Page 30 of Ghost of Ex-mas Past
I push, gently, and Bea’s hands reflexively come up to grab onto my sides. Her fingers tangle in my shirt as I lift her up and walk us forward, mouths still fused together, until she’s against the side of the house and I’m pressed against her.
She gasps when our bodies align and I’m so hard for her it hurts. I can still feel her pulse under my palm, the shift of her swallowing against the pressure.
Her hand wraps around my left forearm and squeezes, and I snap back to focus. I’m hurting her, pressing too hard. Shit.
I let her go and pull back but she protests wordlessly, tugging my hand back. Her eyes are lidded, her cheeks flushed with color.
Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.
My hand wraps back around her neck, pressing just slightly harder and she whimpers, this hot, needy little sound that shoots straight to my cock. I lean back into her body, invading her mouth with my tongue.
My jeans are tight and restrictive, but I bite down on the discomfort because I know that the rough material probably feels amazing through her pants.
She groans and pulls away, breathing hard and tilting her head back. I pulse my hand tighter and shift her head to the side. I trail my lips down her cheek and over my thumb, past the hardness of her jaw and to her earlobe, which I nip.
“You know you’re mine, right?” I growl. I pull back, and Bea’s eyes are dilated, the blue a light ring around her irises. Her lips are kiss-swollen, her hair ruffled from my hands and the wall behind her.
I’m holding her by her throat, which feels so delicate under my hands—hands that are scratched and roughed up from the axe. Sweat clings to me, though for an entirely different reason now, and I’ll probably be sore and have blisters tomorrow, but it was all worth it. I don’t feel like myself, and as my hips grind with Bea’s and I feel the start of an orgasm building, I realize that I’ve never been this rough in my life.
Somewhere in the house behind Bea, a door slams.
My gaze snaps to hers and both our eyes widen.
“Hey, who left my chicken out on the counter? And why the hell is the oven on?” Jasper’s voice comes from the kitchen.
I drop my hand and set Bea down carefully. Once she’s on her feet, she pushes me away. This fragile thing should stay just between us for now. Until I can make it more solid.
Bea straightens her sweater and reties her hair back, not meeting my gaze while I stand frozen like an idiot, still hard in my jeans.
With a brief glance at me, Bea spins and hobbles into the house.
I’ve barely saidtwo words to Bea since our make-out session. But I’ve been thinking about it constantly since then.
Last night, after dinner was over and I could reasonably excuse myself, I went up to my room. I hoped Bea would join me at some point, but she never came. Disappointing, yes. But I had lain in bed, replaying our kiss over and over again. My mind snagged frequently on my hand on her throat; the way her soft skin felt against mine, the tiny movements of her body, the moans that vibrated under my hand. Was it simply me holding her that she liked? Or would she want to go further? Breath play? I went down a rabbit hole on the internet of safe practices until I fell asleep.
It shouldn’t surprise me that Bea might have a new interest in the bedroom. I have things I’ve learned over the years that I wouldn’t have even known were on the table when we were teenagers. I want to make sure I do it right, without hurting her but still heightening her pleasure.
Now, though, it’s December 22, and that means secret Santa shopping. The eleven of us pile into the three cars, and then we’re barreling down the road into town.
I catch up with Arlo via text. He’s sent a few messages checking up on me, knowing that holidays can often be stressful and I can tell he’s worried about me. His kids made me a Christmas card and his oldest, who’s nine, has been playing with drag-and-drop programming, so I message with her until the car slows and I look up.
Brick buildings that probably date back at least a hundred years line the main street of Here. I had read that it was a logging town in the early parts of the last century, and expected to die a slow death as the industry moved on, but then the ski resort opened and the Catskills became a hot spot for tourism, leading to Here’s survival.
Many of the buildings hold businesses on the first floor. There are a few restaurants, retail shops, a brewery, and more. A cat in the window above a Vietnamese restaurant makes me think the upper floors are housing.
Should be easy enough to find a gift for Bea.
The cars break apart to find empty parking spots and me, my parents, and Yvette and Lance pour out of the Suburban.
“Have fun, kids,” Mom calls, grabbing my father by the hand and tugging him down the street.
Yvette grabs her fiancé’s hand and they wander off too, leaving me on my own. I suspect that this year, it’ll take longer for us to reconvene, with everyone shopping—or window-shopping—long after they’ve bought gifts.
Plus, it’s already eleven a.m., since getting eleven people up, fed, dressed, and out the door is a herculean feat.
I flip an imaginary coin and head off in one direction. Iron lampposts dot the street, sporting flags for the season. There are Christmas wreaths, reindeer, Stars of David, snowflakes, and more lining the street in bright primary colors. I walk the length of the “downtown” area until the shops thin and give way to houses with bigger lawns, and then I turn around and walk back. I catch sight of my parents popping into a jewelry store and Jasper in line at a coffee shop.
And then I spot Bea. She’s standing in front of a real estate office gazing at the for-sale listings.
