Chapter 17
[Lumi]
Dinner is better than any first date I’ve had in decades. The food was exceptional. The company divine. And I might be the teeniest, tiniest bit buzzed from laughter and wine.
During our meal, Saint told me stories about his childhood, growing up in a remote area, living near his father’s factory, and learning to appreciate toys as more than just children’s playthings.
Each story was a nugget of information. A long winter season with only bursts of spring or summer.
His love of snow, especially a memory of making snow angels with his grandfather.
I learned his grandparents had lived with him as a child.
How living amid a toy company did not mean he had endless toys.
How Nick got caught stealing one he really wanted once, and Saint took the blame.
“From an early age, Kaye was always making her dolls romantic interests.” He smiles. “She had a future in sex toys even back then.”
I’d laughed, recalling the number of times I’d made Barbie kiss Ken, although she’d wanted to run away with Neve’s G.I. Joe guys.
When we finally clean up after dinner and slouch into my couch, I don’t miss how close we sit to one another. Shoulders nearly touching. Heads tipped back and angled toward one another. Fingers twitching and inching by each of our sides.
When I watch holiday romances with my sisters, we sometimes play drinking games, like take a drink every time someone says Christmas or mentions Santa Claus.
With Saint beside me, I feel like I can hardly concentrate on who says what, and before I know it, the final kiss is happening, always within the last five minutes.
A rousing rendition of “All I Want for Christmas” highlights the end of the movie.
“Well, what did you think?” I turn my head on the couch cushions and meet solid black eyes, glittering in the reflection of the television, the only light in the room. At some point, I should have turned on a light, but didn’t move from Saint’s side, the energy between us still buzzing.
“I get the gist. In a small town, if I have a flannel shirt and a dog, I can get the girl.”
I laugh at his assessment.
He shifts just the slightest bit and gently presses his fingertip against the right corner of my lip.
He strokes up along my nose to the middle of my forehead and back down the other side of my nose to the opposite corner of my mouth.
From there, he trails beneath my nose to a point on my right cheek, up and over the bridge of my nose to my left cheek, and then back down, beneath my nose to the corner of my lip where he started his strange drawing.
As his finger moves from cheek to forehead, his voice is rugged and low as he says, “All.”
On my forehead, he whispers, “I.”
While his finger drags along the opposite side of my nose, he says, “Want,” in a way that’s a little more commanding, demanding even, and a shiver ripples up my spine, tickling the back of my neck.
As the pattern continues, he adds in “For” and “Christmas.”
While I’m trying to decipher the pattern drawn over my face, my cheeks heat. My forehead, too, as if a sudden fever has taken over. My lips separate the slightest bit while I hold my breath, waiting on his desire.
He punctuates his drawing by tapping my nose. “Is You.”
I’d laugh at the silliness, the mockery of the song, but the depth of his voice, like the crackling of a fire, and the blaze in his eyes, dries my mouth.
Then just like he did with Samantha, the child at the lighting of the harbor tree, he pinches all five fingers together, brings them below his lips, and blows while spreading his fingers apart, like a starburst.
My eyes blink. My head flinches back the slightest bit at the suddenness, but the tenderness in his eyes keeps me focused.
The corner of his mouth curls upward in that lazy way it has, but the smile never reaches his eyes. The seriousness of his holiday request is written in his expression.
He wants me, but maybe he doesn’t believe he can have me.
Reaching for his bristly cheek, I cup the side of his face. “Let me see if I can get this right.”
I try to mimic the pattern he drew on my face, retracing his steps from lip corner to top of nose to lip corner, like a triangle.
Then across his mouth to his cheek, over his nose, to the other cheek.
Finally, down to the original tip of his lip.
As his mouth slightly hooks, perhaps even laughing at my deep concentration, I meet his eyes.
I press my finger to the top of his nose, swipe down it, and rest my fingertip against his lips.
“I want you too,” I admit, like I’m whispering into Santa’s ear with my secret Christmas wish.
As I focus on Saint’s face a second, the pattern becomes clear, almost like I can see it in my mind’s eyes.
A star.
He drew a star using the features of my face and then blew on the wish.
I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly we are lips on lips. My hand is cupping the back of his head, and his fingers are in my hair, holding me tight to him.
Saint slips his opposite hand along my hip, guiding me to climb over him and straddle his lap. With my knees on either side of his hips and my center resting against the obvious wedge in his jeans, I grind against him, momentarily breaking the kiss.
“Is this where I sit on Santa’s lap and ask him for my wish?” I rub my cheek along his, shivering at the tickle of his rough beard on my softer skin, while I whisper near his ear.
In an instant, I’m flipped to my back on the couch with Saint between my thighs, hovering over me.
“Let’s cut the Santa talk for now.” There’s a warning in his eyes. Not a threat but a soft plea.
Watching as my fingers stroke over his eyebrow and around his ear, I say, “I’m finding I’m a huge patron of Saint instead.”
He chuckles at my silliness and then rolls his hips forward, pressing his hard bulge against my hot core. My thick leggings allow me to feel the length of him, but I want him closer.
“How about if I worship you for the evening?” With his mouth at my ear, he works his way to my neck while his hands move to the bottom of my bulky sweater, tugging it up and over my head. My hair crackles with static, matching the energy sizzling between us.
Saint takes a moment to visually admire my body. I’m wearing a form-fitting tank top without a bra, and he runs his hand up my side and over one breast, squeezing the heavy swell before pinching my nipple, forcing it to an even sharper point than it already is.
“I dream about your body,” he admits, watching as he circles his fingertip over the nipple straining beneath the tank top.
Slipping both hands over the white T-shirt he wears, I admit, “Same.”
“You dream about your body, too?” he chuckles.
While I could give a cheeky retort, I admit more. “Yes. My body joined with yours.”
“Fuck, Lumi.” Our mouths are smashed together again, like a match struck and bursting into the first flame. Hands roam wild, stripping away leggings and jeans. Underwear and boxer briefs. He tugs his T-shirt off, and I remove my tank top.
His gaze ricochets over my exposed skin. “I don’t even know where to look first.” His tone is light, playful, excited. Like a kid on Christmas after unwrapping the package he knew contained the gift he wanted most.
With him on his knees between my thighs, and my legs over his, I reach for his wrist, tugging his hand in the direction where I want him most.
He softly scoffs. “Don’t worry, snowheart. I promise to find it on the first pass.” The comment reminds me of what I’d said to him after fumbling beneath the front fender of his fancy car.
“That’s what he—” I’m cut off the instant his forefinger finds my clit. That sensitive nub that triggers everything, like the purr from my lips and the slight lift of my hips.
His strokes are sharp and circular, and wind me tighter and tighter before he slips his finger lower, easily gliding into me.
“Ah,” I sing, tipping back my head, instantly filled in a manner I haven’t been in years. When he draws back and adds a second finger, stuffing me full once more, I hum.
“Already so ready,” he chuckles, like he knew I’d be this wet.
I’ve had a week of dreaming about this moment, and yet nothing compares to the reality of it.
“But how ready are you for this?” He removes his fingers and nudges the tip of his hardness against my entrance, moving his fingers to play at my clit.
My eyes roll back at the tease of his swollen tip and the pressure of his fingers where I’m most sensitive.
“Tell me, Lumi. Have you been a good girl this year? Or bad?”
“I thought you wanted to cut the—” A short flick snaps against where I’m already tender, cutting off my next words. Strangely, I liked that crack.
“Just answer the question, snowheart.”
“Snowheart?” I scoff, but he flicks me again, and I arch my back, wanting this strange sensation again and again.
“Good,” I whisper. “I’m always a good girl.”
He hums in appreciation, returning to the torturous circles on my clit, while that teasing tip remains pressed against me. Restrained but patient.
I wrap my leg over his hip, nudging just beneath his backside with the heel of my foot.
“Come closer,” I whisper, practically begging him to enter me.
“Want to be a bad girl? With me.” His voice strains, matching the pressure he’s placed on himself to keep the tip at my eager entrance without breaching it.
“Only with you,” I admit, groaning beneath the growing pleasure, the spinning, winding, twisting sensation.
“Got one question. You okay with this?” He isn’t wearing a condom.
“I’m safe.” On the pill and in my mid-forties, along with not having had sex in so long I can’t count, I’m clean.
“Another first,” he whispers, as he glides into me, keeping up his attention on my pleasure point while faltering only a moment as he fully seats himself inside me.
“Holy . . . Lumi . . . This . . .”
I smile to myself at his rambling words. Maybe he feels as scattered as I do. As puzzled. As pleased.
And when he draws back and then glides forward once more, the speed a little faster than the first time and hitting me in a new way, my body spirals, releasing the taut tension and unraveling, like a loose thread suddenly wild, spinning in reverse, and flailing in the wind.
My leg slips from his hip, dropping down until my foot hits the floor.
I hunch forward, drawing him deeper within me, as I continue to let go.
A ribbon tugged free from a package. A gift unwrapped after being confined in pretty paper.
A woman released of tension and fears and allowing this man to set me free.
With a deep exhale, I come and I come, savoring the orgasm by running my hands up his back and holding him tighter against me.
“Saint,” I whisper into his shoulder before I drop back to the couch.
With his hand on my hip, he’s braced on his other elbow and moves in a new way. His hips rocking faster. His abs tighten. His heart races beneath my palm, like he’s chasing time, trying to outrun something.
For the moment, I consider it’s only him seeking the same level of release as me.
That euphoric, proverbial jump off a roof, like taking flight.
An inhale of breath. The liberty of being suspended.
The sudden rush of freefall. And just before you hit the earth, a swift catch, and you’re climbing again.
Saint moves in such a way, like he’s followed my thoughts. The leap, the linger, the drop, the climb. A rollercoaster of sensation before he stills, finally having lost control, while only one part of him rustles, deep within me.
Saint cries out like a man who hasn’t let go in a long time as well. His head tips back. The vein along his neck protrudes, and he buries himself within me, like he never wants to leave.
And I add an amendment to my Christmas wish.
I want him . . . to stay.