Decking His Halls #2
I watch as he hangs his coat in the closet, sets his boots on the rack by the door, and strips his burgundy sweater over his head. He’s only wearing a white T-shirt beneath, and the hem rises to his rib cage when he pulls off the sweater.
I fight the urge to bite my knuckle as I take in the bared expanse of skin and the shift of muscles underneath. He doesn’t have the definition he had when he was younger, but he’s broader now, solid and strong. I imagine he could throw me around—in a fun way.
“I made lasagna,” I say abruptly, and face the TV, because I don’t want him to catch me salivating. “And banana bread.”
He pauses at the entrance to the hallway. “All right, I forgive you for the tree.”
I hide a smirk and resume watching Christina Milian’s latest Christmas rom-com. And to my surprise, David joins me on the sofa a few minutes later with a big helping of lasagna and watches the rest of the movie with me.
A week later, I’m watching The Holiday in the living room and waiting for David to come home from visiting his mom at an assisted living facility in Riverdale.
“Welcome back, roomie,” I call out when the door opens. It takes all my self-control to keep my eyes on the TV and feign nonchalance, but at the sound of clinking glass, I whip my head around to see him with no fewer than three reusable grocery bags twined around one solid fist.
I catch the way his expression changes when he sees what I’ve done. Surprise turns to shock, shock to horror, and then, finally resignation. His response fills me with gleefully petty satisfaction, and I bite my cheek to hold back a grin.
His features settle into a baleful glare.
“What?” My tone is all innocence.
He gestures wildly with his free hand. “You really needed more?”
“What do you have against Christmas?” I ask primly.
“I don’t have anything against Christmas. I just don’t like clutter.”
That, I could’ve guessed. This apartment is a minimalist’s wet dream.
Everything is dark brown and beige—so boring—with sharp corners just waiting to kneecap you in the dark.
It does, however, make the perfect backdrop for all of my thrifted decorations.
It’s like the holiday aisle of a craft store exploded in here.
There are pine boughs and holly draped over the archway into the living room and above the lintels of every door in the apartment.
Lights twinkle everywhere. A miniature Christmas village covers the top of the TV stand—his fault, for mounting the large flatscreen on the wall and leaving a completely bare surface just begging to be adorned.
There’s a life-sized baby reindeer made of some kind of dubious organic materials peeking around the edge of the sofa, and a plastic nativity scene sits in the center of the dining table.
Gingerbread-scented candles and glittery pine cones surround the manger like a summoning circle.
I’ve also replaced all the charcoal-gray place mats with red-and-green ones featuring kittens and puppies in Christmas sweaters. They were the worst ones I could find, and I sort of fell in love with how unbelievably tacky they are. I am truly my mother’s daughter.
I sniff. “I think it’s festive.”
He eyes me with suspicion. “How much more festive are you planning to get?”
“To quote the cinematic masterpiece Mean Girls, the limit does not exist.”
He blinks. “Maybe we should discuss this.”
“Who are you? The Grinch? Putting restrictions on Christmas cheer?” I get up and lead the way to the kitchen. “Come on. If you stop complaining about my decorations, I’ll make us dinner.”
“I knew there was a reason I hadn’t kicked you out yet,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling when he says it.
I make us chicken piccata with roasted vegetables, then force him to watch The Holiday with me while we eat.
“Tomorrow we’re watching Die Hard.” He says it like it’s a threat. Like Nando and I didn’t watch it with our father every year growing up.
Like I’m not thrilled by the prospect of another movie night together.
“You would think that’s a Christmas movie,” I mutter, just to get a rise out of him.
It works.
Afterward, as I’m unloading the dishwasher in the narrow galley kitchen, I catch David’s eyes lingering on me whenever I bend over or reach for a high cabinet.
His unexpected perusal sends a rush of heat through me, and I take every opportunity to brush against him.
By the time we’re done cleaning, I’m sweating, and he probably thinks I have no sense of spatial awareness.
There’s no denying it: I want David Fonseca. And not just because he’s great to look at. I like spending time with him—and yeah, annoying him too.
But if I throw myself at him and he turns me down, it’ll make living here supremely awkward.
And if he doesn’t turn me down? We’ll have to deal with my brother.
It’s a lose-lose situation, which means I need to keep my hands to myself.
CHAPTER THREE
Christmas is a week away and every inch of the apartment is decorated… except David’s room.
But that’s about to change.
I’ve been paying close attention to his schedule. He works from home as a coder, using the small third bedroom as an office, but he goes to the gym every Saturday morning and visits his mom afterward.
I’m writing lesson plans at the dining table and eavesdropping while David talks to his mother. He’s speaking Spanish, and while my conversation skills are limited, I understand well enough to gauge how long he’ll be gone.
I wait five minutes after he leaves, just in case he forgot something. When he doesn’t reappear, I spring into action. I have about two hours, which should be more than enough to execute my scheme.
Half an hour later, I’m knee-deep in tinsel when his bedroom door slams open.
“Noli, what the hell are you doing?” David snaps, making me scream and fumble the heavy vintage snow globe I was placing on his dresser.
David lunges for it like it’s a football, but I try to catch it too, and my foot tangles in the Christmas lights hanging over the arm of his chair.
I lose my footing and crash into him. David manages to catch me and the snow globe, but our momentum carries us sideways.
He twists at the last second, toppling us onto his bed.
We both land with a loud “Oof!”
My heart tries to pound out of my rib cage, and I can’t seem to catch my breath.
All I can think about is how fucking good he smells and how much I like the feel of him beneath me.
I’m sprawled across him, my breasts pressed to his chest. One of his arms is banded around my waist, and that damned snow globe is cupped in his other hand, resting beside his head on the mattress.
Inside the glass orb, specks of glitter swirl before landing on a childlike angel’s gilt-covered form. This snow globe belonged to my late grandmother, and I hope she’s tuning in from Heaven right now, because she’d find this shit highly entertaining.
I plant my palms on David’s chest and push myself into a sitting position—a mistake, because I’m now directly on his lap, and the warmth between my thighs is pressed right up against an area of his body that feels suspiciously… rigid.
On second thought, I hope Abuela’s not watching.
My brain short-circuits, unable to compute the possibility that I might be straddling David’s erection. It’s the only excuse I have for what I say next.
“God, David. If you want to fuck me, just say so.”
It’s a joke. Obviously it’s a joke. I’m smiling, half laughing, but I’m also breathless and there’s a ragged edge to my words that makes the statement sound like what it is.
An invitation.
I cast about for something, anything, I can say to deflect, but then David pushes himself up on one arm so we’re face-to-face. His jaw could be carved from granite, and when his lips part, I swear the earth shakes.
“You want me to say it? Fine. I’ll say it.” He cups my jaw and brings our faces even closer together. His amber eyes glint with a nearly feral intensity as he enunciates each word. “I want to fuck you, Noelia.”
The smile drops from my face, and for a second, I’m sure I’ve misheard him. Is this a prank? Retaliation for the Christmas decorations? But there isn’t a trace of humor in his expression. Only… need.
“Are you serious?” It comes out like a squeak.
He huffs, and some of the tension in him visibly eases. “You have no idea how I feel about you, do you?”
His proximity has demolished my already flimsy filter. My mouth, the thing that always gets me into trouble, opens, and I whisper, “Show me.”
As if he’d been waiting for permission, he pulls me into a kiss.
I’m not expecting it, and the angle is wrong. But then he tilts his head and teases his tongue along the seam of my lips, and I part them with a sigh.
From there, everything is right, right, right.
Whenever I imagined kissing David, I always thought of movie kisses where the characters crashed together, so overcome by passion that they lost their minds.
But this isn’t a movie. There’s no swelling music, no mood lighting, no clever camera angles. There’s just me and him, lit by his standing lamp. The only sounds are my quiet intake of breath, the rustle of fabric as he shifts on the bed, and the slick glide of our lips.
We take our time, learning each other’s mouths and tastes.
It’s good, really good, but I want more.
I grab the hem of my low-cut tank top and peel it over my head.
My hair settles around my shoulders, and I wish I could take a picture of his stunned expression as he gazes slack-jawed at my heavy tits, displayed to perfection in black lace cups.
“Fuuuck.” He exhales the curse like it’s a prayer.
Honestly, it is the only acceptable response to my boobs, which are objectively fantastic. If he hadn’t reacted like he was in the presence of divinity, I might’ve gotten up and left. But he looks appropriately awestruck, so I stay put and flick at his hoodie. “Your turn.”