Page 10 of The Santa Situation
And just like that, I was back in 1996.
There we were at the senior picnic, sunburned and laughing, her head thrown back in that carefree way she still had today. Then, after a football game—me in my uniform and Jemmawearing hers—her cheek pressed against my chest while my arm curved protectively around her shoulder.
Every photo caught the same unguarded joy I’d seen in the picture Maggie had shown me earlier—the kind of happiness you don’t realize you’ve been missing until you see it again.
I flipped another page, and my breath caught at the sight of Jemma in that soft periwinkle dress that made her eyes look impossibly blue, her hair shining under the lights. Beside her, I was grinning like the luckiest guy in the world, a too-big tux and a plastic gold crown doing nothing to hide how completely gone I was for her.
My chest tightened as I stared at the picture. For a moment, it didn’t feel like a photo at all—it felt like stepping straight back into that night. The smell of hay and smoke from the bonfire afterward. The hum of laughter and music. Her hand slipping into mine as we sneaked away from the crowd toward my car, my heart pounding.
I remembered driving her home afterward, the radio playing something slow and sweet. How she’d reached over, her fingers brushing my wrist when she whispered, “Pull over.”
Christ, it was all still here in my head, never forgotten. Just … not remembered.
Until now.
Rows of early autumn cornstalks standing sentinel, moonlight spilling across the dash, the catch in her breath when my fingers traced up her thigh and beneath the hem of her dress to find her wet and needy. It was the first time I’d ever touched her like that, and nothing before or since matched that sacred discovery.
When I slipped two fingers inside her, using my thumb to rub her clit, she shuddered against me, clutching my shoulders and gasping my name as she came a few seconds later. I heldher through it, then lifted my fingers to my mouth to taste her pleasure on my tongue.
A few seconds later, she’d whispered, “Your turn,” against my ear, her fingers making quick work of my button and zipper. I could still feel the heat of her palm against my skin as she tentatively explored me. I told her she could be rougher, my hips bucking into her touch as tension coiled tighter and tighter. When I finally came, stars flashed behind my eyelids, the pleasure so intense I thought I might black out.
Christ.
I shut the yearbook, but the memory didn’t shut with it. It clung to me—her voice, her scent, the tremor in her breath. Her taste. All of it still lived somewhere in me, waiting.
I leaned back in my chair, exhaling hard and dragging a hand down my face, trying desperately to shake it off, but my body refused to cooperate. Decades later, and the thought of her could still undo me.
I pushed to my feet, stripping off my flannel as I crossed the hall to my bedroom. My jeans and boxers followed. By the time I reached the bathroom, I already knew a cold shower wasn’t going to do a damn thing. I twisted the handle all the way to hot, the pipes groaning before a rush of water filled the silence. Steam rose fast, curling around me as I stepped inside.
I braced one hand against the tile, the other wrapping around my throbbing cock, stroking slowly at first, then faster as I invited more memories in. My eyes closed as the past washed over me like a tide I couldn’t stop: the first time she’d taken me in her mouth, those blue eyes looking up at me through thick lashes as she swirled her tongue experimentally around my head. The determined set of her jaw when I warned her that I was close. The way she doubled down instead of pulling away, taking me even deeper and swallowing everything I gave herwith a moan that vibrated through my entire body. Then smiling as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
My release hit like lightning, white-hot and blinding, my cum splashing the shower wall in thick, milky ropes until I sagged against the tile, feeling slightly ashamed for what I’d just done.
God, what would Jemma think if she knew I’d just beat off to memories of us together almost thirty years ago?
“Get it together,” I muttered to the fogged mirror as I toweled off. “You’re not some hormonal teenager who can’t control his dick.”
And yet, I couldn’t shake the restless energy thrumming through me as I dressed. I kept glancing at my phone. I’d like to say I didn’t know why, but I did. I wanted Jemma to reach out to me. Needed to know she was thinking about me too, even if it was just in some small way.
Fanciful thinking, I told myself, as I pocketed my phone and grabbed my keys.
Stepping outside, the cold winter air was sharp and bracing. It stung my lungs, but it felt good. Grounding. The sky had taken on that purply-blue brightness that made every rooftop and bare branch stand out in high relief. For a second, I just stood there, breathing it in.
Then I locked the door and started down the walk dressed as Santa, my pulse picking up with every step. Tonight wasn’t just about the start of the Christmas season. It wasn’t about the town I loved.
If I was honest, it was about the woman waiting for me at Cade’s—the one I’d never really stopped wanting.
The one I vowed to somehow make mine again.
four
. . .
Jemma
The womanin the mirror looked nothing like Mrs. Claus. Not the jolly, apple-cheeked version from the storybooks, or even the TikTok-perfect one with flawless makeup, a flirtatious smile, and more cleavage than any person who lived north of the Arctic Circle should display. Frostbitten nipples probably hurt like a bitch.
No, this Mrs. Claus wore long johns under a black wool skirt, sturdy boots, a red sweater, and a puffy white parka that actually would be appropriate in the Arctic. My Betty White wig—slightly flattened on one side—peeked out beneath a knit cap. I’d dusted my cheeks with some glittery blush and swiped some frosty green eyeshadow over my eyelids in a doomed attempt to look festive.
