Chapter 13
[Lumi]
We stumble into my house. Unfortunately, not because we are ripping our clothes off, which I’d really like to be doing, but as an aftereffect of that kiss.
Forget the hot buttered rum or a candy cane martini. I’m drunk off this man’s kiss.
I’ve never had a front porch kiss and then had my date follow me inside.
Not that this evening was a date.
But that was still some kiss.
In the tight entryway, Saint reaches for my hat, tugging it off my head, allowing my hair to go wild with static. He swipes off his own cap next and tosses both in the basket I keep below the coat hooks.
When I reach for my scarf, his hands pause mine.
“Allow me.”
My heart races, lungs expanding, as he slowly peels the wrapping from around my neck free. Then he pops the snaps on my jacket, spins me around, and removes the outerwear. For some reason, I remain frozen in place as he hangs up the long coat, watching it dangle from its typical hook.
The strangely loud ripple of Saint tugging open his own coat, sluffing it off, and hanging it beside mine, keeps me pinned to the wood floor beneath my feet another second.
When Saint takes a seat on the low landing of the staircase to remove his boots, I bend at the waist to unlace and remove mine, but when I stand back up, Saint is watching me.
His gaze rises to my face as I stand upright.
He stands as well, although it seems like he moves in slow motion.
Taking his time to unfold from the low seat and rise to his full height.
His peppermint and chocolate scent becomes more pronounced when exposed to the cold, like we were when we walked home.
He also smells a little like hot buttered rum, and my mouth opens, prepared to suggest I’ll wash his soiled shirt for him.
When his hand touches my cheek again, his thumb stroking over the cool flesh, crackling beneath his warm touch, words elude me.
“Fuck it,” he whispers, before his mouth crashes with mine, both startling me and striking a flame, like a match newly lit.
Instantly, I’m pressed against him, clutching at that still-damp flannel, while he spins me until I’m falling against our hanging coats.
And yet, none of this matters other than the weight of him against me.
His mouth, warm and eager. The kiss more intense than the tender exploration on my front porch.
I make quick work of unbuttoning his flannel and shoving it over his shoulders, keeping our mouths connected but with more hunger, more passion.
Quickly, Saint pulls back and takes a deep breath before tugging off the shirt he wore beneath the flannel and tossing it to the floor.
I want to explore every ripple and ridge of his firm chest, but he cups my face and brings my mouth back to his.
Wrapping my arms around his neck, the warmth of his skin struggles to breach my sweater, and I pull at the neck, removing the thicker covering to expose a fitted base layer.
Saint glances down, runs his hands from my waist to the sides of my breasts, teasing me with the nearness but not getting near enough.
“You’re perfection,” he whispers to my chest, taking in the outline of my shape in the form-fitting shirt. Then, he cups my jaw again and kisses me, long and deep, with tongue seeking tongue.
My arms are back around his neck and within seconds, Saint cups the underside of my ass and lifts me up. He doesn’t press me into the wall, covered by the coats dangling from the hooks, but spins us instead, blindly walking into my living room, circling the couch, and then dropping me on it.
I giggle as I bounce once before Saint lowers over me. The move resembles a dropping push-up, in which he never gets back up but covers me. Our legs entwine. His hand cups the back of my neck. His mouth returns to mine, and we kiss, and kiss, and kiss.
I can’t remember the last time I simply made out with a man. In no time, things heat more as Saint drags his hand down my chest and over my breast, pausing only momentarily to give it a firm squeeze. Then he travels to my hip and bends his leg, forcing his thigh higher, spreading my legs wider.
“Lumi,” he hums against my mouth as my hips move to the rhythm of our hearts.
My fingers comb through his hair and around his neck.
Down his firm back to the base of his spine.
I feel the heavy length of his stiffness just off center, against my hip bone as he uses his thigh at my core to bring me higher and higher.
“Saint,” I whimper, startled once more at how quickly he’s wound me up. Then again, I’ve been spiraling for days, working to deny my budding attraction to him. I’m twisted tighter than the red and white on a peppermint.
With little warning, other than the sharp cry of his name again, I unravel, coming undone like stripping the red from the white candy stick.
I clutch Saint’s fine ass, holding him against me as my body releases a week of building frustration.
From not wanting him to stay to not wanting him to ever leave.
The instant thought is dangerous, and Saint must sense the shift.
He slows his kisses as my body flows back to the couch, settling into the cushion beneath me.
After he kisses my nose, he slowly presses up and off me, then stands beside the couch.
Staring down at me, he offers me a soft smile.
Not the lazy one, but one I cannot properly read.
“I’m going to shower,” he says softly.
“Wait. What?” I rush to sit upright. “What about you?” I wave toward the bulge in his pants which is eye-level in my seated position.
“This.” He strokes his finger around my face. “I just want to memorize this for tonight.” His smile warms and he inhales, like drawing in my scent and taking in my post-release face are enough for him.
I can’t find words to argue, before he leans down, kisses the top of my head, and rounds the couch, heading for the staircase.
As soon as he clears the staircase, I toss myself against the cushions on the couch and cover my face with both hands.
What the holly and ivy am I doing? Why did I kiss him? How did he make me orgasm so fast?
Flinging my head back to rest on the sofa, I blink as I stare up at the ceiling, giving myself a list of reasons why I shouldn’t be upset.
He isn’t staying. He isn’t meant to be here. He has somewhere to go, and he’s been counting down the days until he can return home.
North.
Whatever the hell that means?
“It means none of your business, Lumi,” I say to the room, realizing I’ve never confirmed if he has a wife. Kids. He doesn’t mention family other than his siblings, although I’ve caught him looking at his phone a time or two, scowling at it.
When I’d asked him if everything was okay, he’d simply respond, “Work.”
I don’t really know exactly what he does or where he lives. I only know he has a time limit on him, like a giant stamp that reads priority mail.
He has somewhere to be, and it isn’t in this small town.
On that note, I press myself off the couch and slink to the kitchen, turning off the over-the-stove light I left on for us. A Saturday night and I’m turning in early, which isn’t anything new, yet tonight, it weighs heavily on me.
As I reach the top of the staircase, the bathroom door flings open and a rush of steam releases into the hallway.
Saint steps forward with his clothing clutched in one hand and his other hand holding the towel wrapped around his waist.
A waist that’s rippled by washboard abs and highlighted by a trail of dark hair leading below the loose wrap around his hips.
Slowly, my gaze travels up that trail and along the firmness of his pecs, dusted with another patch of silvery hair.
My fingers twitch, eager to comb through the curly, coarse mix.
The roll of his Adam’s apple brings my eyes to his throat. He trimmed his beard the other day, and the clean line distinguishing growth from shaven skin makes my mouth water.
Finally, my gaze crosses to his jaw where the hair is thicker. A mixture of white and chrome, like snowflakes and tinsel.
He licks his lips, and I swear if I don’t move, I’m going to melt right in front of him.
While water drops sprinkle his flesh, I’m soaking wet down below.
“Want to—"
“I’m going to read,” I rush to say, hardly recognizing my own voice. The hush. The groan. The breathlessness.
The sound alone suggests I’m turned on and want him, but I won’t act on my desire.
He isn’t staying, I remind myself.
Once upon a time, I was attracted to a man who didn’t plan to linger. I’d wanted to escape with him. Instead, I rooted deeper into this town after his exit. I can’t do that to myself again.
With a stunned face and a blankness in his eyes, I excuse myself for my room, rush to shut the door and lock it, then fall against the closed barrier.
Despite our little make out session and the startling orgasm, I feel a little rejected by his sudden desire to shower. I’m also still on edge.
After a deep inhale, I dive for my bed, lunging over it for that damn holiday-green pickle pleaser Saint bought me from The Perfect Package.
He has no idea how suddenly handy this gift is or what I will do with it with my own hands.
My clothing feels like wet wool, scratchy and irritating, and I can’t get undressed fast enough. Naked, I slide between flannel sheets, imagining the fabric is the shirt Saint wore earlier, minus the buttered rum fiasco.
The first hum of the vibrator sounds too loud, and I quickly shut it off, sliding it down my sternum and between my thighs. Hoping the thick layer of duvet, blanket, and flannel sheet will mute the noise, I flick it on again.
With my eyes closed, Saint is all I see. His taste lingers on my lips. Whiskey kisses. His scent fills my nose. Peppermint and chocolate. And his touch. Imagined.
His fingers between my thighs, easily finding where I ache to be worshipped.
His mouth, blowing heat against the sensitive nub.
His licks, warm and wet and eager to taste me.
Within seconds, I explode like holiday fireworks and crackling logs and the first flick of Christmas tree lights turning on.
I tug the flannel sheet to my mouth to muffle a moan, fighting the urge to cry out his name.
Saint. Astan Santos. Santa Claus.
The last thought flicks my eyes open, and I stare up at the ceiling a second before I turn the vibrator off and roll my head on the pillow, giggling into the stuffing.
Why the heck would I imagine praising Santa?
But in my heart, I know the answer.
From here on out, in my imagination, Santa will always look exactly like Saint.