Page 66 of The Grumpiest Elf

This lasts all the way until my last night. At that point, there’s no help for it. We have to face the truth head on. I’m leaving in the morning.

We go out for dinner at The Filling Station, the same place we went that first night. It’s less thrilling now that the Christmas decorations have been taken down. We’ve entered the long, dark, unrelieved winter. Sure, there’ll be a few lifts for Valentine’s Day and then St. Patrick’s Day. But those don’t have the same brightness and cheer as the big holidays, and the short-lived decor always feels paltry and contrived by comparison.

I won’t be here for those anyway.

We’re both quiet at dinner. Subdued. The reality of tomorrow pressing down on us, making our conversation stilted, our smiles grim and small.

Finally, with a sigh, Lydia sets down the fork she was using to pick at a wilted salad. “I hate this,” she says.

I wipe my hands on my napkin and stretch one across the table toward her. “I’m sorry.”

She takes my hand, tears glittering in her eyes when she looks at me. “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

I give her a sad smile. “I wish you could come with me.”

“But we both know why all of that’s impossible.”

I nod. We do.

I haven’t pressed her about moving with me since I brought it up, though some small part of me is still hoping she’ll change her mind. Even if not tomorrow, in a week or a month or … eventually.

“It’s not forever,” she whispers, as though she’s speaking to that tiny spark of hope I can’t snuff out.

Tightening my fingers around hers, I nod. “I know.”

When I let us into Sarah’s house and flip on the fireplace, I do my best to take my time with Lydia. Not that I’ve ever rushed with her, but tonight there’s an extra need to be careful and thorough.

I undress her slowly, only taking my mouth from hers when absolutely necessary. She seems to feel the same sense of urgent slowness, because her mouth on mine, her hands on my skin, are just as deliberate, the pressure a little extra as though that will embed her touch so it can’t fade, like a metaphysical tattoo.

When we’re both naked, I sink to the floor, kissing her belly, then the top of each thigh, my hands cupping her ass, bringing her close to my mouth. Her hands thread through my hair, clutching the strands, using me to keep her balance when I guide one of her legs over my shoulder, opening her to me.

She gasps when my tongue makes contact, her legs shaking as I lick and suck at all her most sensitive places until her fingers tighten painfully in my hair.

“Down,” she whispers. “I need to lie down.”

Reluctantly, I let her lower her leg, my hands remaining in contact with her skin as she nearly collapses on the floor, her skin limned by the firelight, giving her an ethereal glow since it’s the only light in the room right now.

I follow her, skimming my hands up the insides of her thighs, using my fingers and thumb to give her pleasure, watching her as she holds herself up on her elbows, her head falling back between her shoulders, her hips lifting, greedy for me.

As much as I love watching her fall apart for me, I need to taste her, to feel her pulsing against my tongue as she comes, because I’m not sure when I’ll get the chance again. With my fingers inside her still, I dip my head and use my tongue to draw tiny circles on her clit. Her response is immediate and electrifying—a loud gasp, her thighs tightening on my shoulders, her hips moving. This is always one of my favorite parts with her. She’s so responsive, so uninhibited in her reactions, that I always know exactly when I’ve hit the right spot.

I keep up with what I’m doing, knowing it’s what she needs to find her release, and soon enough, I’m rewarded with a series of increasing gasps and groans, soft, high pitched pants that tell me she’s almost there as her thighs seem to pull impossibly tight around me, the muscles in her legs straining, and then she lets out a cry that almost sounds like surprise, and her pussy clamps on my fingers as she comes.

Staying with her, I pump my fingers slowly, flattening my tongue to spread out the stimulation to keep her orgasm going without overwhelming her until she collapses back on the ground, her arm covering her face, her chest heaving like she just sprinted a mile.

I kiss my way up her body, dragging my mouth along her torso, giving it a quick swipe with my hand to clear away the majority of her juices before settling over her.

Reaching for me, she wraps her arms around my shoulders, her thighs cradling my hips, her face soft in the firelight. “You’re amazing,” she whispers.

I kiss her softly. “You’re pretty amazing yourself.”

We kiss for long moments until she’s grinding against me again, and I sit up to put on the condom, arranging her in my lap so she’s spread out in front of me and line myself up with her opening. I love watching her face as I enter her, love seeing the play of emotions there as I slide home into her sweet warmth.

God, I loveher.

Clamping down on those words, I lace my fingers with hers, leaning over her so I can kiss her, showing her with my body how I feel because I know that saying the words is too much. I know that loving her the way she needs means letting her have the time and space to figure out the direction for her life without her feeling like I’m pressuring her. And a declaration of love now, when we’re on the cusp of saying goodbye, might feel like I’m trying to manipulate her into joining me. While I’d clearly love it if she came back to Seattle with me, I want it to be her choice. Her decision. Because she loves me as much as I love her and because that’s where she wants and needs to be. Not to make me happy because I’m in love with her.

Spurred on by the thought, the need to show her how I feel since I can’t tell her—not now—I slip one hand between us, rubbing her clit with my thumb. She adjusts, her fingers joining mine, at first trying to get me in the right spot, but after a moment, I let her take over. Because she knows what she needs better than I do.

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