d only been able to know vicariously for so long.

I’d paid the merchant and took the image back home with me, and hid it in the very back of my bureau where Maikel would be unlikely to stumble upon it by chance. And now, listening to the sounds of Maikel’s steps near the bedroom door, I shove it back in its place and slide the drawer shut. I’m on my feet, coming forward to greet him, when he swings open the bedroom door.

“What are you doing in here?” he asks me curiously, a puzzled smile on his face.

“Nothing. Just tidying.” I kiss him, then continue past so that he’ll follow after me, and not indulge his curiosity about what I was doing in the bedroom.

He falls into step behind me just as I’d expected. I lead him out to the sitting room and dropped into a chair, smiling up at him. “And what have you been up to?” I ask him. “Something more exciting than tidying, I hope.”

There’s a playful, teasing hint to his smile as he grins down at me. He lets his gaze roam over me, and I shift, wondering what he’s thinking. I rather suspect I could guess.

“Arjen, do you know,” he says, “there is mistletoe hung all over the city.”

I smile up at him. “Is there, now?”

“All over.” He lowers himself to his knees before my chair, so we’re on the same level. “And there I was, all by myself, with no one to make use of it with.”

“Well, that is a shame.” I take his hand and drew him toward me. “You are not alone now.”

His smile widens. “But we have no mistletoe.”

“We could pretend.”

His eyes light at my suggestion. “In that case”–he leans forward and presses brief, darting kisses to my lips–”I would like to pretend that our ceiling is covered in it.” Another kiss, and this time, the quick caress of his tongue. “So that anytime you take a step, I must kiss you.”

“Do you need an excuse for that?” I ask him warmly. I catch him by the arm and try to tug him up with me.

“I should think not.” His lips skim along my jaw, toward my ear. “But it is Christmas, so in the spirit of the holiday…”

I laugh and turned my head, matching my lips to his, and kiss him properly. He murmurs, pleased, and kisses me back. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, dances enticingly against mine. I wrap an arm around his neck and slide off the chair to kneel with him on the rug.

He breaks away after long minutes. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes dancing with merriment.

“Is that all you did?” I ask him. “Wander the city looking for mistletoe, and yearning for me? I’m flattered.”

“No, I– Oh!” His face is suddenly alight with excitement. “Arjen, you must see what I’ve found! Come, it’s over here.” He pulls me to my feet and drags me along behind him. I laugh and fall into step. “It’s the most wondrous thing.”

He leads me to a parcel he’s left by the door. It’s flat and square, wrapped in paper, and my stomach gives a shiver of foreboding as he lifts it. “Look, come see.” He motions me over as he unwraps it.

It is a heliograph, so similar to the one I got him it would be eerie, if it weren’t so crushing. A sunny day, an Amsterdam street scene. It isn’t the same street as the one I bought for him, but it might as well have be. I look up from the image, look at Maikel.

The excited grin on his face falters, then falls away into a bewildered expression. “Arjen? What’s wrong?” He comes over to stand next to me, points at the image. “Isn’t it brilliant? I haven’t seen the city like this in–”

“A hundred and seventy-four years. I know.” I hand the plate back to him.

He doesn’t even look at this time, just stares at me. “What’s wrong?” he asks again.

My breath hisses out of me in a rush. “It’s Christmas Eve, Maikel.”

“Yes.” His brow furrows. “I don’t understand. What does this have to do with the picture?”

“You would *think*, after a hundred and seventy-four of them, you would know better than to buy yourself a gift before the holidays,” I snap, spinning away. It startles me how upset I am by this. But I’d been so excited about being able to give it to him, to see his excitement and happiness and know that I’d brought it to him. And now– now he’s ruined it, and I have nothing at all to give him.

“But…” He circles around to stand in front of me, staring down at me in confusion and concern. “But why?”

“Because you don’t know yet what anyone has gotten for you!”

His mouth gapes open. “I– But– But no one ever gets me anything. Only flowers and candies and little trinkets. Did–” I see the moment he realizes. His eyes go wide, and his expression slack with shock. “Arjen. You got me a Christmas present?”

“Of course I did!” His clear shock that I would do such a thing only vexes me further. I cross my arms over my chest and spinn away, but he catches me and pulls me back around.

“Show me,” he insists. “Let me see.”

I wrench myself out of his grip. “It doesn’t matter now. You’ve spoiled it.”

“I want to see it, Arjen.”

i sigh. I am irritated enough not to mind that it isn’t Christmas Day yet. He’s already gone and bought one for himself. There’s little point in trying to preserve the surprise.

I return to the bedroom and pull the heliograph out of my drawer. I bring it back out and hand it to Maikel, then drop down into the armchair again. I watch him unwrap it with my arms crossed over my chest. I’m practically sulking, but too upset to care.

Maikel unwraps the paper carefully. He holds the heliograph in his hands and looks at it for a long time, saying nothing. I watch him sidelong, waiting, and wonder if he was going to say anything at all.

At last, Maikel looks up from the image, looks at me. His face is soft with awe and shock. “You got this for me?” he breathes.

“Well, I’m not the one who hasn’t seen daylight in two centuries,” I snap. “Yes, I got it for you. I thought you would like it.”

“I love it,” he says simply.

I let out a sharp sigh. “Of course you do. You bought one just like it for yourself.”

“I’m sorry, Arjen.” He sets it aside carefully and comes over to stand near my chair, looking down at me, solemn and contrite. “I didn’t think–”

“That I would buy a Christmas gift for the man I love?” I demand, perhaps more harshly than he deserves, but he’s stung my pride as well. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers, looking more dejected by the moment. “No one has, not real gifts, nothing that’s ever meant anything.” He lifts his head, looks toward the table where he’s put the heliograph down. “You wanted me to see the sun,” he breathes.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does! It was wonderful and thoughtful and I ruined it. Arjen–” He looks at me, stricken. “I didn’t get you anything. I didn’t even think of it.”

“I don’t want anything,” I snap, impatient, and it’s true. Maikel hadn’t asked me what I might want, during the weeks leading up to the holiday, and I knew him well enough to suspect that it was because it hadn’t occurred to him, not because he was playing his cards close to his vest. I hadn’t minded, then. Now that he’s spoiled my surprise, I’m more vexed by his thoughtlessness.

“I’m sorry,” he cries. I try to wave him off, but he will not be consoled. “Please, I want to get you something. Please tell me what you want.”

“I don’t want anything, Maikel,” I tell him again. It only upsets him further.

“God,” he mutters, and paces across the room. He says something, too low for me to make out, but his expression seems so upset it verges on angry.

When he makes a sharp, disgusted sound and stalks into the bedroom, I’m curious enough to follow after him. I’m not prepared for the site of him laying a bag out on the bed and stuffing clothes into it.

“Maikel.” My voice lashes out, with the strength of my shock behind it. “What are you doing?”

He stops and turns to me, his lips flattened into a thin line, his jaw set. His eyes are bleak. “I’m sorry, Arjen,” he says. “I love you, and you deserve better than this. Better than I can do.” His breath leaves him all at once. “I don’t know why you’ve put up with me this long. I’m a rotten sort of man to love. I didn’t even buy you a Christmas gift, God.” He grabs the bag off the bed and ties it up. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but you deserve better than this.”

I feel as though he’s dumped ice water on me. Stiff, immobile, too shocked to respond. When he throws the bag over his shoulder and comes toward me, I move out of the way automatically, and stare after him as he walked out of the bedroom.

He’s halfway across the sitting room when I recover myself and follow after him, so angry I could spit. “Perhaps I do,” I snap at his back, “but then, I suppose I’d have grown accustomed by now to people snatching away what I most want for their own purposes!”

He hasn’t quite reached the door when he stops and turns back to me, his brows wrinkled with an uncertain, bewildered look. “I don’t understand,” he says slowly. “You said you didn’t want anything. Arjen, please, tell me. Tell me what you want.”

I suck a hissing breath through my teeth. “I want you to stop thinking that just because I’m angry with you, I want you to leave!” I shout at him. “I want you to stop running away from me, for God’s sake!”

He comes back to me, and drops his bag onto the floor. I feel as though I can breathe again when he steps away from it, leaving it behind him. “Please tell me what you want,” he begs me miserably. “I’d do anything for you. Please, just tell me.”

“I don’t want anything, Maikel! I told you. I don’t want anything but you.” It might have been a sweeter sentiment if I hadn’t been glaring at him as I said it, my hands balled into fists. Still, it makes his eyes go wide, his lips part, though no sound passes them.

“Arjen.” He comes over to stand in front of me and takes my hands, gently unfolds my fingers so he can lace his through mine. “Tell me what I should do. If there’s nothing you want, what I can do to make it up to you?”

I frown and made an impatient gesture, or try to, but he won’t release my hands. “Nothing. There’s nothing. I don’t want anything. It’s not that easy.” I pull against his hold. “I just wanted you to be happy,” I say bitterly.

“I am,” he says quietly. “Or, I would be, if you would let me make it up to you. Please, Arjen. If there’s nothing I can do, nothing I can give you…” He bends and presses his lips to my palm. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It was so thoughtful, and I ruined it. I hate myself for–”

“Stop!” I jerk my hands from his. “Damn it, Maikel. Don’t say that!”

He frowns down at me, looking uncertain. When he steps in toward me, I stiffen, thinking he means to kiss me and distract me from my anger. But he doesn’t — all he does is slide his arms around me and hug me to him.

It disarms me more effectively than I think he could have possibly expected. Haltingly, I bring my arms up to circle around his back. Maikel lets out a long, slow sigh. “I’m sorry, Arjen,” he says quietly. “I am. I’ll find you something. Something as wonderful as what you got me.”

I make a small, unhappy sound. “You’re not listening to me at all. I told you, I don’t want anything–”

He raises his head, looks down at me, completely serious. “I want to get you something.”

I stop, swallow down the rest of what I’d been about to say. “All right,” I tell him quietly.

He gives a firm nod, satisfied, and draws me close again. I stand, leaning in against him, my chin propped on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of him through his clothes, and I think that it might not kill me to offer him an olive branch, in the spirit of Christmas.

“You know, I think you’re all talk,” I tell him lightly. He raises his head and starts to look hurt, until he recognizes my tone and realizes that I’m teasing.

“Am I?” He still sounds hesitant, uncertain. He’d have been teasing me back already, under normal circumstances.

“Indeed.” I slide my fingers through his hair and tug. “A ceiling covered in mistletoe, you promised me, and kisses any time I took a step. And yet we’ve been all over this flat and back, and I’ve not had a single one.”

His expression starts to ease, finally. “Do you want them?”

“Yes. Every one you owe me.” I turn my face up to his. “And many more, besides.”

He curls his hands around the back of my neck, holding me gently, and bends to put his lips on mine. It’s a soft kiss, tender, still tentative. I brush my tongue over his lip, draw it into my mouth to nibble on until his breath frays. His fingers tighten on me a little, a bolder touch.

I break away from his kiss and take a step back. “And there’s another you owe me,” I tell him with a crooked smile. I take another step. “And one more.”

Maikel follows after me, laughing now, and I continue to retreat, counting each step, until he lunges and catches me by the waist. I wrap my arms around his neck and he hitches me up, carries me into the bedroom.

I drop kisses on his mouth, since he’s the one walking now, one for each step he takes, and more in between because I cannot help myself.

He bears me down onto the bed. I try to sit up, but he pins me with his body weight, his hips on mine. Slowly, I ease down onto my back, gazing up at him, waiting. His hair’s falling in his face. I reach up to comb it back with my fingers, and he turns his head, kisses my hand.

“That doesn’t count,” I tell him.

“No?”

“No,” I say firmly. “And now you owe me another to make up for it.”

He slips his fingers beneath my jaw and uses it to tilt my face up. His eyes narrow as he looks down at me, considering. When he bends down to me, I rise up to meet him, but he avoids my lips and instead kisses the side of my neck. His tongue slides over my skin, a brief caress of heat. He places another kiss in the hollow of my throat, then hooks a finger in the neck of my shirt and pulls the collar down so he can kiss my sternum.

I grab the cuffs of my shirt and pull my hands through, tug my arms out of the sleeves before Maikel can ask it of me. He sits up, so I can rise off the bed enough to tear the shirt off over my head. And when I am bare-chested, he spreads his hand over my heart and pushes me onto my back again with a gentle pressure.

I subside, only because the promise and heat in his eyes when he looks over me makes me want to know what he has in mind. The hand on my chest slides down, over my stomach and across my ribs. He braces the forearm of his other arm on the mattress beside me and lowers himself. When his lips brush my nipple, I lose my breath. When they part and he draws the puckered flesh into his mouth, I hiss and curl my fingers in his hair.

His tongue strokes a slow circle around my nipple, then he drags the flat of it across the tip. I feel the sensation go through me like fire. I can’t help but arch beneath him, flexing my hips up against his.

He’s enjoying it, too. I can feel it in the press of his erection against my stomach. But when I reach for him, to open his pants and release him from their restraint, he catches me by the wrists and pulls my hands away.

“I’m not done yet,” he chides, looking up at me through his lashes. “I’ve still so many neglected kisses to make up for.”

I bite back a groan. I’m grateful, at least, that he moves on, kissing each rib as he makes his way down my side, then swirling his tongue through the indent of my navel. I laugh breathlessly, torn between arousal and ticklishness.

He continues down, following the faint trail of hair to where it disappears beneath the waist of my trousers. And then he continues further, his lips pressing to me through the fabric. He kisses my straining cock but there’s no satisfaction in it. I scarcely feel more than pressure and warmth, when what I want is the hot, liquid glide of his mouth.

He unfastens my pants slowly. I’m sure he is delighting in tormenting me. I imagine if I opened my eyes and looked at him, I’d see his smirk in place, pulling up the corner of his mouth. The thought makes me groan and thrust up against him. The movement makes his fingers slip from the buttons, and delays my satisfaction. I make an impatient sound and thrust my hips up again, this time in demand.

Slowly, he gets all the buttons released, and draws my cock out of the fabric. I hiss at the feel of his fingers wrapped around me. When he bends and places a single kiss upon the head of my cock, I have to fist my hands in the blankets.

“More,” I breathe. “Another.”

“Another kiss?” he asks me, his lips curving.

I nod impatiently. “How many do I have left?”

His head lowers over me again, his hair falling forward so I can’t see his face, or what he’s doing. But I feel his lips brush over me, warm and wet. This time they linger, and he lets his tongue play over me before he draws away.

“I believe I’ve lost count,” he says.

“You’ll have to start over from the beginning.”

“Mmm.” He chuckles. “That is one solution.”

“Maikel…” There’s a note of warning in my voice now. I’m losing patience. I want his mouth on me, his lips and tongue. I do not want to be teased.

“I did promise to give you what you wanted, didn’t I?” he says lightly.

“You did.”

“Well. Since it is Christmas…” He curls his hands around the shaft of my cock and kisses its head again. When I push up against him, he takes more of me, his lips sealed just behind the flared base of the head. His tongue sweeps over me, then teases the slit at its tip.

I lie beneath him, gasping, and struggle to keep still.

He works his mouth over me, taking me deeper, his lips sliding down my shaft. When he draws away, letting me slip from his mouth completely, I swear and reach for him.

He evades my grasp and lowers himself between my thighs. His lips brush my scrotum, and he draws one testicle into his mouth. I clench my fingers in his hair and draw his mouth more firmly against me. He curls his hand around my cock and strokes as his tongue draws circles upon my skin.

He kisses my other testicle just as lavishly, and when he releases it, I think he’s going to return his attentions to my cock. Instead, he pushes at my legs until I bend my knees, making room for him. He kisses down from my testes, his lips soft and warm. His fingers spread my cheeks and he touches his tongue to the puckered muscle of my anus.

I bite down on my knuckle, moaning at the feel of him, gently licking over me. It’s a soft touch at first, almost tentative, but I know him better than that. He drags his thumb up the underside of my cock as he gives another, firmer lick. My breath hisses out of me, and I buck up against him, wanting more.

“Maikel,” I gasp. “Maikel, please.”

I feel his lips curve against my skin, but he doesn’t give me what I need, just light, tormenting touches. Gradually, he increases the pressure of his licks, so he is easing me open. I swear beneath my breath and try for patience, but it is beyond my grasp.

This time, when he moves his mouth away, I suspect his game, and I’m unsurprised when he slides it to the inside of my thigh instead of some other place where I need him most. Unsurprised, but still frustrated, and I try again to grab him and pull him back. Again, he evades me, and leaves kisses all the way down to the back of my knee.

I consider scolding him for denying me. But he has already felt awful enough for one day. I don’t want to make him feel bad again, even a little. Especially since I was the one who demanded the kisses from him in the first place. I should have known I’d lose patience with the game before he did.

So I do not say anything at all, I simply sit up and reach for him. This time, he cannot evade, and I don’t think he tries very hard anyway. I pull him to me, drag his mouth to mine, and he sinks into my kiss as though he wants it as much I do.

I roll him over beneath me and bend over him as we kiss. He runs his hands over my shoulders and down my back, fingers tracing over my vertebrae. He circles a fingertip around the knot at the base of my spine, where the skin is surprisingly sensitive. I gasp and rock against him. He shifts his touch just a little and presses his finger against my entrance, and I rock again, moaning.

He’s still dressed, clothes covering all the places on him I want to touch. I shift off of him and pull his pants down. He helps me, kicking them off. His cock juts up from the thatch of his pubic hair, begging to be touched or kissed. But I’ve had my fill of kisses. I want more.

I straddle him again and let my hips rest against his. My cock slides against his when I flex, tormenting both of us. His eyes go heavy-lidded and dark. When I slide over him again, he draws an unsteady breath and glides his finger between my cheeks.

I rock back against his pressure. His fingertip stretches me open. I catch my lip between my teeth and moan, encouraging Maikel for more, deeper. He brings his other hand to my hip and guides me with it, urging me back, then tugging me forward to rub against him again.

I shudder and lean forward, bracing my arms on the bed so I’m stretched atop him. He smiles up at me and strokes his fingers over the edge of my face. I kiss them then shift, groping on the nightstand until I find the glass bottle of oil we keep there.

His eyes light when I press it into his hand. I slide back and his finger slips out of me. I bite down on my lip to stifle the protest that rises in me unbidden at the loss.

His gaze is steady on me as he pours oil into his palm and strokes it over his cock. I watched, transfixed by the sight of his fingers wrapped around himself.

When he’s coated in the oil, he takes his hand away from his flesh and instead wraps it around mine. I groan and thrust into his fist. The oil makes him slick, no longer enough friction to satisfy me. I make an impatient sound and thrust again, sharper, as I adjust myself above him so I’m straddling his hips again, and his cock rubs between my cheeks.

I grip him at the base of his cock and angle him up. He cups my face in his hands as I shift myself above him until his slick head presses against my anus, urging me open.

I begin to lower my weight on top of him, taking him into me. My muscles stretch at his penetration, a pleasant ache. Maikel pulls me down to him and kisses me, his tongue delving hungrily between my lips.

Slowly, I work him into me, until I have taken all of him and my hips rest against his. He hisses his breath out and rocks his hips, moving in me. I cry out and press my hand to his chest, supporting myself as white-hot heat spikes through me.

“More,” I breathe.

He closes his hands on my hips and moves again, a sharp thrust. I gasp and let my head fall back.

He rises up to kiss my throat. I twine my fingers through his hair and turn my head, baring it more completely to him, thinking he might want to feed. And I do think he’s hungry — he sucks at my skin for long minutes, lips and tongue exploring my throat fully. But he doesn’t bite me, doesn’t even try.

“Maikel,” I whisper. It’s been days since I fed him last, and he must be hungry. But as soon as I speak, he shakes his head and pulls away.

“No, Arjen. I don’t want that from you.” He nudges into me, deeper. His hand curls around my cock and strokes. “Not tonight.”

It must be something to do with the Christmas present debacle. He’s never denied me before, not when I’ve offered myself to him like this. He has always been happy to take from me, when I want to give.

But of course, that’s the problem, this time. He thinks he has taken too much, and must give me something in return. A Christmas gift, though I truly do not care. There’s nothing I want. Nothing he hasn’t given me a hundred times over.

But I don’t want to upset him. I don’t want him to stop, or argue with me, so I say nothing and let it pass. I can feed him later. Right now, all that really matters is the feel of him inside me, the slow rocking rhythm he maintains, driving me mad with it.

I gasp again, his name spoken against his lips. He wraps an arm about my waist and pulls me down onto his next thrust. The jolt of it goes straight through me. I tighten around him, for no other reason than to hear him moan.

Carefully, I lower myself down so I am laying on Maikel’s chest. I press my cheek to the curve of his shoulder and he wraps his arms around me. His thrusts are short and sharp now, driving deep, filling me. I press my lips to his neck and groan against his skin. His breath catches, hitches to a different rhythm in the way I know means he is close.

I am close too. More than anything he might buy for me, I want this. This sensation, this moment, the feeling of his skin dragging on mine, his hardness within me.

It’s true what I told him. I want nothing moreso than I want Maikel.

I gasp again, his name spoken against his lips. He wraps an arm about my waist and pulls me down onto his next thrust. The jolt of it goes straight through me. I I take his hand in mine and guide it to my cock, caught stiff and throbbing between us and sorely neglected. He breathes a shuddering sigh against my mouth as he curls his fingers around me and strokes.

His fist is tight, giving me the friction that I need despite the slick oil that coats his skin, and now mine. I thrust into his grip. The motion makes him give a sharp, unexpected thrust within me, his fingers tightening around me.

I try to speak. I’m not sure what I ‘d tell him, if I could, but I can’t so it doesn’t matter.

What I want to do is warn him that I’m close, too close, but I never manage to form the words. He presses his thumb hard against my glans, a firm, commanding stroke. I choke out a cry and shudder on top of him, spilling my seed into his hand and across his lap.

He continues to move in me, thrusting. I drag his mouth to mine and kiss him until he shudders and cries out against my lips. His motions are short, sharp, until at last he groans and his arms tighten around me. He empties himself into me and pulls me down to lay on top of him.

I keep my ear pressed to his chest for a time, listening to the slowing thunder of his heartbeat. Eventually he shifts, nudging at me.

“Arjen,” he murmurs. “Let me up a minute.”

I roll over onto my side, off of him, and watch with lazy curiosity as he climbs out of bed and walks out of the room. I wonder what he’s up to, and if I should follow after and drag him back to bed. I haven’t yet decided when he returns, carrying both heliographs in his hands.

I am not thrilled to have their company in bed, but I shift to the side anyway to make room for Maikel again. He stretches out on his back, his head propped on the pillow. When he’s settled, I press in against his side and lean my head on his shoulder.

He holds the images up and looks at them. The one he bought for himself is on top. After a moment, he passes it to me. I do not bother to look at it. I’m more interested in what he’s seeing, and why. He holds my gift, the heliograph I chose for him, in his hands for long minutes, just looking at it, until I’m sure I can’t bear it anymore.

“It’s a much better composition, this one,” he says at last, almost to himself. “The light is better. Do you see how the water almost shines?”

I murmur agreement but no more. I turn my gaze from the image to him, but he doesn’t notice. His gaze is fixed very hard on the picture.

“They didn’t have any with the canals, today. Just streets and buildings.” He hovers his hand just above the canal in the image, not quite touching the plate. “It’s like the one outside your bedroom, where we met. Look, there’s even a bridge.”

He sounds like he’s working himself around to something. I curl in tighter against his side and wait for him to get to it. I’m not sure what he means by any of this, but I’d have been happier if he’d left them both out in the sitting room, where we could deal with it later.

At last, Maikel gives a sharp, decisive nod and declares, “You chose a much better one than the one I chose for myself. I like yours much better, Arjen.”

I think he’s just saying it to humor me, to make me feel better. I search his gaze for a moment, for any sign that he is. But he looks happy — that’s all. Just happy, as he looks from me to the heliograph and back.

I lean my cheek on his chest, one arm curled and resting on his stomach. He still doesn’t believe me when I say that there’s nothing I want from him. He’s trying to give me what he thinks I want. I don’t like being humored, as a rule, but it’s sweet and it’s Christmas, so I let myself smile. “Shall we put it on the wall?”

He nods eagerly. “So I can see the sun every day.” He looks at the image again, and I realize that he’s given me the one thing I did want, but couldn’t demand of him.

He’s happy, so I am, too.

I rise and dress. He’s left no indication of where he’s gone or when I might expect his return. I shouldn’t be surprised. In the first months of our relationship, before I learned what he truly was, it was not uncommon for him to disappear for hours at a stretch. I would go walk through the city, or buy a pastry at a patisserie and sit at a table for a while to eat it, watching the people who passed me by.

I cannot go out, now. The day is forbidden to me, and I fear to go out alone at night.

I don’t fear monsters in the dark. Not anymore. I am the monster that lurks in the shadows, now, and what I fear is what might happen if I do not have Nye to watch over me, and keep the hunger from taking control.

It seems absurd that I should be lonely now. It was worse when I was a child, in the orphanage in Ceredigion, surrounded by other children and all alone because they thought I was mad. It was worse when I’d first come to Paris, scratching and scraping for a living and coming home every night to my empty room. There’s no sense in it now, when I have Nye, who loves me, and whom I love more than I’d thought possible.

And yet I am, and I ache with it.

Nye comes home, not too long after I’ve woken, and finds me curled in our armchair, my brow on my knees, trying to ignore the hollow void of loneliness that gapes within me. I’d expected him to be gone longer, so I’m not listening for him, and he sweeps in before I realize he’s there, and sees me sitting there feeling sorry for myself. I unfold quickly, though it’s not quick enough, and pretend he did not catch me at anything at all.

He’s smiling when he comes in, his face bright and flushed with the cold. There are snowflakes caught in his hair and on his scarf, not yet melted. He looks as happy as I’ve seen him, but he’s seen me sitting there being miserable and his smile starts to fade.

“Kynan–” he begins.

“Hi, Nye.” I cross over to him and kiss his mouth, interrupting him before he can ask me what’s wrong. “What have you been up to?” I smile up at him as I ease back, false but bright. It’s not his fault that I’m unhappy. I won’t let him be unhappy, too.

“Errands,” he tells me. When I reach for his scarf to untie it, he brushes my hands away. “No, leave it. I’ve not finished yet.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and gently pushes me back a step. “Go put your coat on, Kynan. It’s cold out.”

I turn away to obey. “Am I going with you, then?” I ask him over my shoulder as I pull on my coat and gloves, hat and scarf. It may not offer the same threat to me now, but I still do not like the cold any better than I did when I was mortal.

“I thought we’d get some supper. Aren’t you hungry?”

“Oh.” I hesitate, just for a moment, as I’m wrapping the scarf about my neck. “Of course. Yes, I am.” I tell him this because it’s the truth, and he’d know soon enough if I was lying. But I don’t relish the idea. I’d rather go hungry, and put of feeding a little while longer.

It’s not the prospect of feeding that makes me hesitate, though, not really. Walking through the city, now, just makes me feel more alone, even when the streets are crowded. I’m not one of them anymore. I’m not mortal. They’d fear me, if they knew the truth. They’d kill me, if they had the chance.

When I turn back to Nye, he’s not smiling at all any more, and his gaze is shrewd as he watches me. My hesitation has given me away. I tuck my hands into the pockets of my coat and keep the smile fixed on my face, even though it’s pointless now, and he’s seen through it.

What he says, though, is not what I expect. He comes over to stand before me and cups my face in his hands, tilting it up to his. “You are doing wonderfully, mo charaid. There’s no need for fear. I will be with you, if anything goes amiss. But you haven’t needed my intervention in quite some time. I don’t know why this worries you so.”

I look away. He’s misunderstood the reason of my concern, but I don’t correct him. I’d rather he think that, than know the truth.

We venture out onto the city’s streets. It’s busier than usual, and I press in against Nye’s side as we walk. When we turn off the street and make our way down a narrow alley between two buildings, I breathe a sigh of relief.

We’d walked the streets like this only a week before, on Christmas Eve. We’d kept to the larger, busier streets, though and everywhere we turned there were people enjoying themselves, sitting safe and warm inside their homes, candles glowing through the windows, laughter leaking out into the night. It had almost been more than I could bear, to stand out on the dark street, the wind cutting through me like knives, as they’d celebrated the season with the ones they loved.

So I’m grateful, now, that Nye keeps us to the narrow back alleys, where we see almost no one at all, and there are no windows to look through. We climb the sloping streets, up the narrow staircases and through the twisting alleys. He’s leading me up the hill, toward the center of Montmartre. We’ve never come this way to hunt before. I wonder why, and where we’re going, but I don’t ask it.

Gradually, the streets level, and there are no more staircases to climb. There is not the same concentration of bars and brothels here as there is nearer our flat, our usual haunts when we must feed. I wonder once again where he’s taking me.

And then we step out of the alley and I realize where we are, where we have come. We are standing at the edge of a lawn at the highest point of the hill, and before us is the stately facade of St-Pierre-de-Montmartre, golden and glowing in the light of the lanterns.

I stand and gawp at it for a moment. “Nye!” I cry, appalled. “You’re taking me hunting in a church?”

He grins at me and hooks his arm around my shoulders. I cannot fathom what he’s so pleased about. It’s an awful blasphemy. Just the thought makes me ill, and I’m reluctant to move my feet when Nye urges me forward.

“Trust me,” he murmurs. His arm around my shoulders is gentle but firm, leading me with him despite my reservations.

I cannot imagine what sort of trust he expects me to place in him. How can he expect to make feeding on Church land more palatable?

But it doesn’t matter, because I do trust him, and we both know it. I have trusted him with my life already. This is nothing, in comparison. I relax and let myself enjoy the feel of his arm around me, the pleasantness of walking close by his side.

We go around behind the church, and slip inside through a small, unprepossessing doorway that leads to a narrow hall and a stairwell. And then we are climbing again, and I think wryly that I’m grateful for the strength tat comes with immortality, or I’d have been winded and breathless long before we reached this point.

The stairs end at another door, but here, Nye stops and turns to me. I’ve been coming up behind him, letting him lead. When I am standing on the small landing beside him, he draws me close and puts his hands over my eyes.

I blink, uncertain. My lashes brush against his palm. “Nye?”

I can feel his warmth behind me, pressing in close against my back. I feel his breath on my throat, and then his lips brush my ear. “Trust me, Kynan,” he murmurs.

I relax, or try to. He shifts behind me as he reaches forward, opens the door. He guides me forward with gentle pressure on my back, but my steps are slow and stumbling, awkward, because I fear tripping on something. I’m not used to being so thoroughly blinded. I haven’t had to worry about seeing in the dark since Nye turned me. I hadn’t even realized how accustomed to it I’ve become.

He guides me forward, patient with my small steps and the way I reach out before me, feeling the way. I trust him not to lead me into a wall, but it’s instinct, and I can’t help it.

Finally we stop. I drop my hand and find it resting on a ledge, like a windowsill, except there is no window here. I can feel the wind on my cheeks, feel it tugging through my hair. The stone is cold, but Nye’s pressed up behind me, and his warmth insulates me.

“What are we doing, Nye?” I wonder, barely a breath.

He speaks close against my ear. “I’ll show you,” he says, and he lowers his hands.

We’re in the church’s tower, high above the ground. The rooftops and streets of Montmartre slope away before us, and beyond that lies the city itself, as far as the eye can see, all of it glittering with snow and glowing with lights, thousands upon thousands of them. We’ve been having flurries of snow all day, and now it lies like a candy coating on the rooftops, and reflects the lights from the streets so that all of Paris is lit with the golden glow, as bright as sunshine. I bring my hands to my mouth and stare out at it, shining like a jewel.

“Oh, Nye,” I breathe. “It’s beautiful. Is it always like this?”

“Every year.” His hands rub over my arms. His breath is warm on my cheek as he speaks, so close I could turn my head and match my lips to his. “I know you’ve been unhappy, Kynan–”

“No,” I protest swiftly, but he doesn’t let me speak.

“I know you have been,” he says, more firmly. “I know the holidays have been hard for you. You’ve been lonely.”

I shake my head hard. Tears prick at my eyes, and the chill winter wind makes them feel like ice.

“I have seen it,” Nye continues, his body pressed close to mine, wrapping around mine. “And I’m sorry for it. It’s hard, Kynan. I know it is.” He pauses, takes a long breath. The wind brings to us the sound of conversation and laughter. The streets are full of it, full of people, as if it really were the middle of the day. “But tonight… Tonight is New Year’s, and you’ve not seen a New Year’s celebration until you’ve seen how Paris celebrates it.

The streets will be full of men all night long, clear until dawn.” He kisses the side of my throat, lingers with his lips warm on my skin. “We can go, mo charaid,” he murmurs. “We can be men like any other, for at least one night. We can go and celebrate and wish people a joyful new year–”

I spin in his arms with a gasp, unable to bear it any longer. I stare up at him, the light and love and hope in his eyes. I cannot believe his kindness. I don’t know how he’s guessed that I am lonely when I’ve tried so hard to keep him from knowing, but I know he planned all of this for me. Because I was not happy, and he wanted me to be.

“Oh, Nye,” I breathe, staring up at him, so overwhelmed I cannot contain myself. “I love you so much.”

I rise up on my toes and pull him down to me, his mouth to mine. He makes a soft, wondrous sound against my lips and kisses me, his tongue gliding along mine, his lips warm and generous and wonderful. I press myself tight against his chest and kiss him harder, wanting him to know the true strength of this love that has welled up within me, so deep and powerful I feel like I may drown in it.

My arm is wrapped around the back of his neck to hold him to me. With my other, I reach up and tug my glove off. The air is so cold up here it stings, but I want to feel the texture of his hair on my fingertips, the heat of his skin on mine.

Nye makes a low sound against my mouth when I slide my fingers over his scalp. I break away from his kiss long enough to bite at the fingers of my other glove and tug that one off, too. He watches me, his eyes kindling. When I put my hands on either side of his face, he turns his head and presses a kiss to my palm.

“Won’t your hands get cold?” he asks me.

I shake my head. “You’ll keep them warm.”

The corners of his eyes crease when he smiles. “I thought you’d want to go down into the city and be amongst the people.”

“I do. In a minute.” I draw my hand down to his throat. His scarf is looped around his neck, blocking my way. I tug it open and work at the buttons of Nye’s coat.

“Kynan,” he murmurs. His tone is mildly reproachful, but he’s still smiling.

I use the ends of his scarf to pull him to me. He laughs as I rise up to kiss him. “I love you,” I whisper against his lips. “So much I can’t bear it.”

“And this?” He curves his hands around my waist, presses his fingers in hard so I can feel him through the wool of my coat. “Will this help you bear it?”

“No.” The corners of my mouth turn up. “There’s no help for that.” I scrape my teeth over his lip, delighting in the quick catch of his breath. “But I don’t know how you expect me to go down there with you and keep my hands to myself, otherwise.”

“Well,” he murmurs. “We can’t have you failing to fully appreciate your first Parisian New Year’s. In the interest of not being a distraction…” He takes my face in his hands and kisses me again, moving his body in against mine so I am pinned against the column.

I moan against his mouth and take his hands in mine, peeling his gloves off, too. He flexes his fingers at the cold and I grab him by the wrists, press his hands against my neck. His skin is cold at first, but it warms quickly.

Nye unwraps my scarf from around my neck and opens my coat. He spreads his hands over my chest, only the thin lawn of my shirt between us now. I suck air through my teeth and press into his touch.

He leaves a trail of kisses down the side of my throat. I gasp when he flicks his tongue across my skin, heat curling through me.

“And how is your concentration now, mo charaid?” His lips brush against my earlobe. “Are you still distracted?”

“Quite.” I shrug my coat off my shoulders. Nye’s gaze skims over me as it falls down to the floor. “Stop teasing and just touch me already.”

The corners of his eyes wrinkle again. He looks so pleased just to be here with me, teasing and fond. “If you insist,” he says, and presses his lips to the hollow of my throat. I let my head fall back to rest against the stone wall behind me, to give him greater access.

He slides his hands under the edge of my shirt, pushing it up. I suck in my breath and twist away instinctively at the rush of cold air over my skin. But then he crouches and presses his mouth to my stomach. My hands find the back of his head, holding him against me, and I forget about the cold entirely.

Slowly, he lowers himself to his knees. I make a low, surprised sound and begin to sink down to join him. But Nye slides his hand over my erection, straining against my breeches, and I freeze, my hands clenching on his hair.

“Oh,” I breathe. “Nye.”

He tilts his head back, gazing up at me. “Yes?” he asks quietly.

“Please.”

He smiles and kisses my stomach again. His tongue skims the edge of my navel. He works at my breeches, gets them open and draws me out. This time, he doesn’t give me a chance to feel the cold at all. His mouth is on me instantly, surrounding me with heat. I groan and lift my hips away from the wall, pressing toward him.

The feel of his tongue on me is like a madness. I shut my eyes. He takes me deep, running his hands over my stomach and the outsides of my thighs. He drags the flat of his tongue over the length of my shaft, then teases across the head of my penis with the tip, until my breath is coming harshly, my shoulders heaving as I strain against him.

I cannot keep still, not when his mouth, his hands, are on me. I run my fingers through his hair, slip them down to the back of his neck, across the breadth of his shoulders. He works his mouth over me, swallowing me deep. I’m sure I must go out of my mind with the pleasure of it.

I struggle to hold myself back, to keep the heat reigned in, until he licks across the head of my phallus. I’m shaking, gasping for air, and it’s all I can do to sink onto my knees and drag his mouth to mine before the heat erupts within me.

This is nothing like the sweet kisses we’d shared earlier. My hands grasp at him, dragging his body against mine. I kiss him fiercely, needy. He catches my head between his hands and kisses me back with a staggering urgency.

I push his jacket off his shoulders. He pulls his arms from the sleeves impatiently, casts it down to the ground with mine. We drag each other down upon them. Sheltered by the low wall, with the warmth of our coats beneath us and Nye’s blazing heat above me, it is not so cold. I don’t protest when he tugs my pants down off my hips. And then his mouth is on me again, driving me to the edge of madness. I writhe away and reach for the his breeches.

He holds himself still as I unbutton him. His breath hisses out audibly when I take him in my hand and stroke.

“Now,” I whisper, leaning forward to skim my lips over his. “I want you now.”

He nods and bears me down onto my back without breaking the kiss. I wrap my legs around him, arch up so my erection slides against his and we both groan. He holds himself up on one arm and slicks himself with saliva.

I cannot look way from him as he reaches down and positions himself against me. His gaze locks on me as he flexes his hips, and bears down into me.

He works his way in with shallow, gentle nudges, stretching me with painstaking care. I rear up to kiss his mouth, his throat, his shoulder, anywhere I can reach. He curls an arm beneath the back of my head when he realizes that the coats beneath us don’t provide sufficient padding, and it brings him in closer above me.

“God, Nye,” I breathe, then cry out when he finds that place inside of me that makes sparks shoot across my vision. I shudder around him. He groans and gives a sharper thrust, burying himself deep within me. I gasp and clutch at him. I hook a leg over his hip and pull him against me.

With his next thrust, he pulls out almost completely, then buries himself in me, a single smooth stroke. I cry out and buck beneath him, and all my breath rushes from me.

He’s pounding into me now, a hard, driving rhythm. Heat rushes through me and sweat clings to my skin, despite the coolness of the night. Every breath Nye takes comes as a gust against the skin of my shoulder as he strains into me.

I dig my teeth into my lip, fighting to hold myself back. But Nye reaches down between us and curls his hand around my erection, and my eyes fly open with a gasp. He’s above me, looking down at me. His gaze is flooded with love and brightness. It’s too much for me. My heart swells to fill my chest, and with his next stroke, I arch up tight beneath him, shuddering and crying out, and empty myself into his hand.

Nye groans, his arm tightening around me. He drives into me. I wrap my arms around his back and hold on to him. Soon he’s locking his hips to mine, moaning and twitching deep inside me as he slumps down on top of me.

I wrap around him, holding him close. I can feel the way his pulse pounds, and gradually feel it slow as we lie together. “I love you, Nye,” I whisper again, purely for the joy of saying it.

He makes a pleased sound against my throat and rises off of me. Without the distraction of his touch, I’m once again aware of the chill in the air, and the even cooler breeze. I shiver hard, just one. Nye retrieves my hat and a wayward glove while I dress, and then I return the favor for him. Soon enough, we’re bundled up again. I step in close and lean against Nye’s chest. My wool coat protects me from the cold, but I don’t feel half as warm wearing it as I had when all I’d had protecting me had been Nye.

He wraps me in his arms and presses his lips to my temple. I can feel his mouth curve against my skin. “And now?” he asks me quietly. “Will you be able to celebrate the coming of the new year without distractions?”

“You’re always a distraction, Nye,” I tell him. I slip my fingers beneath the edge of his coat, to run along the small of his back. It makes him shiver and lean in against me. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He smiles again, then steps away and hooks his hand in mine. We descend the stairs together, and then we walk together, out of Montmartre and into the heart of the city, where the streets are filled with men and women in high spirits, celebrating with strangers and loved ones alike as the excitement of the moment lifts them up.

For a few hours, we are no different than anyone else in the city. Soon enough, the clocks strike midnight, and the cry goes up. “Bonne Annee!” they cry to one another. Happy New Year. I cannot help but grin as I watch them embrace one another, and exchange kisses.

Nye’s hand catchs my arm, turning me to face him. I smile up at him, brilliantly happy, and when he bends to brush his lips over my cheek and murmur, “Bonne Annee, Kynan,” in my ear, I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him lavishly.

I’m not foolish enough to expect the coming year to be easy. But I do think it will be happy, all the same.