December 7th #3
He pries my hands away from my face and I brave a look at him. Much to my chagrin, I have never seen a bigger smile in my life.
I don’t need Christmas traditions, all I want is to die.
“I knew you were thinking of that kiss the same way I was,” Jay says in a thick, low voice.
“It’s not what you think.” There is zero conviction in my voice. “I was drunk.”
He chuckles, knowing damn well I’m lying. I moaned his name for God’s sake. On video. Repeatedly.
“Hollis,” he says, pinching my chin and forcing my gaze to his. “I want to take you back into my bedroom, you good with that?”
Even humiliated, my thighs squeeze. Because yes, that’s exactly where I want to go.
I have no words, so I nod.
That’s all he needs.
Mouth to mouth, we stumble the few steps to the other closed door: his bedroom. I’ll take in what it looks like tomorrow, for now, my focus is on his mouth, hands, and everything he’s hiding under these clothes.
I toe off my shoes.
Fumble with his belt.
Swear at the bottomless line of buttons on his flannel shirt.
He sits on the bed, pulling me between his thighs.
Slides my corsage off my wrist.
My sweater over my head.
And stares at me before kissing along my ribs as his fingers dip under the waist of my jeans, peeling them off me to reveal a black thong. He follows the lines with his touch and gaze, the heat in his eyes telling me he fully approves.
“You’re even better than I imagined,” he rasps, kissing my sternum as I stand between his denim-covered thighs, his magical mustache leaving a wake of want in its path across my skin.
“You’ve imagined me, huh?” My voice comes out husky as my head drops back. My fingers tangle into his hair. It’s thick and soft and I resist the strong urge to nuzzle my face in it.
“Nothing near as good as that video,” he murmurs between a trail of kisses across my stomach and the swells of my breasts.
I heat, but for once it’s not embarrassment, it’s white-hot desire. A building pressure swirls from the back of my eyes to the tips of my toes.
His hands slide up my back, remove my bra, then explore the rest of my body. His mouth doing the same, sucking his way down from my lips. Across my jaw, down my neck, devouring my nipples.
I’ve had four kids, my body is far from perfect, but the way Jay’s hands are tracing the lines of my skin and his mouth is consuming me, I become a goddess being worshipped. Like I’ve never been more sexy or sexually capable than I am right now. Like he’ll do whatever I want him to.
“I was thinking of your hands,” I admit as he stands, his head nearly touching the low ceiling.
“My hands, huh?” he says, a little smug as he steps out of his jeans with my help. It’s my turn to drink him in. He’s solid and lean and quenches every thirst I’ve ever had.
This. Will. Be. Good.
“Your hands,” I say, slipping mine into the waist of his briefs and sliding them down his thighs. When he’s fully naked—and blatantly hard—I add, “And this.”
He levels me with a look of pure lust and—without him even touching me where I want him to—I feel the building of an orgasm.
He kisses me.
I arch into his body.
He rocks his hips—once.
“Show me what you want me to do,” he says, mouth against my jaw.
I pull back. I have never been forward in the bedroom. Never asked for what I want or thought of putting myself first with it. Ryan liked what he liked, and I never challenged it.
But this is different. Jay is different.
Eyes never leaving his, I trace his mustache with my thumb.
Stilling, my thumb lingers on his lips.
He licks it, sucks, then nibbles the end with a sexy smirk.
It’s the push I need.
I guide one of his hands between my legs where his fingers start working against the ever-soaking strip of fabric while the other begins exploring every other curve of my body. His mouth is on mine, possessing it with his.
We’re on the bed; I’m on top.
I grind against his hand.
“In,” I demand.
He grins and obliges, pushing my panties to the side before sending two fingers—deep.
I scream—loud.
When he slips his fingers out of me it’s to slide my panties down my legs.
Kneeling above him and fully exposed, his eyes are all over me.
“I want you just like this,” I tell him.
His eyes flare in approval, and he positions himself so he’s fully seated with his back resting against the wall at the head of the bed.
He reaches over to a nightstand without breaking our gaze, fumbling until he has a condom.
Eyes staying locked with mine, he rips the foil wrapper open with his teeth and rolls it into place.
My mouth waters.
I crawl over him and hover above his lap with my shins next to his thighs.
My breath stills: This is happening.
“Ready?” he asks, gripping my hips.
I nod, and lower—slowly—eyes glued to his the whole time.
The stretch is severe. I tense. Pause. Take him fully.
When I whimper, he moans—we both do—then find our rhythm.
I grind against him; he grips my hips.
I drop my head back; his mouth is on my neck.
I near the edge of bliss; he bangs me toward it.
Forehead to forehead, it’s all hard grinds and gritted teeth.
Hands roaming, mouths moving. Hungry and desperate for more of each other.
Grind, grind, grind, gone.
The orgasm I’ve been chasing slams into me like a sledgehammer sending a litany of whimpered swears dancing off my lips.
In my ear, Jay whispers, “You’re so damn perfect, Hollis.”
I can’t see straight, let alone speak, so I say nothing as I come down from the high, blissed out and euphorically limp. All the while Jay never stops working.
He kisses my mouth, rolling us over so I’m on my back and he’s between my thighs. There’s no hesitating, he fills me—harder than I expect—and positions my bent knees to his biceps as his face lowers toward mine.
“This how you thought it would be?” he asks, low voiced as he drives in and out of me.
“Better,” I say with a breathy laugh as I raise my face to kiss his, missing the first time from the rocking of our bodies. “This is better.”
He smirks and doubles down. I don’t count the thrusts, the heartbeats, or the number of breaths later as he comes and brings me right along with him—again—but it happens with a hard slam, clenched teeth, and his magnificent body wracked with tension.
It is sublime ecstasy.
We lie in his bed, tangled in sheets and around each other, and he strokes my bare back as I prop my chin on his chest as both our hearts pound. The Christmas lights from outside glow through the window, mesmerizing me. Jay loves Christmas. Jay is good.
“What are you thinking, Hollis the Writer?” he asks, teasingly satisfied as he looks down at me from his pillow-propped chest.
“Hm.” I drag a thumb across his ridiculous mustache, both of us smiling. “I’m wondering why you like Christmas the way you do?”
“Ah.” He nibbles my thumb before pulling it away from his mouth and interlacing it with his.
“I always loved Christmas. People are nicer. More reasons to have fun. Older I got, the more it felt like a competition of busyness. Rushing and to-do lists. Rolling eyes as they talked about all the parties and events they had to attend with a just get through the holidays mentality. And after I left the firm, it made things strained with my dad for a while.” His fingers dance down my spine.
“This will probably shock you, but being forty with a relationship status of ‘had a girl he couldn’t keep and lives in a camper’ doesn’t exactly lend itself to smooth sailing at large gatherings.
” I laugh softly, and he smiles. “Either way, when the time I loved started to feel like a chore, I met Marv. My holidays became better. Easier. More laughs and less Thank God that’s over. ”
“And the girl you didn’t marry?” I ask.
“The girl I didn’t marry didn’t like all this. Said she fell in love with a lawyer with a house, not a brewer with a camper. After that”—he shrugs—“dating has been casual. Simple.”
That word hangs between us—simple. That’s not what I am. I have four kids.
“I admire you,” I admit.
“Yeah?” he says, drawing lines on my back. “Why’s that?”
I shrug against him, releasing my fingers from his and dancing them across his bare chest. “You just do what you want. You’re, I don’t know, brave in a way I’ve never been. Happy no matter what.”
“Hm.” He traces my eyebrows with his finger, mustache twitching. “Is this about the bake sales you’ve decided you hate?”
I still, blink, then bite back a smile as I slap his chest, making him grunt through a laugh. “You’ve been reading my articles.”
“If I say yes?”
“You have.” I prop myself up on my elbows as an amused expression overtakes Jay’s face. “And?”
“And what?”
“And…” I’m instantly self-conscious. I know what I’ve written—every single one this season has mentioned our time together. I trace a figure eight on his chest. “What do you think?”
He grabs my hand with his, stopping my movements. “I think you’re a beautiful writer.”
No surprise, I swoon, pressing my nose against his chest to hide the giddy smile on my face.
“Of course,” he says, causing me to look at him as he strokes his mustache. “My personal favorite was your analysis of the pear tree and reading about all the joy you experienced on Thanksgiving.”
“Asshole.” I poke him in the ribs making him mimic the motion, both of us laughing. “That was about something else.”
“Uh-huh,” he says. “I have video evidence now, Hollis. Marv’s sniffer was onto something.”
I let out an embarrassed giggle and start to pull away, but he holds me firm.
Laughter turns to a kiss turns to touches, mouths, and him sliding into me and me crying his name out all over again.
The next morning, with blankets wrapped around us like we wrap around each other, we sit in one chair under his awning, drinking my favorite cup of coffee to date.