Page 51 of Jack Frost
It's an honest answer. No false promises, no extremes.
"Does this hurt?" he murmurs, moving his hand up to caress my stomach.
"No."
"And this?" His fingers circle my breast.
"No." I'm trembling, aching, completely unfamiliar with this side of myself. I'm still a little uncomfortable with it—can scarcely believe that I'm giving myself so completely to a man I met just days ago.
"And this." Jack's fingers return to the area they were tending earlier. "Does this hurt?"
"Hell no."
After a few more minutes, when I'm whimpering and wordless with need, Jack curves his body around mine and joins with me again. We shift our limbs, working out the best angle. This time, my release is a gentle flood, a surge of mellow delight, dreamy and tranquil in the quiet dark. Jack moans softly against the nape of my neck, his sharp teeth grazing my spine. Then he tucks an arm around my waist and pulls me tight against him, and we sleep that way until the sun glows through the cheap blinds covering my window.
Jack insists on making me an omelet with the bits of this and that he finds in the fridge. Meanwhile, I text Karyl about my new plans for the day, with apologies and promises that we'll stop by briefly to drop off the gifts before we leave.
"Girl. Of course you should go with him!" she texts back, with many enthusiastic emojis. "I'm thrilled for you. You get that cute butt!"
Blushing, I text, "I already did. Last night. Twice."
She sends a row of wide eyes and then a GIF of some anime girl jumping up and down. "YOU WILL TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT LATER."
"Maybe." After setting the phone aside, I toss some items into a bag, focusing on clothes that I can layer, since he hasn't told me where we're going. I add toiletries as well, grumbling internally over the fact that Jack doesn't sweat, or need deodorant, thanks to his supernatural sweetness and frostiness. Then I remember the faint coolness of his release inside me last night, and I wonder, for a naughty moment, how he wouldtaste.
I blink the thought away. By the time I finish packing, Jack has already chilled his omelet in the freezer, and mine is fresh from the pan. He's practically bouncing with excitement, a wide smile on his face. My cheeks would be tired of grinning by now, but he seems buoyant with joy and energy. It's adorable.
"Eat up!" He passes me my plate. "It's already ten o'clock."
"It's Christmas morning, Jack. We should be taking it slow. Drinking hot chocolate or some such crap."
"Ew." He grimaces.
"Fine, a nice cold chocolate milkshake for you." Propping my butt against the counter, I take a bite of breakfast. I feel strangely, delicately happy, terrified to let myself be too joyful because then something is sure to mess it up. My skin feels warm and soft and alive, and there's a pleasant sensation deep inside me—the afterglow of satisfaction. I don't typically crave sex that often; surely, after last night, I am thoroughly sated. Still, when Jack sidles up to me with a grin and bumps his hip lightly into mine, a tremor of desire trickles through those secret spaces. And my heart pulses extra hard once or twice, a tightening surge of happiness just because he's here, because he exists, and he loves me.
We eat companionably, side by side, while Jack eyes my apartment. "You don't have any Christmas decorations."
"No. I'm not big on that stuff."
"Nothing I can't fix." Setting his plate aside, he steps forward, planting his feet with purpose and flaring out his hands. Tendrils of ice flow from his fingers, twisting together into the shape of a frosty Christmas tree trimmed with globes of snow. A flick of his hand, and rows of icicles lace themselves across the window, splitting the sunlight into rainbow shards that fleck the walls.
"It will all disappear when we leave," I tell him.
"Yeah, but it's pretty, right?" His blue eyes sparkle at me.
His grin is contagious, and I smile back. And then I feel it—that twinkling joy the songs talk about. That sense of specialness and family and holiday.
"I think you've infected me with the damn Christmas spirit." I poke his shoulder with the handle of my fork, not the tines, because he's wearing the same shirt from yesterday, and it looks fancy enough to be dry-clean only or some nonsense like that. I don't want to get cheesy egg bits all over it.
"I have another dose of infection planned," says Jack, "if you ever finish that omelet."
Putting the last bite into my mouth, I set the plate in the sink. "Let's go."
First we drive Jack's rental car over to Karyl's house to drop off the gifts and say a quick "Merry Christmas." She gives me a tight hug and then waves us off eagerly. "Go on, you two! Go have some wild holiday fun!"
After returning the car to the rental place, we spiral back to my apartment to pick up my bag.
I've pictured a hundred different places where Jack might take me. Munich's Christmas market. London. Paris. Tokyo. A tropical island—though honestly I can't envision Jack lounging on a beach in the sun. I can just see his lip curling, hear his confused tone: "Whywould you want to lie on hot sand?"
