Page 43 of Santa Baby Maybe
“Never had sex?” Geezus. Please don’t tell me I took her virginity hard against her front door.
“No, never had fuck-me-against-a-door sex. I’d heard about it. Read about it. I thought it was a myth.”
I huffed out a laugh, then quickly sobered. “I was inside you, Joy. Without protection. Just for a second, but…”
“It’s okay. I’m clean if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“No, I mean, I’m clean too, but I don’t know if you’re on birth control.”
She shook her head. “It’s fine. I just finished…well, it’s the wrong time of the month. We’re good.”
We were good. We were very good, I thought. Then I had to back away before I got it in my head that we could stay like this all damn night.
“I’m going to put you down again and then get you your crutches. Did I hurt your ankle?”
She shook her head. “Or if you did, I didn’t it feel it, what with the mind-blowing orgasm.”
“Yeah, mind blowing.”
I set her down on her left leg and reached for the crutches. She settled them under her arms. Then I handed her her bottoms. “I’ll be back. I need to…” I gestured to my still wrapped dick.
I made my way down the hall to the guest bathroom and took care of what I needed to. I thought about the second I’d been inside her without the condom and nearly whimpered again at the memory. I’d never felt anything as erotic in my life.
I took the time to splash some cold water on my face. When I looked into the mirror above the sink, it was as if I didn’t know who the flushed man was with the satisfied eyes. This was trouble. This was not good at all.
I hadn’t been able to stay away after kissing her. What the hell was going to happen to me now that I’d just had the best sex of my life? And of course she would have questions. After this morning she would probably be wondering what the hell I was thinking. If I would leave or stay.
Stay.
Leave.
Apparently, even I didn’t know. One thing I did know was that hiding out in the bathroom was the coward’s way out. I opened the door and made my way back to the living room. Joy was settled in the large purple chair, back in her bottoms and her left leg pulled up to her chest as if she were using it for protection. Her ankle was wrapped and laid out on the ottoman in front of her. I took a seat there, careful not to jostle her ankle, and clasped my hands together.
I didn’t know what to say so I searched her face, wondering if she had anything she wanted to say first. Apparently she didn’t, because her eyes stayed on mine. Steady, calm. Waiting.
My focus drifted over her shoulder to a bookcase built into the wall that was filled on all five shelves with exquisite pieces of what I knew to be hand-blown glass figurines. I hadn’t noticed them last night because I’d been sitting in the chair with my back to it when she’d subjected me toThe Kissing Booth.
“Look at those,” I said as her gaze followed to where I was looking.
“Oh, those are just some flawed pieces I couldn’t bring myself to melt down.”
I stood and walked behind the chair so I could study them up close. I didn’t see any flaws. I saw only magnificent shapes and colors. Delicacy paired with intricacy. Similar to her Christmas wreath ornament. As beautiful as anything I’d ever seen.
“Flawed? They’re amazing. You’re an artist,” I said, as if finally coming to understand what that meant. “I mean, you’re not just someone who makes ornaments. You could sell these.”
She smiled. “That’s sweet. When I know in your heart of hearts you probably don’t think something like art is an actual profession.”
“My mother thought she was an artist,” I said. And it was like I didn’t have control over the memories. They wanted to come out and so I let them. “She would make these clay pottery pots and bowls and other things. They were nice, I guess. Functional at best. But she would get so excited. She would tell me that a pitcher she’d made was so amazing that at the very least she would get five hundred dollars for it. Enough money so she could put a down payment on an apartment for us. Then she’d come back from whatever craft fair she’d gone to with maybe twenty or thirty bucks in her hands and I would get so mad. Not at her, really. Not because she didn’t have the money. I would get mad at myself because I fell for it every single time. Every time she told me she’d made something of incredible value, I believed her. And every time it was just…a bowl. Or a cup. Nice and functional, but never worth what she thought it was.”
“I’m so sorry,” Joy said. She reached out and took my hand. Squeezing it. “That kind of constant disappointment can be tough.”
“I’m not angry at my mother,” I insisted. “I don’t want you to think I have mommy issues or anything like that.”
“Of course not. Where is she now?”
“A commune up in Victoria, Canada. I call her and send her money a few times a year. She writes to me. Still making her pots and bowls. Selling her hemp products alongside them. But happy, I think.”
“So you won’t be seeing her for Thanksgiving?”
