The Thanksgiving Fling: Chapter Three -

Thanksgiving wasn’t supposed to get complicated. Remi planned on food, sleep, and pretending she wasn’t still thinking about that pantry kiss. Instead, the heat dies, the storm gets worse, and Bash ends up in her bed for “practical” reasons that stop being practical fast. One touch turns into another, and soon the cold outside is the last thing either of them is thinking about. This chapter takes their tension exactly where it’s been threatening to go — and neither of them pretends it’s a mistake.

Chapter Three

Remi

Leftovers & Bad Decisions

By the time we get through pie and half-listen to Duke yelling at the football game like the players owe him money, the house feels heavy with warmth and food and the kind of tired that sinks into your bones.

Rachel keeps doing that slow, sleepy blink that means she’s two minutes from passing out. Duke is still arguing with the refs on TV, gesturing so wildly he almost knocks over his beer.

I sit curled at the end of the couch, one leg tucked under me, trying not to notice Bash in the armchair across from me. He’s leaning forward with his forearms on his thighs, watching the game with quiet intensity that makes everything around him feel louder.

Every tiny shift he makes, my body notices.

Every time he glances my way, my pulse stutters.

You kissed him in the pantry. You touched him. You told him it was a bad idea and then dragged him closer anyway.

My mouth still feels a little tender.

Rachel finally flops against Duke. “Okay,” she groans. “I’m done. Cooked. A Thanksgiving zombie. Put me to bed.”

Duke grins and stands, joints popping. “Come on, my beautiful disaster. Bedtime.”

He pauses halfway up the stairs, glancing back at me and Bash. “You two good?”

“We’re fine,” I say way too fast.

Bash just gives a small nod.

Rachel points at me as Duke tows her upstairs. “No sad spiral tonight. You deserve to be happy, you know.”

Heat climbs my neck. “I’m fine.”

She hums like she doesn’t believe a word of it. “Goodnight, you two.”

Once they’re gone, the house shifts. The silence feels different. Thinner. Less buffered by other people’s warmth.

Just me.

And Bash.

And a storm outside that doesn’t sound like it’s stopping.

I stand, gathering empty mugs and plates. “I’ll clean up.”

“I’ve got it,” Bash says, rising from the chair.

“You survived the floor last night. You’ve suffered enough.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “I was raised to help.”

Of course he was.

We fall into a rhythm—him rinsing, me loading the dishwasher. Our arms brush, our fingers graze when we pass things. Every accidental touch sends sparks through me.

Silence builds between us. Not awkward, not easy. Just charged.

When I finally speak, it comes out quiet. “We’re not talking about it.”

“Okay,” he says.

“We’re not.”

He exhales a small almost-laugh. “Okay.”

I glare at the dishwasher. “Stop being agreeable.”

“What do you want me to be?”

“Less… you.”

“Can’t help you there, Hollis.”

My stomach flips at the way he says my name.

We finish up. Counters wiped. Leftovers put away. And suddenly we’re just… standing there.

“Thanks,” I say, because it’s something.

“Anytime,” he says, and something in the way he says it makes me feel stupidly warm.

A cold draft snakes through the room, pulling goosebumps up my arms. The heating system groans loudly, then stutters.

Bash drops to one knee beside the vent, running his hand over the airflow. “It’s losing power,” he murmurs.

Another draft slides through, sharper this time. I shiver.

He notices instantly. Of course he does.

“You okay?” he asks, glancing up at me.

“It’s freezing,” I say softly.

He pushes up onto his knees, scrubbing a hand through his hair. And I can’t stop staring at the broad line of his shoulders, the way he fills the space without trying. “Heat kicks out when the wind gets bad,” he says quietly.

“Great,” I mutter. “Love that for us.”

“You should go get under the blankets in the guest room,” he says. “That side usually stays warmer.”

“What about you?” I ask. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”

“I’ve dealt with worse,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”

It’s the exact line he uses when something isn’t fine.

Another icy draft hits my calves. The vent clicks… then goes silent.

“Yeah,” I answer. “Okay. I’m going to bed.”

He nods. “Get warm. I’ll see what I can do.”

I head to the guest room. Climb into the cold bed. Pull the quilt around me. The heat hasn’t fully left the house, but the temperature is dropping—slow, creeping, unavoidable.

I curl tighter. Wait for warmth to settle in.

It doesn’t.

---

I must drift off, because when I jolt awake, the cold hits me full-force, sharp enough to suck the air from my lungs. The blankets rustle, and the room is noticeably colder than before.

His voice comes immediately, low in the dark:

“Remi? You okay?”

“No,” I whisper. “I mean… yes. I’m just—freezing.”

He shifts on the floor like he’s getting up. “You want more blankets? Duke might have—”

“That’s not it.”

Too fast. Too honest.

A beat of silence.

Then, softly, “What do you need?”

I look at him—half shadow, half hallway light spilling through the cracked door, all trouble for my sanity.

My breath shakes coming out.

“Come sleep in the bed with me.”

The air changes instantly. The cold fades—heat blooms instead, tight and overwhelming.

He goes still. “Remi…”

“It’s freezing,” I say, rushing before he can list all the reasons this is stupid. “You already slept on the floor last night. I know you’re trying to be respectful, and I appreciate it, but the bed is big. I’ll stay on my side. You’ll stay on yours. It’s… practical.”

His eyes search mine. Deep. Focused.

“Is that really why?”

Heat rushes under my skin. “It’s mostly why.”

“Mostly,” he echoes, low.

“And maybe…” My fingers twist in the quilt. “Maybe I don’t want to be alone.”

Something in his expression softens. And sharpens.

He steps closer.

“Remi,” he says slowly. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Too fast. He waits.

So, I steady my voice. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

He lets out a slow exhale, like he’s releasing something he’s held for years.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

He stands, grabs the blanket he brought in earlier, and nods. “Scoot over.”

I do. My heart is a runaway train.

He slides under the quilt beside me. The warmth radiates instantly, solid, steady, overwhelming.

“This is practical,” I lower my voice.

“Very,” he murmurs.

“And we’re adults.”

“Last I checked.”

“We can share a bed.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “If you say so.”

The room settles. The storm rattles the window. The cold presses against the house, but his heat curls around me like a secret.

Minutes pass.

I can’t stop thinking about the pantry. The kiss. His hands.

I bite my lip. Screw it.

“Bash?” I ask quietly.

“Yeah?” His voice is closer than I expected.

“Can I…?”

I don’t finish the question. I just inch back until my spine brushes his chest.

He freezes. Then slowly, carefully, lifts the blanket between us in silent invitation.

I move into him, warmth seeping into my bones instantly. His hand hovers at my waist.

“You can,” I whisper.

He settles his palm there. Gentle. Tentative. Reverent.

I cover his hand with mine and pull it tighter.

He exhales sharply against my neck.

“Remi.”

I turn toward him, heart hammering.

“Come here,” my voice comes out small, curling my fingers into his shirt.

Then I kiss him.

And this time, there’s no hesitation. No shock. No trying to convince ourselves it’s wrong.

Just heat, want and him.

He rolls me beneath him, his mouth hungry on mine, his hands sliding under my shirt like he’s been waiting years for permission.

And I let him.

I want him.

The storm howls outside, but under the quilt there’s only heat and the rough drag of his mouth on mine.

I shift higher, straddling his hips, my knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him. His hands slide up my thighs, gripping like he’s been waiting years to touch me like this. The thin cotton of my sleep shorts does nothing to dull the feeling of him, hard and heavy under me.

A shaky sound leaves my throat.

“Remi,” he breathes, like a warning.

“Too late,” I whisper, fingers curling in his shirt. “We’re already here.”

I pull the hem up, bunching the fabric over his ribs. He sits up enough to let me peel it off, the muscles in his stomach flexing under my hands. My brain glitches for a second at the sight of all that bare skin, the faint lines of old scars, the heat of him pressed close.

“Jesus,” I murmur. “You’ve been hiding this under flannels?”

“Trying to be a gentleman,” he says, voice rough. “You’re not helping.”

“Good,” I say, and then I’m kissing him again, hard.

His hands slide under my shirt, palms hot and sure. When his thumbs brush the underside of my breasts, my breath stutters. He freezes for half a second, giving me room to stop him.

I don’t.

I grab the hem of my own shirt and yank it over my head, tossing it somewhere toward the foot of the bed. The cold nips at my bare skin, but the look on his face makes me forget it instantly. His eyes go dark, hungry in a way that makes every inch of me feel seen.

“Remi,” he says again, like my name is the only thing holding him together.

“Touch me,” I say, my voice dipping.

He does.

His hands cup my breasts, thumbs circling slowly over my nipples until they ache. The steady, focused way he does it makes my spine arch, a broken sound punching out of my throat. I rock against him without meaning to, friction hitting exactly where I need it.

“Yeah,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “There you go.”

Heat coils low in my stomach. I drag my mouth down his jaw, along the tense line of his neck, tasting salt and warmth and skin. His pulse kicks under my tongue. His fingers tighten on my hips, guiding the grind of my body against his.

“Remi.” It comes out strangled this time. “If you keep doing that, this is gonna be over fast.”

“Maybe I like you desperate,” I murmur against his throat.

He huffs out a broken laugh. “You’re killing me.”

He flips us before I can answer, rolling us so I’m on my back and he’s above me, braced on his forearms. The quilt slides with us, falling over his shoulders like a tent, trapping us in our own warm little world.

My legs part to make room for him automatically.

He settles between them, careful with his weight, careful with everything except the way his mouth finds mine again, hungry and deep. One of his hands trails down my side, over my hip, along the edge of my shorts.

He pauses, searching my face. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I don’t,” I say, immediate.

“Remi—”

“I don’t,” I repeat, quieter but just as certain. “I know what I’m asking. I know what I’m doing. I want you.”

Something in his expression cracks at that. His jaw works, like he’s holding back words he doesn’t trust himself to say.

“Okay,” he breathes.

His fingers hook in the waistband of my shorts, tugging them down slowly. The patience of it is almost worse than if he’d ripped them off. By the time he gets them past my knees, my whole body is buzzing.

He kisses down my throat, across my collarbone, lower. His mouth finds my breast, lips closing around my nipple while his hand slides between my thighs, testing how ready I am.

I gasp, hips jerking, one hand flying to his shoulder, the other to his hair.

“Bash,” I whisper, his name a plea.

“You’re so warm,” he mutters against my skin. His fingers stroke slowly through the slick heat of me, learning what makes me gasp, what makes my legs tremble. “Been thinking about this longer than I’m proud of.”

The honesty lands right next to the pleasure, turning everything sharper.

I’m already on the edge when he slides two fingers inside me, his thumb circling exactly where I need it. My back arches off the mattress. The sounds leaving me are not polite, not restrained, not anything I’d want Duke or Rachel to hear.

But it’s just us.

Just this bed. This storm. This man.

“Bash,” I choke out. “I’m—”

“I know,” he says, voice low and steady. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

That does it.

The tension snaps, pleasure crashing through me so hard my vision goes white around the edges. I grab at him, at the sheets, at whatever I can reach while my body shudders around his hand. His thumb keeps circling, gentle, guiding me down instead of tossing me off the cliff and walking away.

When I finally blink back to myself, he’s watching me.

Not smug. Not gloating.

Just… reverent.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

I let out a broken laugh. “Define good.”

He smiles, that small, real smile I never get to see. “You still cold?”

I realize I’m shaking and laugh again. “Not from that.”

His eyes darken. “Okay,” he says. “Then I need two seconds.”

He reaches toward his duffel bag on the floor, one arm stretching out from under the quilt. My brain catches up a second before he pulls the zipper, and I flush, heat climbing my face.

“Of course you have condoms,” I say.

“Of course I have condoms,” he echoes, mouth quirking as he fishes one out. “I’m not twenty.”

He tears the foil open, and the wet, obscene sound of latex sliding down over him sends a fresh bolt of want through me. I can’t see all of him in the dim light, but I see enough to know I’m in trouble.

“You sure?” he asks one more time, voice rough.

I lift my hips, answer with my body instead of words.

“Yeah,” I breathe out. “I’m sure.”

He lines up and pushes in slow.

The stretch steals my breath. He’s careful, watching my face more than anything else, giving me every chance to stop him. I don’t. I take all of him, inch by inch, until he’s seated deep and we’re both completely still.

It feels… like too much. Like exactly enough.

“Remi,” he says, like he’s praying.

I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer. “Move.”

He does.

Slow at first, like he’s relearning how his own body works. Each thrust is steady, controlled, and somehow that control makes everything hotter. The bed creaks softly, the headboard bumping the wall in a rhythm that feels loud even though I know it’s not.

I clutch at his back, fingers digging into warm muscle, anchoring myself to something solid while everything inside me liquefies.

He drops his head to my neck, breath hot against my skin. “You feel… God, Remi. You feel unreal.”

“Good unreal?” I manage, voice wrecked.

He laughs against my throat, the sound breaking on a groan when I roll my hips up to meet him. “Best kind.”

The storm slams against the side of the house like punctuation. The whole world could be buried out there and I wouldn’t care. All that matters is the way he fills me, the way his hand slides between us again, fingers finding that sensitive spot that’s already throbbing.

“That’s not fair,” I gasp.

“Equal opportunity,” he says, breathless. “Mutual stupidity, remember?”

I’m not built for banter in this position, but the words still pull a laugh from me, tangled with a moan when he hits the perfect angle.

Heat builds again, fast and relentless. My body knows what’s coming before my brain does. My toes curl, my thighs tighten around him, my nails bite into his shoulders.

“Bash,” I warn. “I’m—”

“I’ve got you,” he says again, voice breaking. “Come on. I’m right there.”

He thrusts harder, deeper, and the second his thumb circles just right, everything snaps again. Pleasure rips through me, stronger than the first time, sharp and consuming and impossible to hold back. I cry out into his shoulder, the sound muffled against his skin, whole body shaking as I clamp down around him.

He groans, low and raw, hips jerking as he follows me over the edge. His rhythm stutters, then stills, his body going tight and then slack as he spills into the condom, breath hot and ragged against my neck.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of us breathing and the wind savaging the outside of the house like it’s offended we forgot about it.

Eventually he eases out of me, careful, holding the base of the condom as he pulls back. The loss makes me shiver in a whole different way. The mattress shifts as he slides off the bed for a second to deal with it, then dips again when he comes back.

He settles against my side, and I roll into him without thinking, cheek finding his chest like it’s a spot I’ve used before. His arm comes around me automatically, palm spreading over my back, big and steady and warm.

My muscles slowly unknot, tension seeping out bone by bone.

This is dangerous, I think, staring at the shadowed curve of his shoulder.

And I don’t move to stop it.

Not tonight.

I let my eyes close, listening to the steady thump of his heart under my ear. The storm can do whatever it wants. For once, I’m exactly where I want to be.

---

Bash

The first thing I notice is the way she melts after.

It’s small stuff. The way her shoulders finally sink into the pillow. The death grip on my shirt loosening into a lazy curl. The way her weight settles fully against my chest, like she’s not braced to bolt.

The second thing I notice is that my heart is pounding way too hard for a man who’s supposedly survived worse than a blizzard and a beautiful woman asking him to climb into her bed.

I stare at the dark ceiling and try to make my brain catch up.

I did not plan this.

Didn’t plan on her sliding back against me, asking me to stay. Didn’t plan on her stripping that shirt off, eyes steady, like she’d already made her decision and there was no world where I talked her out of it.

Planning went out the window the second she said she didn’t want to be alone.

Her breath is warm against my chest now. One leg is thrown over mine, anchoring me in place. My hand rests on her bare hip, thumb brushing absently along the edge of her sleep shorts where they’ve ended up. I don’t remember the exact moment we shifted from careful to gone, just that at some point, thinking stopped and wanting took over.

She started it.

I would’ve, eventually, if she hadn’t.

The house still feels cold around the edges, but under the quilt there’s nothing but heat and the faint tremor in my muscles that says it’s been a while since I let anyone get this close.

“Hey,” she murmurs after a minute, voice rough and soft. “You alive?”

“Barely,” I answer.

She huffs a small laugh against my skin, the sound vibrating through my ribs. “Sorry about your survival.”

“Worth it,” I say before I can stop myself.

She goes still for a heartbeat, like the word surprises her.

It surprises me too, a little, how easy it is.

Her fingers trace a slow, absent line along my ribs, over old scars and newer ones. It’s not sexual now. Not exactly. More like she’s cataloguing, making sure I’m real.

“This is insane,” she says quickly. “We’re insane.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Feels real enough.”

“Don’t start being wholesome,” she warns. “I can’t handle wholesome Bash right now.”

“Wholesome?” I repeat. “That’s a new one.”

“You can’t be all that and emotionally devastating. It’s rude.”

A smile pulls at my mouth. “All that, huh?”

She makes a noise that might be embarrassment. “Don’t get weird about it.”

Too late.

I shift just enough to nudge my nose against her hairline, breathing in the faint scent of her shampoo under all the sex and sweat and cold air.

“You’re the one who dragged me into bed,” I remind her.

“You were freezing.”

“You were shivering.”

“Mutual stupidity,” she decides. “Equal blame.”

“That’s fair.”

Silence stretches again. Not sharp, not awkward. Just… full. Like the room is trying on a new shape around us.

Outside, the wind roars. Snow hits the siding in sheets. The window rattles like it’s thinking about giving up. Somewhere in the distance, a plow groans its way down the road.

Remi’s hand slides up into my hair, fingers curling lightly at the nape of my neck. Tender. Casual. Not casual at all.

“What are you thinking?” she asks quietly.

I could lie. Say I’m thinking about the heat. The power. Whether Duke’s going to walk in tomorrow and immediately know this bed saw more than sleep.

Instead, I take the smaller risk. The version of the truth that doesn’t blow her night apart.

“Thinking about how long I’ve wanted this,” I say.

Her breath catches against my chest. Her heartbeat picks up where her ribs press to my side.

“How long?” she asks.

I stare at the ceiling, remembering her in Duke’s first crappy apartment, arms full of plants, cheeks flushed from the stairs. The way she smiled at my little brother like he hung every star she’d ever seen. The way she laughed at one of my dry comments and then looked surprised she’d gotten me to say it.

“Long enough that pretending I didn’t want it stopped working a while ago,” I say.

“That’s not very specific,” she mutters.

“Years,” I admit. “Off and on. Stronger lately.”

She’s quiet for a long beat. “I thought you didn’t like me,” she says softly. “For years.”

“That’s because you decided that before you ever asked me,” I say. “You built a whole story in your head.”

“I did not.”

“You did,” I say, not unkindly. “You decided I thought you were a burden. Or in the way. Or too much. You took every quiet moment and filled it with the worst possible meaning.”

Her fingers tighten in my hair. “Maybe I had reasons.”

“I know you did,” I say. “But none of them were me.”

Silence again. Heavier now. I can almost hear the wheels turning in her head.

“My track record isn’t great,” she says finally. “With being wanted. Or staying wanted.”

I look down at her, even though I can’t see much. Just the faint outline of her profile in the dim light leaking under the door. “Remi.”

I don’t have the right words for all of it, not tonight. That I’ve watched her shrink herself to fit inside other people’s comfort. That I’ve seen her carry everything alone until she’s shaking. That every part of me wants to find whoever taught her she was “too much” and have a very calm, very pointed conversation with them.

So I start where I can.

“You don’t scare me,” I say quietly. “You never have.”

She lets out a laugh that cracks in the middle. “Give it time.”

“I have,” I tell her. “You’re still here. So am I.”

Her fingers drift lower, tracing over my chest again. I feel the light brush over a jagged scar on my side and wonder if she’s filing that away, another question for another night.

“You really meant it?” she asks after a while. “Earlier. When you said you regretted pulling away this year.”

“Yeah,” I say. No point softening it. “I told myself some distance would be good. That if I didn’t see you as much, maybe you’d fade into the background a little. Maybe I’d stop wondering what you were doing. Who you were with.”

“And?” she prompts, voice small.

“And I didn’t,” I say simply.

She exhales, the sound punching a slow ache into my ribs. “I thought you were avoiding me because you didn’t want me around,” she admits. “Like I was… extra noise. Extra work.”

“No,” I say. “I was avoiding you because I wanted you around more than I thought was smart.”

Her hand stills on my chest. “Oh.”

The word is so quiet it almost gets lost under the wind.

“Also,” I add, because I need to tilt the intensity before I drown in it, “because if Duke thought I was screwing you over, he’d deck me.”

She snorts against my skin. “He’d deck both of us.”

“Probably,” I agree.

We let that sit there, ridiculous and real.

“What happens now?” she asks, barely audible.

The honest answer is: I don’t know. I don’t know what the roads will look like tomorrow. How long the power’s going to hold. Whether she’ll wake up, look at me, and decide this was a holiday glitch she needs to lock in a box and never open again.

Part of me wants to push. Ask what she wants. Tell her what I want. Start pulling the future into focus before it has a chance to blur.

The part of me that’s learned patience knows better. Knows we’re running on no sleep, too much pie, adrenaline, old patterns, and one very intense bad decision that felt a lot like the right one.

“We sleep,” I say. “We see what the world looks like in the morning.”

“That’s it?” she asks.

“For now,” I say. “I’m not saying something you’ll blame on the blizzard later.”

“I was freezing,” she says.

“You’re not now.”

She shifts closer, leg tightening over mine. “No,” she admits. “I’m not.”

I pull the quilt higher around her, tucking it over her shoulders, sealing in everything we just did like the storm can’t touch it.

“Bash?” she whispers after a minute.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says, voice soft and unguarded. “I don’t… regret it.”

I close my eyes, letting that land wherever it wants inside my chest.

“Me neither,” I say.

Within a few minutes, her breathing evens out for real. No pretending. No faking. Just full-body surrender against me, like I’m allowed to hold her without her bracing for the moment I let go.

I stay awake a little longer, watching the shadows on the ceiling, listening to the storm throw itself against the house.

I didn’t plan on this. Didn’t plan on second chances. Didn’t plan on a night where the heat cuts out and I end up warmer than I’ve been in a long time.

But as the wind howls and the cold presses uselessly at the windows, one thought keeps circling:

For once, I’m grateful the storm didn’t let up.

Because it kept her here.

With me.

The End - Happy Thanksgiving

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

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First Edition: November 2025

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