10. Its beginning to look a lot like Bratmas
Chapter 10
It's beginning to look a lot like Bratmas
LETTIE
R unning my fingertips gently over the gift box, I smooth out the crinkled edge and inspect my handiwork. A sprawling smile pulls my cheeks wide, thinning my lips.
I love it so dang much. All of it.
The gift. The shiny gold bow. The mood in the building this week and all the people inside it. The music. The festivities. The decorations. The twinkling icicle lights hanging from the ceiling of our bunk room.
And most of all, I love the man who hung them up there for me.
At the beginning of December, I was moody and whining about not having a Christmas tree like the giant one Tomer and I decorated together last year. We were newly dating, and it was one of the happiest memories of my new life in Clearwater.
I was aching to recreate that this year. Unfortunately, it isn’t in the cards since there’s no space in our tiny bunk room. And the big tree in the main lobby and the small ones around the building just aren’t the same.
Upholding his promise of doing everything in his power to keep me happy, Tomer got to work decorating our room the very next day. Presumably, after his overnight shopping order arrived.
Lights that change colors drip from the ceiling, a projector fireplace scene illuminates one wall, and a tabletop tree rests on the small nightstand in the corner. The swoony sucker even retrieved some of the same decorations from last year’s big tree so this baby tree could be the next best thing.
I love him so much.My hunky holiday hero.
I’m radiating joy inside and out, and it’s not just the pregnancy glow. I adore everything about this holiday.
Temporarily done mooning over the majesty of the season, I refocus on the immaculately wrapped gift. It’s perfect, even if I do say so myself.
May my modesty inspire you to seek such miraculous heights of your own this holiday season.
The wrapping paper shimmers in the glow of the LED lights, thanks to the flecks of gold foiling woven into the deep crimson background. As I twist the box from side to side, I sigh contentedly.
Proud as I am of myself, I’m jonesing for some external praise.“Look at this one, babe.” I hold up the box between us, flashing a toothy grin. “Isn’t it beautiful? I think it’s my favorite.”
Tomer peers at me over his laptop screen, one brow arched indulgently. He’s been humoring me for the last hour of my gift-wrapping frenzy. Bless his heart.
His face softens when he takes in the finished product. “It’s nice, sugar. That’s for Madeline?”
I nod, shimmying my shoulders and bouncing my knees with unadulterated glee. “Yep. Last one. Now, I’m ready to corral the gang to start setting up for the party.”
Wrapping wizard. Present princess. Decorating diva. Majesty of merriment.
Yep. That’s me.
I notice a bent edge when I lower the gift back to the bed, which has been doubling as my gift-wrapping station. “Baby Jesus in the manger. There’s a crease.”
Repeating the motion from earlier, I smooth out the corner of the wrapping. A pained yelp bleats out of me at the sudden sting of paper slicing through the pad of my fingertip.“Ouch! Dagnabbit.”
The curse of Calamity Lettie strikes again.
“What’s wrong, sugar bear?”
“Paper cut.”
Shaking out my finger with a few flicks of my wrist, I quickly grow numb to the discomfort. Let’s face it. I’ve had far worse than a paper cut. Unless there were a thousand cuts, I’ll survive.
Before I get up to get something to soak up the tiny drop of blood, he’s already retrieving a tissue for me.I bat my lashes at him as he kneels beside the bed, reaching for my hand.
“Let me see it, sweetness.”
“It’s just a paper cut,” I whisper, letting him encircle my wrist with one hand so he can dab at my fingertip with his other.
One side of his face creeps upward. “Lettie, with you, there’s no such thing as just a paper cut . Next thing you know, you’ll trip on your own two feet on the way down the hall to the bathroom. Inevitably, you’ll break a bone and wind up bleeding on the tile floor.”
I round my mouth and suck in an offended gasp. “Excuse me, sir. I’ll have you know this is the first injury I’ve ever had.” I tug my finger from the tissue, studying it carefully. “So this is what blood looks like?”
He recaptures my finger, applying gentle pressure with the tissue. “Cheeky little liar. Earning up some holiday spankings, are we?”
My core clenches at the mere idea, and my lip makes its way between my teeth for a little nibble.“Fine. There was this one time I saw my own blood when I first moved to Florida. You caught me. Are you happy?”
“At least you didn’t get double black eyes this time,” he teases, barely holding in his chuckle at my klutzy expense.
I join him in a quick laugh because I’m an expert in finding humor in my follies. It makes my existence so much more enjoyable.
He leaves me briefly, returning with a small bandage. While watching him dote on me with a task I could easily do by myself, I get lost in his turquoise sparkling eyes. He catches me staring and puckers his lips, inviting me to kiss him.
Cheery as the season, I take him up on his offer.The scent of his new citrusy shower gel fills my nostrils, bringing a wave of warm fuzzies into my chest. About a week ago, we realized his sport-scented shower gel was making me nauseous.
Related ADHD wondering... what does sport smell like? Why are there so many products in that scent?To be honest, when I think of something sporty, it isn’t a pleasant odor. We’ve all gotten too close to an old gym bag, haven’t we? Icky.
But I digress.
Tomer’s barely audible moan vibrates through our lips as our tongues touch. With my free hand, I palm his cheek and sink lustfully into the kiss. All I want to do is tumble around on the bed with him for the last free half hour we have until it’s time to finish party prep.
Yeah. I like that plan.
Unbidden, my squirrel digs its little feet into my frontal cortex, waving a big red flag to catch my attention.
And then it hits me.
My eyes spring open, and I shirk away from Tomer, indignation fueling my rising temper tantrum.“You!”
He freezes, except for his eyes, which dart aimlessly around the room. “Me what?”
“It was you,” I snarl, my eyes bulging. “It. Was. You.”
All this damn time.
Un-flipping-believable.
Heavens to Betsy. My brain is so soft it could pass for cotton candy in the rain. I can’t believe it took me this long to figure it out. I’m daft as the day is long.
“Sugar, what was me?”
I give my finger a quick check, finding the bandage secure, so I fold my arms angrily at my chest and stare him down. In lieu of a full answer, I give him only three words. The same words he threw at me a minute ago.
“Two black eyes.”
My lips pop shut, and I let him steep in that little clue. It shouldn’t take him long to catch on. My view of him narrows when my eyes gradually close to slits.
There I sit, wordlessly fuming. On the edge of the bed with wrapping paper, tape, and ribbons surrounding me, patiently waiting to hear his confession.
He doesn’t get it right away, simply remaining cast in stone. Only now, his tongue teams up with his darting eyeballs, and it swirls around his sexy mouth while he attempts to connect the dots I’ve placed before him in an intricate pattern.
I’m tempted to give him a marker to draw the line, but I won’t do it.
After all, I’m a master at controlling my impulsiveness.
For however long it takes, I just let him chew it over. Gradually, I begin enjoying the show. He’s smart as a whip when it comes to code writing, hacking, or whatever else he does in the lair. And he’s magic at heaps of other things. But he struggles to figure me out at times like these. In a way, it’s one of the rare times I can best him.
Although I could, I’m not leading this horse to water. Not today. He can find it himself.
A solid twenty seconds pass until his frame sags and his shoulders curve forward. His eyes cast toward the floor as the puzzle pieces slowly snap into place.
“Oh. That.”
“Oh. That,” I parrot in the same flat tone he used.
He nibbles at the inside of his cheek, awaiting his sentence from me.
It won’t be a harsh punishment thanks to the contrite expression overtaking his face. Those pleading eyes and jutted lower lip alone wipe away the last few traces of my animosity.
Who could stay mad at such a precious face? Especially since the topic that set me off this time has done been plowed down to the bedrock. The mule is sleeping it off in the barn for another six months at least. Maybe seven.
With that last thought, my indignation all but vaporizes into thin air.
Mashing my lips closed, I fight off a grin. Can’t let him know I’ve calmed down yet.
As leader of the Redleg Brat Pack—name patent pending—I can’t miss this golden opportunity. Clearly, baby Jesus has forgiven me for all the sinnin’ I’ve done, thus granting me with this Christmas miracle.
Hallelujah .
Tomer and I are a perfect match, balancing each other out in all possible ways. For all my overreactions, he consistently underreacts—like now. Each time I jump the gun, he’s there to yank me back to the starting line. And when I klutz myself into a bloody mess, he patches me up.
Or calls me pretending to be working at the front desk at a dive hotel, offering to get me an ambulance, and warns me not to take aspirin for the pain.
Sexy stalking fucker.
Why the hell is that so hot? My good sense must’ve jumped on a horse heading in the wrong direction.
Likely realizing I’m not about to chew him up one side and down the other, he drags his palms along the tops of my thighs. It’s intentionally seductive.And it’s working.
“What do you want me to say, Lettie? You want me to apologize? To tell you I’m sorry for calling you when you broke your nose? Sorry for ensuring you were safe in that shit bag hotel? Not sure I can be sorry about that.”
“A phony baloney apology ain’t necessary, Tom Thomas ,” I sass with an exaggerated eye roll, throwing the fake moniker he gave me back at him. “Now, I know why you stuttered that day when I asked you your name.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to ask me that, and I panicked,” he admits, his voice feather soft.
His hands knead into my upper thighs, making my breath hitch. My legs spread on their own volition.
I lace my fingertips through his, letting him guide our joined hands along my body. “Didn’t think I’d ask for the name of my hero? I wanted to thank him. Or you, as it would seem.”
“At that point, I didn’t know how obsessed you were with thanking people unnecessarily.” He grins, snaking our hands under my skirt. “Honestly, I was so horrified by the sight of your gorgeous face with that bloody rag blocking it that I could barely focus. I’m lucky I could formulate any response.”
I purse my lips, shaking my head at him like a disapproving mother—gotta practice while there’s still time to perfect my scolding technique. “Oh, that’s right. You could see me through my phone’s camera, couldn’t you?”
His throat bobs with a swallow. “Yes. I turned it on when I heard you scream.”
“That time, you had a reason to look, but not the other times, right?”
“Yes. And I am sorry about those times I spied on you.”
Letting his hands go so they can wander as they please, I twirl my fingers around the short hair at his temple. “Ignoring that apology in favor of requesting a different type.”
His voice deepens, velvet caressing his words. “What do you want, sugar bear?”
Sloping my head to one side, I level him with a heated glare. One full of the lust that his touch and proximity sets off in me.“I want what I’ve been wanting all day long.”
“And what would that be?” he plays dumb, making me get specific with what I want.
I know that trick. Used it myself a time or ten before.
Come to think of it, I probably learned it from him.
Lowering my chin to my chest, I moisten my lips with a leisurely swipe of my tongue, intentionally drawing his attention to my mouth. “I want to open one of my presents. The sexy gift.”
One of his deft fingers finds its way to my clit, stroking me over the sheer fabric of my panties. Just teasing little movements that make my hips pulse, seeking more friction than he’s willing to give. On the last pass, he curves his fingers around the edge of my panties and draws the pads of his fingertips through my slick flesh, adding a little wiggle when he gets up to my clit.
Breath quickening, I spread my thighs to give him better access and encourage him to kick it up.
Unfortunately, my teasing Dom fiancé, or Domiancé, if you will, has other ideas. He shifts his weight off his heels and stands. In the process, he pulls his hand away, leaving me bereft and a hot second away from pouting or throwing a tantrum. Unclear about which approach I’ll go with. I like to live in the moment and see where the mood takes me.
Holding scorching eye contact, he sucks his fingers into his mouth to taste me. “Lettie baby, it isn’t time for presents yet.”
My mouth waters, and I release an audible oof sound. Good golly, if he doesn’t make me come before party decorating commences, I’ll end up humping his leg under the table while everyone’s enjoying milk and cookies. Or whatever treats Klein and Mia are bringing.
Horny as an unpaid harlot, I resort to begging. “ Please , babe.” My lashes flutter like a butterfly’s wings, and I coyly gaze at him from under them. “You owe me an apology, don’t you? Just the one sexy present.”
I’m nailing this good girl thing.
And if this doesn’t work, I’ve always got the other card up my sleeve. The old... pleasemake me come because I’m pregnant and horny card. Let’s call it my Queen of Cocks card.
He glances toward the doorknob, making me grin like the dickens.
“It’s already locked,” I answer the question he didn’t ask verbally. “Couldn’t risk someone barging in and seeing the presents while I was wrapping them.”
“No one is barging into any of these rooms, sugar. That’s for damn sure.”
Facts. After all, it’s been a stressful time at Redleg, and nothing takes the edge off like a good orgasm.
I scoot to the edge of the bed and press my thighs together. “My kinky gift, please.” With a shimmy of my shoulders, I press my elbows in to accentuate my cleavage and raise my empty hands, ready to be spoiled with whatever he got me.
Making no attempt to hide his covetous eyes, his gaze practically licks its way down my chest. He closes the distance separating us and drags one long finger down the neckline of my top, dipping it between my breasts.
It’s getting hard to breathe. I might combust.
“Lettie, Lettie, Lettie,” he tuts. “I don’t think we have time for your sexy presents.”
Wait.He said sexy presents. More than one. You heard that, right?
Nah . I must have misheard him. We agreed on one kinky present each and one regular present.
Yes , I got him three presents, which I can easily blame on my forgetful ADHD brain. However, I only got him one sexy present. I tend to avoid breaking bedroom rules, except when I’m itching to be put across his knee. And with my ever-expanding belly, that’s going to be out soon. Unless, he spreads his knees apart, letting my baby bump sag between them. That could work for another month or three.
We’ll need to try that later to satiate my squirrel musings.
Knees bobbing with excitement, I say, “We have plenty of time.I unwrap even faster than I wrap. You’ll see. Gimme, gimme.” I lift my still-empty palms higher.
He grabs my hands instead of placing a gift on them. “But there’s too many.”
“Too many? We agreed.”
He did break the rules. That no good rotten snake.
And don’t you dare wag your judgy finger at me. My rule-breaking is different. It just is. Don’t ask why. I haven’t thought of a reason yet. Again, I’ll go with the flow on that one when the time comes.
“Sorry, but I couldn’t choose only one, sweetness.”
“I forgive you.” I pulse his hands, then swat them away so he has a place to put my present. “Now gimme. Pick a present. I don’t care which. You’re wasting time. Chop, chop.”
He puts his fists on his hips and sharpens his glare, assuming his Dom pose. Well, if his Dom were actually a superhero or Peter Pan.
Hefting to my feet, I mirror his pose and screw my face to one side to mock him.
If he won’t give me a sexy present, he might spank me. That counts as a win. The brat pack council agrees on that point unanimously.
He sweeps his vision up and down my body, then licks his lips. After taking another second to deliberate, he reaches for his belt buckle.
Throwing my hands in front of me, I back up a step. The backs of my legs brush the edge of the bed. “Hold on, now. Whoa , horsey.”
I don’t want a belt spanking. That’s a whoopin’, which isn’t my jam.
But wait. He knows that. He’d never whip me without my consent. And certainly not when I’m pregnant. He barely wants to spank me with his open palm anymore.
Stupid, Lettie.
His hands hover over his buckle. “I was gonna give you a present, sugar. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“It’s in your britches? As much as I love your cock, it’s not exactly something I can’t get any other day and twice on Sunday.” I lean closer, pointedly angling my view toward his crotch. “Did you at least wrap it?”
He shakes his head, barely holding off a laugh groan sigh. A lagrigh .
“Lettie, take your fucking clothes off if you want a sexy present.”
“I don’t think I like your tone,” I quip, tugging my skirt over my hips and dropping it to the floor. As my blouse goes flying, I add, “If you don’t watch it, I might not let you give me my gift early.”
Ignoring my jab, he raises his index finger, twirling it in a tiny circle. “Turn around. Hands against the wall. Spread your legs.”
Kri taught me a new trick recently that I’ve been itching to try. It’s called malicious compliance . Allow me to demonstrate.