7. Angelica
7
ANGELICA
“ I told you it was too big.” I giggle at the enormous tree Sawyer cut down, which only just fits in the cabin.
“What’s that phrase?” Sawyer stands at the top of the ladder, tangled in Christmas lights. “Go big or go home?”
“You definitely have a big one.”
“You’re not the first person to notice.” He quirks a grin and my cheeks flush at the innuendo. “Sorry, that was below the belt.” His shoulders shake with a silent chuckle.
I cover my face with secondhand embarrassment. “Enough with the dad jokes.”
“I hope your dad doesn’t make jokes like that.” He chuckles as he works his way down the ladder, weaving the lights around the tree as he goes.
“You’re in a merry mood this afternoon. Careful or people might think you’re enjoying yourself.” I open another box of Christmas ornaments, each one filling me with nostalgia.
Sawyer reaches the bottom of the ladder with a shrug. “Must be your incessant holiday spirit rubbing off on me.”
A smile pushes my cheeks up. “It’s good to see you laughing.”
He walks over to a box of ornaments and lifts a bauble with a Victorian scene. “These are a bit dated, aren’t they?”
“They’re vintage. A bit like you.” I stifle a giggle.
“Is that your way of saying I’m old?” His eyes narrow in mock anger.
“I said no such thing. Here.” I shove another bundle of lights into his arms. “You can make yourself useful again and string more lights on the tree.”
“More lights?”
“It’s Christmas.”
“It’s Blackpool Illuminations is what it is.”
“Don’t be a grouch.” I swat his chest. “How come you don’t like Christmas?”
He shrugs a shoulder as he climbs the ladder and strings more lights. “After Mum walked out on us, Dad was always working and never had time to deck the house up.”
“Is that why you haven’t decorated this place?”
He climbs down the ladder. “I didn’t see the point in decorating just for me.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I showed up then.”
He peers over into the box as I lift out a clay ornament I made when I was eight. His lips curve upwards.
“I spent hours making this snowman.” I hold it up with the string hanging from a black hat.
“Is it supposed to look like it’s melted?”
I swat at his stomach, the fabric of his t-shirt stretched over his large frame.
He doesn’t flinch, as if he didn’t even feel my hand hitting him. His lips still curved, he picks up another handmade ornament. “Has this reindeer been hit by a truck?”
“I’ll hit you with a truck in a minute.” I grab hold of a bunch of fake sprigs and stand to whack the smirk from his face.
He grips my wrist before I get close. The sprigs hang between us, inches from his face. His eyes widen and he sucks in a breath as his gaze flicks between me and the decoration.
White berries cluster between oval leaves, the fake sprigs wrapped in a red ribbon.
Mistletoe.
My heart rate accelerates. Our eyes lock. My mouth parts as I will his lips to meet mine. I rise on my tiptoes, hoping he’ll take the hint, my palm resting on his chest for balance, and he grips my other hand in his large mitt, his fingers rough on my skin, sending a flurry of tingles racing up my arm.
As I gaze into his eyes, I see all his dark desires that mirror my own lust-fuelled thoughts. Could he want me like I want him? Until recent events, I thought he saw me as a child, but there’s no denying the heat in his eyes.
He clears his throat, breaking the magic of the moment. “You may as well put that back in the box.” He lets go of my wrist, looking away and turning his back to me.
My chest caves as my lungs deflate. Shoulders curling inwards, I sag like a melting snowman. I toss the sprigs back into the box, knowing it’s for the best. My father would probably have a mental breakdown if he came back from Scotland to find me shacked up with Sawyer. After everything he’s been through, the last thing I want to do is put him under more stress, especially when Sawyer’s been his rock these past few years, but he’s also been my rock since I was a little girl. A constant in my life and someone who I can tell anything to.
“Hey look at this.” Sawyer holds up an old painting of mine from art college. “That should go on the wall.”
I roll my eyes, no longer in the mood for his teasing. “Very funny.”
“What?” His brow pinches. “I’m serious. Look at the detail on those horses and how the trees reflect in the frozen lake.”
“It’s not that good,” I say, knowing I was never as good as some of my peers, which is why I went into art history instead of the creative side.
“Nonsense. To say you’re a curator, yet you don’t know talent when you see it.” He stands the A3 board on top of the mantle below Blitzen the deer.
He may as well know the truth. “I’m not a curator.”
“Art handler then, or whatever you want to call yourself.” He straightens the picture, stands back as if admiring my work.
I wrap my fingers around the key at my neck for courage, though I’ve always felt like I can tell Uncle Sawyer anything, I just hope he keeps my secret from Dad. “The closest I got to handling the art was with a feather duster when I cleaned in the evening.” My voice wobbles as confusion mars his features.
“They made you work into the evening?”
“My job started in the evening when the museum closed. I was a cleaner, Sawyer. I worked for a cleaning agency. I never worked for the National Gallery or in the offices or anything.”
His eyebrows pull together. “But your dad said?—”
“I lied.” Shame makes my neck itch, my chest heats as if the guilt is seeping out of me. “I wanted to make him proud. I wanted to prove to him I’m not a little girl anymore, and that he doesn’t need to put his life on hold to take care of me any longer, but the only jobs I got were waiting tables or cleaning.”
“Angel. Why didn’t you say something?” Sawyer steps closer, wrapping me up in his arms.
I inhale the pine scent of him from the woods and the trees, rubbing my face against his t-shirt like a cat rubs themselves in their favourite scent. “I didn’t want to disappoint anyone. Dad was always telling me how proud he was of me. But I hated it.”
He cups my face. “If I’d known that, I would’ve driven down there and brought you home myself. You’ve nothing to prove, not to your dad or anyone.” He dips his head to meet my gaze. “Besides, there’s plenty of cleaning jobs up here. You can start by cleaning up the kitchen.” His lips quirk into a smile.
I swat his chest, but let my hand linger there for a moment. “You know what the worst part is?”
“You suck at cleaning?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Well, yes, but also that I got fired.”
“You were never going to be employee of the month at a cleaning job. Let’s be real. You’ve only been here a few days and your bedroom is resembling a Tracey Emin exhibit.”
“You know of Tracey Emin?” I raise an eyebrow. “I’m impressed.”
“I know a lot about art, angel.” He holds my shoulders, keeping me at arm’s length. “Now put your artistic skills to good use and decorate this tree. I want to sit down tonight.”
“The festive cheer didn’t last long. You’re back to being grouchy.”
He points his thumb at his chest. “Me? Grouchy?”
My lips lift in the corner, knowing despite his lack of Christmas spirit, he’s doing all this for me. I walk around him to the tree and hang the deer that looks like it’s been in a roadkill accident. “I’m going to need to go to town before Christmas Day.”
“I can get you whatever you need. It’s not safe out there.” He hangs the Victorian bauble on his side of the tree, the snow coming down heavier beyond the large bay window.
“Well, you can’t exactly drive a motorcycle in this.” I search the area for another vehicle, but there’s nothing, only my Suzuki at the side of the cabin.
“I’ll walk. It’s not too far.” He hangs another ornament on the tree. “Just tell me what you need.”
“Are you going to pick out your own Christmas gift?” I look around the tree and raise an eyebrow.
“You mean you haven’t bought me something already?” His tone mocking, he places his hand on his chest as if I’ve wounded him.
“I didn’t think I was going to see you. With Dad not being here, I?—”
“I’m kidding. I don’t care for gifts, you know that. And besides, there’s nothing I want other than to keep you safe. So don’t get any notions about going into town. Last thing I want is you slipping and breaking your neck and me having to call your dad.”
“All right, I won’t go into town. I’ll just have to bake you some cookies or something for Christmas.”
“Now that’s a gift I would like. I can’t resist your cookie.” He clears his throat. “I mean your baking.” He mutters, “for fuck’s sake” under his breath, barely audible, but I sense the frustration and desire rolling off him in waves.
My cheeks heat with the same need pulsing through me. Almost certain now these feelings aren’t just one way.
As I climb the ladder with the Christmas star in my hand, he stands behind as if ready to catch me if I fall, just like he’s always been there for me. Ready to catch me on the swings, or while riding my bike for the first time, and even now when I’ve told him the truth about my failed attempt at being an adult, there’s no judgement, only love.
Placing the star on the top of the tree, I make a silent wish, shutting my eyes tight. I may have told Sawyer I want a boyfriend and a job for Christmas, and maybe he can’t deliver those, but he could help me with something else I’ve been desperate for.
Sawyer’s been there for many firsts in my life. It seems right that he should be the one to give me my first sexual experience. He flicks the switch on the extension lead, lighting up the star.
Tingles course through my body like I’m wired in to the electrics as well, lit up like the Christmas star as my centre pulses with thoughts of him taking my virginity.
The ladder wobbles beneath my unsteady feet as I feel like I’m floating on a cloud, my body thrumming with the zing of pleasure.
“Steady.” His hands grip my hips, heat radiating from his palms, intensifying the hum in my body.
With shaky limbs, I climb down from the ladder, bringing my head out of the clouds, and ground myself. It was a nice fantasy while it lasted, but that’s all it will ever be. I remind myself he wouldn’t even kiss me under the mistletoe, let alone anything else.
“Ready for the big switch on?” He hands me the lights plug and the extension lead. “You do the honours.”
I take it and insert the male into the female and look up at the tree, expecting to see the multitude of coloured fairy lights. Only it’s lacklustre. Only a few bulbs work on the string, lighting up the room like single bursts of hope between dark depths of despair. It’s a metaphor for my life.
Sawyer chuckles at the side of me. “I guess we should have plugged them in before decorating the tree.” He looks up at the ceiling where the star shines brightly atop the huge tree. “At least the star works.”
I pad from the shower into my bedroom with the towel wrapped around me, barely meeting in the middle, and I drop onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling while I air dry. Grabbing my phone from the bedside table, I tap the screen and listen to my Taylor Swift playlist.
My mind wanders back to earlier with Sawyer. I know I felt something when we were in the snow. I’ve straddled him like that many times growing up. Memories of bouncing on his belly like a bouncy castle come rushing back to me, but today, when I straddled him, it was different. He felt different, and there was definitely something between us. And I’m not talking about the bulge I felt between my legs. There was chemistry.
After decorating the tree, I felt that spark again, igniting something in me. I rub at my chest. Where there was a desolate emptiness is now hope blossoming like the white petals of a snowdrop flower after a winter frost.
My nipples pebble beneath my palm. Tingles bloom in my centre at thoughts of him wanting me like I want him. I close my eyes as the towel falls away, and I slide my hand over my soft stomach and lower, to stroke the short patch of hair on my private area, imagining it’s his hand.
I stifle a moan from my lips, knowing he’s downstairs cooking dinner, but I can’t stop touching myself. His voice in my head whispers sweet but filthy things to me, things I wonder if he would actually say like let me kiss your pussy, angel, in that deep gruff voice of his.
My hand isn’t enough. I need more. Discarding the towel, I kneel on the bed, holding onto the headboard as I straddle Mr. Snuggles, the teddy he bought me years ago. The fur between my legs tickles and I imagine it’s his beard as he kisses me down there.
Heat courses through my body, my centre weeping as I slide it along the fur. The button nose slipping between my folds and finding my sensitive spot sends an electrical current up my spine.
I bounce up and down on the teddy, the mattress helping to get a rhythm going. My breasts jiggle with each bounce. In my head, Sawyer’s still kissing between my legs, but I need more. There’s an ache deep inside that intensifies the more I get myself off and the more I deny myself the full penetration I crave.
Other than in textbooks and a video on how babies are made in school, I’ve yet to experience any type of intercourse with a man. I’ve never even used a tampon. The stories of toxic shock syndrome were enough to deter me. But the more I touch myself lately, the more my body aches for something deep inside.
But it doesn’t ache for just anyone. It aches for him. Sawyer, the man I call uncle. My centre tingles as the button nose hits my sensitive spot again. I bounce faster, desperate for a release. My hands grip the velvety texture of the pink headboard. Taylor blasts through my phone and I bounce to the beat of the music, lost in my own world as I climb the mountain, desperate to reach the summit.
My body shudders with the sensations of the teddy between my thighs, riding it as if it was Sawyer’s face. I’m so close. My head rolls back, my back arches. “Uncle Sawyer,” I whimper under my breath, wishing it really was him getting me off. “I’m almost coming.”
Hairs prickle all over my body as a cool breeze swathes my skin. I flick open my eyes just as Sawyer enters the room.
His eyes widen, his face draining of colour.
I jump off the teddy, my head light and dizzy. Everything in slow motion, other than my racing heart, which is the only thing sped up. My knee doesn’t land back on my single bed, it misses completely, falling to the floor, dragging the rest of my body with it and crashing into my bedside table. The lamp lands on my head and then everything blacks out.