A/N: The first of three Christmas treats for my readers - and for you, Chibijem, an answer the question you posed so long ago. I hope each of you have a truly blessed holiday, spent surrounded by friends, family and a great deal of love and good cheer. ~RSteele82

Laura Holt sat on the couch, legs crossed, with a chilled glass of Chablis in her hand, watching as the man known as Remington Steele restlessly paced the floor of his Rossmore flat. Her face was an implacable mask of calm, belying the emotions that clamored beneath the surface.

Christmas Eve hadn't lived up to anyone's expectations, except, perhaps, for Ebenezer Steele's who'd been incessantly grousing about the upcoming holiday and California's unaccommodating climes.

"Ninety seven degrees is more than a little warm. Ninety seven degrees on Christmas Eve is obscene. Should be big fat snowflakes falling, Jack Frost nipping at your heels."

She'd taken his complaints, his sullenness in stride. His fourth Christmas in Los Angeles and each had been remarkably warm, not a trace of frost in the air. For a man who'd grown up in Ireland and on the streets of London, she could understand why Christmas was lacking a certain essential element in his eyes. She wouldn't have exactly minded a white Christmas herself, for that matter, as her only reference to such phenomena were limited to her forced pilgrimages to Connecticut every few years, when she couldn't wiggle out of her mother and sister's command Christmas appearances.

Certainly, being held hostage by three deranged Santas and a sociopathic flower child while bombs were detonated on the floors above the Agency in Century Towers hadn't been conducive to infusing one with yuletide cheer. Still, with felonious plans foiled and the deranged detained, her festive holiday spirit had been fully restored. They may have had their Christmas Eve plans hijacked – she quirked her mouth in a rueful grimace, and mentally added as well as good part of Christmas day – but they had this Christmas night.

And she'd set the scene impressively, even if she did say so herself: Lights dimmed, Christmas music wafting softly through the air, A/C dropped to sixty, fire burning, a tree bearing gifts twinkling beneath a window and a bottle of cold white wine. She'd even dressed for the occasion, refusing to acknowledge she'd done so with him in mind as much as the holiday: A red wrap around dress that displayed a swath of her freckled chest and tied at the waist with a large white bow, highlighting her diminutive waist and the toned legs she so often caught him admiring. She'd left her hair hanging, as he preferred, although she'd compromised a bit by clipping back the front in an ornate silver barrette trimmed in red stones and pearls.

"I was on my way to pick up your present when the first of the Santa's arrived." He came to a standstill next to the open terrace doors, leaning his back against the casement and propping a foot against it. Speaking though he might be, the troubled furrow of his brow and the way he swirled his wine in the glass suggested he'd not yet come to terms with what was weighing heavily on his mind. She searched for the appropriate response, one that might encourage him to keep him talking, but at the same time wouldn't make him feel obligated to do so, while she admired his lean frame, clad in pair of jeans coupled with a blue sweater over a white button down.

"Oh?"

"Mmmm," he hummed as he took a sip of the golden liquid. "A watch I'd been admiring for a spell. Gold. With little diamonds on the face."

'A spell' was a gross underestimation. In fact, he'd been considering the watch for months. He'd no doubt she'd wear the piece of jewelry well as it was equally as understated as it was elegant, much like she herself was. It had been more a matter of how she might receive the gift. Would she sense the slightly proprietary air of the gift? If so, how would she respond? In truth, he'd been rather taken with the idea of her wearing daily something that, in a way, connected him to her.

"Sounds lovely." He flashed a quick smile in her direction, then grew somber again, turning his head and staring out over Hancock Park. She waited him out, again, lightly swinging her leg and sipping on her wine. Minutes passed before he stirred, and even then, he worried his face with a hand for several more seconds before he spoke.

"Ah, Laura," he drew out the words, "There are days it's not easy being this Remington Steele of yours."

"My Remington Steele?" she asked with a teasing tone to her voice, trying to ease his heavy heart. He bestowed her with another, fleeting smile.

"Yours, mine, or ours it's difficult to know my mere existence might place the people who matter most to me at risk, as it did today." Any thoughts of trying to remain lighthearted vanished, and her brows knitted together in concern. Leaning forward, she sat her glass on the coffee table.

"I'm all for you taking responsibility for something you've done," she answered, as she stood and walked across the room, "But how is today your fault?" With a shake of his head, he pushed away from the wall and stepped onto the balcony to pace some more.

"You know how much I enjoy the publicity, the attention," he castigated himself. "The great detective Remington Steele," he announced loudly, in a tone dripping with sarcasm, "Los Angeles' Most Eligible Bachelor, presenting Virginia Mayo an award at the opening of the Hollywood Archives, Honorary Chairman of this foundation and that, in attendance at the Policeman's Ball… All publicity's good publicity, eh? Until, of course, it comes back to haunt you!" She looked at him as though he'd suddenly grown two heads.

"Comes back to haunt you?" she asked disbelievingly, then held up a hand while shaking her head. "I'm beginning to think you've had a few too many nips of Mildred's eggnog, Mr. Steele."

"Those felonious Father Christmases were there because of me, Laura!" he pronounced. She couldn't stop the small smile that played on her lips, as she leaned her backside against the dining table and crossed her arms.

"Don't you think you're getting a little carried away?" She gesticulated with a hand. "I mean to assume—"

"That Dancer bugger had it in for me from the start and let's not forget the delivery made to Hastings in my name, Laura!" he reminded, his voice raised in protest when she dismissed him so easily.

"It would seem the former has a simple enough explanation and that the latter is far more likely a function of the Agency than that you were targeted at as a person," she reasoned.

"Oh, how do you figure?" he asked, sullenly. He returned to leaning against the door jamb, shoving his hands in his pockets. Despite the way he was acting, she'd caught the glimmer of hope in his eyes that she was right.

"They'd done their homework," she replied, then began to tick off on her fingers each point. "They determined the best way to disguise themselves and yet blend in was to wear Santa costumes." A second finger rose. "They knew where Hastings lives, that he could see the Towers from his home, and even what side of the Towers he could see from his window." A third finger. "Eva was working in the towers. She knew most of the offices would be closed on Christmas Eve, and they needed hostages to make their plan work." A fourth finger joined the others. "Mildred had hung signs all over the building announcing our Christmas Eve open house." She dropped her hand and shrugged as she stood upright and went to stand across from him. "We inadvertently provided exactly what they needed: The people to make their plan work." A ghost of a smile traced over his lips then disappeared.

"All of that is fine and well, but it doesn't explain Dancer's bloody hostility," he countered.

"And he was so hospitable towards Mildred and me?" she challenged with a smile, while laying a hand on his chest and stepping close. "The man's a bully. That's all." He couldn't deny what she'd said, after all Dancer had not only planted a right hook in Mildred's stomach but had constantly ordered Laura about and had regularly belittled both women. Cupping her face in his hands, he nodded slowly.

"Thank you," he told her, sincerely. Drawing her lips to his, he kissed her firmly a pair of times.

His intentions had been noble: Nothing more than a thank you, followed by a suggestion that they retire to the living room. Hers, however, were not. Events of the past two days had unveiled a pair of stunning revelations: First, just how much her opinion of him mattered…

"Um, that little escapade with the gun… didn't lower your estimation of me, did it?"

As was often the case when he shared parts of his past with her, the telling of his tale of a childhood Christmas had left him a little lost, somewhat embarrassed…

"One flexible flyer coming up."

…but, best of all, vulnerable and unable to hide. Thus, in the instant before his lips had met with hers, she'd seen the naked love and need on his face and in his eyes. He not only loved her, she'd realized, but needed the connection between them as much as she. Had it been there all along and she hadn't seen it? She wasn't sure.

In her blunder with William Westfield and Remington's consequent disappearance, she'd come to terms with the truth she'd long tried to deny: She'd rather take a risk and bask in the warmth of a moment in the sun, than be left wondering what might have been. So, she'd thrown caution to the wind and had gone in search of the man she'd shoved away in hopes that he'd give her another chance to get it right. It had been to her relief that he'd longed for her as much as she had him, but it had been to her infinite shock that he'd wanted from her what he'd always said he was unable to give.

"No more of this dance we've been doing, Laura. It's long past time we commit to one another and to really giving this a go."

In the end, her first roll of the dice had paid out such big dividends that she was ready roll those dice again and take her chances they wouldn't come up snake eyes.

When their lips parted, Remington gazed down at her. She blinked up at him a pair of times and an indefinable emotion passed through her brown eyes as she reached up to drag her hand through his hair before cupping his cheek in her hand, and stroking it with a thumb.

"Laura?"

Silently, she pressed up on her toes, then leaned in, touched her lips to his neck, allowing them to linger, before pressing slightly higher, her mouth hovering next to his ear.

"I love you," she whispered.

She felt his swift intake of breath next to her neck as much as she heard it, and for a brief moment she feared she'd overstayed her presence at the table. She dropped down to the heels of her feet and was prepared to call a retreat when she saw that same look he'd had on his face that afternoon, but now raw love and need mingled with disbelief as his eyes darted back and forth over her face searching. When she smiled and lifted an impertinent brow at him, a slow smile lit up his face.

"It's about bloody well time," he groused, then crushed her to him, smothering with his mouth her denouncement of his pithy response.

He kissed her with a tender passion that contradicted his jest, burying his hand deeply in her hair to keep her close. Seldom did he kiss her in such a manner - his lips moving freely over hers, his tongue teasing hers as he sampled her flavor – always conscious of restraining himself lest he chase her off or find himself in a state that would only be resolved with a cold shower. She lost herself in the kiss, meeting his lips, his tongue, tit-for-tat, dragging her fingers through his hair, down his back, his hum of approval providing the audacity to make her intentions known. Grasping the hem of his sweater in her hands, she eased it upwards

Remington tore his lips away from hers. Breathing hard, he studied her face.

"Laura?" The smile she bestowed on him was that of a sultry siren, but it was the warm teasing he saw in her brown eyes and the quiet flame of desire in their depths that left him utterly intoxicated. With a lift of her brow that dared him to be the one to hesitate this time, she eased his sweater further upwards.

"I'd like to see you without this sweater, Mr. Steele." For the second time in as many minutes, she'd surprised him in the very best of ways.

"You know me, Miss Holt," he replied cheekily, "There's not a thing in my power I'd deny you." She laughed aloud, as he bent slight forward to aid her.

"You mean other than arriving to the office on time," she ribbed, as she tugged the sweater over his head, "Legwork, paperwork, and putting in a full day's work."

"Well…" he grinned at her, "Within reason, of course." She gave him an exaggerated nod.

"Of course," she drew out the words. Grabbing the collar of his shirt, she raised up on her tippy toes again. "Mr. Steele, shut up and kiss me."

"Now, that I can do," he agreed, drawing her back into his embrace.

He shivered and mumbled her name against her lips when she tugged his shirt free of his jeans, her nimble fingers sliding down the front of his shirt, releasing buttons as they passed. Brushing the fabric open, she explored the nuances of his exposed torso. At the first touch of her hands against his flesh, a shiver coursed through his lean frame. Fingers danced through the thick matting of hair blanketing his chest, making him hum his approval low in his throat. Her hands trekked down the firm plains of his stomach, over his hips and up the bare flesh of his back. Soon only touch was not enough, she wanted to taste. Her lips left his to blaze a path along his jaw then moved in southerly direction. She savored the rich and slightly salty flavor of his skin, drawing her tongue along his bared collarbone, leaving a trail of heated wetness in its wake. His head fell backwards to rest against the door jamb and he closed his eyes, one arm holding her close and burying his other hand in her hair, when her warm breath against the dampness cooled the skin beneath. He lost himself in the sensations of at last finding her hands and mouth on him.

But when one of those curious hands moved ever southward to palm his hardened length, he was suddenly all motion. Swiping her hand away from him with a growl that left her laughing, he lifted her by the waist and spun around. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around his waist as she leaned in to suckle the sensitive skin beneath his ear. Bracing her petite frame between the jamb and his body, he tangled a hand in her hair and tugged her head to him. Latching his mouth over hers, he did some long awaited discovering of his own.

A hand glided over the rounded curve of her bottom, then down a shapely leg. A pair of fingers traced the silhouette of her waist and hip. His lips left hers to explore the terrain of a long, graceful neck. Her breath came quicker, grew more ragged, and she openly moaned when he paused to nibble on the lobe of an ear. He laughed, low in his throat, when suckling on that same fleshy lobe left her clutching at his head and squirming in his arms. Threading her fingers through his hair, she tugged his head upward so their lips could merge once more. She took what he gave, greedily, making his blood hum. And when he palmed cloth covered breast, and a pair of fingers found the already hardening bud of a nipple and tweaked it? She ground her hips, hard, against his while shoving at the shirt that still clung to his shoulders. He pressed her closer to the jamb then shrugging the material loose, he shook his arms free.

He muttered an epitaph under his breath that left her leaning back to look at him.

"What? What is it?" she demanded to know, already steeling for the excuse of why they should stop this time. Every time it seemed they were on the same page, one of them would pull away.

"I'm stuck," he muttered, with a painful grimace. Using his shoulders for support, she pushed herself upwards and peered down behind him. She lowered herself back down when she saw didn't anything amiss.

"Stuck on what?" She'd bet her last dollar that was a blush creeping up his skin. He mumbled another epitaph.

"Not on, in," he corrected. This time she listed dangerously to the side to peer at his feet.

"I don't see anything," she informed him. "What are you stuck in?" He mumbled something undistinguishable beneath his breath.

"What did you say?"

"My shirt," he repeated, this time loud enough to be heard. She looked downwards, and was caught between irritation and laughter.

"Oh, for the love of—" she did some muttering of her own, as she lowered herself to her feet. "Of all the ways I imagined we'd be interrupted when this day came, a shirt didn't make a long list of possibilities. Turn around," she ordered.

"I'd find a hail of bullets raining down around us preferable right about now," he grumbled. She eyed his predicament with amusement, then eased the material back onto his shoulders.

"It will make for a good story, one day," she remarked, with an air of mischievousness in her voice. He scowled at the mere thought.

"One I hope you intend to share only with that freeloading vagabond you call a cat," he groused some more. She laughed again, as she reached for a wrist and released a button.

"A story I'm sure Nero would enjoy," she mused, as she released the second button. "You know how much he enjoys interrupting us." He shrugged out his shirt, then with a tilt of his head, gave it a pointed look.

"It would seem to me one of us is overdressed in comparison to another," he suggested. Running a pair of hands ups his torso from waist to shoulders, she linked her arms behind his neck, letting her fingers toy with the ends of his hair. His back rounded as shivers exploded up his spine.

"I agree," she hummed, then wagged a pair of playful brows at him. "Intend to do something about it?" She smiled at him, then pressed up on her toes, to taste the flavor of his collarbone again.

"Well, I do believe one good turn deserves another," he answered. His hands slid up her back in search of a zipper and finding none skimmed down her sides.

"Try the bow," she suggested in a murmur against his skin. He tilted his head to the side at the realization he'd been remiss in complimenting her when she'd arrived. He stepped away from her, causing her to huff in frustration, until he took her by the hand and slowly spun her around. He whistled low in appreciation, then stepped in closer to caress her cheek.

"The loveliest Christmas present I've ever laid my eyes upon."

A blush infused her cheeks, pleased by both the compliment and that he'd understood the symbolism of her dress. With a tug of the bow, her dress parted. She shrugged out of it, allowing it to fall to the ground, leaving her standing before him clad in only in two scraps of white silk trimmed in red lace that the designer optimistically called a bra and panties. Praising said designer silent, he soaked in the sight of her. In all his fantasies, he'd never once imagined those captivating dapples of color would descend so low as to cover the tops of her breasts. Much as she had not long before, he reverently traced a path with the backs of a pair of fingers from her neck to the band of her panties. "You're stunning, Laura," he murmured in a voice gone hoarse with aching need. A pair of desire dazed brown eyes met heated blue ones, as she drew a single finger across his chest.

"You're not so bad yourself…" She smiled up at him, having a good idea of what was to come when she finished the sentence. "…Remington."

He blinked, then stared at her in disbelief, wondering, at first, if he'd imagined the name coming from her lips, but in her eyes he found quiet acceptance that she finally believed it was who he was now. He yanked her to him, and latched his mouth over hers. Her arms flailed outwards at the sudden movement then encircled his shoulders as she learned the harder edge of kisses fueled by his emotions and passion. She had difficulty keeping track of his hands as they seemed to be everywhere at once: On her bottom, tracing her waist, caressing her neck, diving into her hair, teasing a breast. Each stroke, each glancing touch, drove her arousal higher and higher, until her need for him felt like it would swallow her whole.

He tore his mouth from hers when her hands reached between them to tug the strap of his belt loose then worked the buckle.

"Laura, here?" he asked in disbelief. In not a single fantasy of the thousands he'd had of making love with her, had he envisioned them consummating this relationship of theirs on the balcony.

"Here," she confirmed, tugging down the zipper of his jeans, then shoving them over his hips. He kicked the pants aside, absently, as he considered the night sky and the park beyond. The likelihood of anyone bearing witness to this most private of moment was extraordinarily slim, given they were five stories up. He gathered her in his arms again.

"In that case…" he murmured, closing in for another kiss. Her bra followed his underwear, then her panties joined the discarded clothing on the ground around them.

They kissed endlessly, savoring one another's flavor, as their hands freely roamed. He teased the cleft of her bum with a pair of fingers, she caressed a cheek of his with a full hand. His fingers teased the hardened peaks of her breasts, while she raked her fingernails lightly down his back. With each touch, they pushed one another's desire higher and higher, but when Laura eased a hand between them to take his shaft in hand, he gasped against her lips and ended the kiss.

"Not yet," he insisted, swiping away her hand again, already doubting he'd be able to hold out until she found her pleasure.

Lifting her from the ground, he sat her on the edge of the table, then gently eased her to her back. Bending over her, he explored her breasts at his leisure, with mouth and hands, until she, too, was gasping and grasping at his head keeping him close, silently begging him to continue. She cried out when he parted her legs and slipped a hand between them finding her slick to his touch. He circled the nub of her desire, making her twitch from the exquisite sensation, before slipping a finger into her snug, heated depths, making her cry out again. After a few long strokes, a second finger joined the first, then he experimented until he found the rhythm and angle that left her alternately arching her back and thrusting her hips upward in rhythm with his hand.

So close…

She growled with frustration when he left her, and pressed up onto her elbows to scowl fiercely at him. The smile he gave her as he kneeled between her legs was purely masculine and before she could utter a single word, he surged forward and covered her mound with his mouth. With a groan, one hand cupped the back of his head, keeping him close, as her head lolled backward and she closed her eyes.

He flicked his tongue against her clit, suckled it, lapped greedily until she was openly moaning and gasping above him, then he slipped his fingers inside her again. He quickly established a pattern that had her grabbing fistfuls of his hair, lest he try to stop again. But he was a man on a mission, wanting to hear the sounds of her ultimate pleasure delivered by his hands.

"So close," she panted, "So close… Oh God…" She fell back on the table and arched her back as the powerful orgasm crashed over her, ripping his name from her lips.

At the sound of his name coming from her lips in a moment such of this, at the feeling of her muscles rippling around her fingers, of her body quaking beneath his mouth, he longed to drag her off the table, to press her up against the wall, and bury himself in her heat. Instead, he focused on the task at hand, until the last shudder left her body and she flinched against his touch. Rising to his feet, he leaned down and kissed her, softly. She blinked up at him when their lips parted.

"Let go inside," she suggested, sitting up. As enticing as the idea of making love beneath the open skies had been, in reality the glass top table was hard and more than a little slick with a light sheen of perspiration coating her skin.

"A far more worthy setting," he commended, scooping her up in his arms when she sat up. She took advantage of her current position and nuzzled her face in his neck, drawing a hum from him.

"Should I assume the balcony was… unworthy… then?" she teased, lightly, peppering his jaw with supple kisses. He wisely opted not to answer as he stepped through the French doors with her.

"What's it to be?" he asked, instead. She needn't ask what he meant: Bedroom or living room. In her mind there was only one option.

"In front of the fire," she murmured against the skin beneath his ear, before drawing it into her mouth and suckling lightly.

Remington carefully lowered Laura to her feet when they stood before the fire place, then tangled a hand in her hair and drew her lips up to his. He seemed content, in her eyes, to remain where they were, but she was of quite another mind: She'd already found some relief for her aching loins at his hands, after all, while he'd been patient and attentive, never demanding his own. Ending the kiss, she laid a hand against his chest, and lifted desire glazed brown eyes to regard him.

"I'll be right back," she assured, then pressed up on her toes to brush a kiss against his lips.

In the bedroom, she gathered pillows and blanket from the closet. When she returned to the living room, she found he'd moved the coffee table to the side, and had positioned freshly filled glasses of wine upon it, before sitting down before the fire with his arms encircling a pair of drawn up legs. He paused to appreciate that she was as comfortable in her nudity as he, then, with pillows situated to her liking, stretched out on his side facing her.

"I have to admit, Laura," he reached up and unclipped her barrette with a single hand, "I was wondering if this day would ever arrive," he confessed, setting the barrette aside then drawing a hand through her locks. She was smiling warmly then, pleasantly surprising him, she swung a leg over his hips and rose up to straddle him. He caught her waist between his hands and eased her down until his erection was nestled in the hot flesh between her legs. She leaned forward and palming his cheek in one hand, trailed kisses down the opposite side of his neck.

"Everything in its time and place, I suppose," she replied, repeating, verbatim, the words he'd once spoken. As his hand stroked her back, he reflected that he'd never have imagined, all those years before, it would take them this long to get here.

"May I ask what made you decide now was that time and place?" he wondered. Her lips paused at the curve of his neck, and she lifted her head, a contemplative look on her face.

"I think…" she kissed him, that mere touch of their lips wasn't near enough, and kissed him again. The man's kisses were undeniably good, in whatever form they came - Tender, flirtatious, passionate, playful, possessive, seductive. "…I think," she repeated, in between kisses, "I simply realized… the perfect time… might never come… And I was… tired of waiting… for it to."

"I applaud your thinking," he complimented, before palming the back of her head and holding her to him for a deeper kiss.

"Any doubts?" she questioned, sitting up when the kiss ended and scraping her fingers lightly along his torso. His eyelids fell to half mast and his tongue flicked at his lips, her touch sending jolts of pleasure straight to his core.

"Not a one," he managed to answer. She shifted, and reaching between them took his erection in hand, stroking it a pair of times.

"Good."

She shifted again and sank down on his shaft, taking him fully inside in one stroke. This time, his eyes did roll to the back of his head and he drew in a deep breath as he clutched at her hips, the sensation of his body being nestled within her unlike anything he'd experienced before or could have possibly imagined. When he felt her tremble above him and she hissed out a sharp breath, his eyes flew open to regard her.

"Laura?"

"Just give me a second," she panted. She concentrated on the stroke of his hands over her waist and hips as the discomfort eased to be replaced by the exquisite feeling of his body filling hers.

Then she began to move, shifting several times until she found the position that left his fingers flexing against her body and her gasping as his shaft stimulated sensitive nerves with each stroke. He waited until she found the rhythm that best suited her, thrust his hips upward in time with hers. She bit down on her lip, lost in a miasma of sensation, and when his hand slipped between her legs so his thumb could flick her clit in time with their movement, she circled her hips and ground against him with each downward stroke. Her breath came in short, staccato breaths, her stomach muscles tightened and she fought against the impending orgasm, finding she wished desperately for them to reach the crescendo together.

But, Remington was waging a battle of his own. From the moment her tight, wet flesh had cradled his shaft in its warmth he'd been fighting against his own release, determined to take her with him. But when a pair of desperate brown eyes met his and she breathed…

"Remington, please…"

He understood they were fighting the same war and determined it was time they raised the flag of surrender. Pressing up on an elbow, took a puckered nipple into his mouth and drew on it firmly.

Laura cried out as she climaxed. Her entire body quaked from the intensity of it, and her rhythm fumbled. Remington took over, thrusting hard and deep, even as the feel of her muscles rippling around him, milking his shaft, threatened to unravel the few gossamer threads of control he had left. It wasn't until the last shudder passed through her petite frame that he buried fully inside of him, then yelled her name as he emptied himself in her depths. She dropped her forehead against his shoulder and moaned, the feeling of his warmth spreading within her overwhelming her, her eyes dampening at the sheer beauty of it all.

And then there, in front of the snapping fire, beneath the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree, Laura Holt inhaled deeply the scent of the man had become her Remington Steele and contentedly dozed nestled against him.

Remington woke to find Laura, draped in the shirt he'd been wearing earlier, sitting with her back to him and sipping a glass of wine as she stared, transfixed, by the lights of the Christmas tree. Easing himself upwards, he tucked himself behind her and wrapped them in the blanket that had been covering him as he slept.

"What time is it?" he inquired softly. She seemed so tranquil, that he was loathe to interrupt the mood. She lay the back of her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his.

"Christmas will be over in just a few minutes," she replied, just as quietly. "There's still time to open your presents on Christmas Day." He gave her a gentle squeeze.

"I've the only present that matters to me right here in my arms," he declined. He pressed his cheek against hers. "I do love you, Laura." He didn't know what he was expecting when he said the words. Tears? Shock? Disbelief? Whatever it was, what he got instead, when she tilted her head back to look at him, was a quiet smile accompanied by a pair of brown eyes filled with quiet contentment… and nothing could have meant more to him. She reached back and lay the tips of her fingers on one hand against his cheek.

"Merry Christmas… Remington," she whispered, then, with those brown eyes that he adored still held to his, she leaned in and touched her lips to his. He caught the back of her head in his palm before she could move too far away.

"Merry Christmas, Laura," he too, whispered, then drew her lips up for a long, tender kiss.