Page 54 of The Christmas Mittens
“Dad, you’re notthatold,” Gilda stated. We all snickered.
“My room is down this way.” Harold pointed with his now empty snifter. “Rani informed the staff that I was to be tucked away down by the nursery for some outlandish reason. Lord knows I dislike rowdy little snotters.”
“We put you down there, Your Highness, as it seemed a fitting place for you,” Rani commented as he moved around us, coming up behind on catlike feet. “Miss Gilda and Mr. Baxter are in the blue and green suites, Prince Anders. I’ve had them freshen the plum suite for you.”
Harold shot Rani a look of appreciation. “That’s what I like about you, Rani. Other than the admirable quality of your work ethic, your good looks, and the way that you fill out your slacks. Your dry wit and biting sarcasm are above par!”
Rani huffed lightly, which made Harold smile even wider.
“Yes, that’s fine. I am plum tucked out,” Anders said in a dreadful Western American accent that made Gilda and me wince. “Sorry, sorry, that was terrible. Let’s call it a night. It’s been a long day.”
Harold looked at the gold Rolex on his left wrist. “Anders, my gods, it’s barely ten at night.”
“Yes, and we’ve all been up since six in the morning. Oh, that’s right. You slept in and were noticeably late for the prayer of blessing because you’d been playing poker with the groundskeeper’s son until the wee hours,” Anders replied, taking my hand to lift it to his lips, his attention flitting from his brother to me. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He kissed my knuckles and pulled me in for a tender hug. “Come to the plum room in an hour.”
Oh. Oh, well, that was exciting! I nodded gently while Harold snickered.
“You sound almost jealous,” Harold replied with a wink to Gilda. “Fine, hop off to your beds. I’ll find someone—sorry, somethingto do.”
We parted ways, me walking with Gilda to her bedroom, a lovely room done up in various shades of blue that she instantly snapped pictures of to send to her friends back home. After a peck on the cheek, she nudged me out into the hall for privacy. I suspected she wanted to talk with Timmy, so I ambled back to where a door stood ajar. Peeking inside I saw it was a masculine room in tones of dark pine and brown. Stuffed pheasants and stags hung on the walls as a fire in a smallish stone hearth crackled merrily. My bag sat on a cedar chest at the foot of a huge bed. The sheets had been turned down. A small, wrapped mint rested on one of the four fluffy pillows. A man could get used to this…
“Makes me wonder why I’m thinking of going back to Grouse Falls,” I admitted to a glassy-eyed boar looking down at me. I unwrapped the mint, popped it into my mouth, and dug into my bag for my pajamas and a robe. The bath was nicely fitted with a tall shower, lots of clean towels, and shampoo and shower gels resting on a rack just inside the door.
I took a long, hot, soapy shower, making sure to scrub all my nooks and crannies extremely well. I didn’t bother to shave since Anders seemed to like the scratch of whiskers on the inside of his thighs, and I was antsy to get his dick into my mouth again. The man was addictive. When it was time, I cracked my door, peered into the hallway, and slipped out. Anders’ room was just forty or so feet away, but it felt like miles as I tiptoed down the hall, my slippers sliding now and again on the highly buffed wooden floors. I’d just reached his door, hand up to knock, when Alfred appeared out of the shadows, a cup of something hot in his hand. I froze.
“Pleasant dreams,” he said and pulled a spindle-legged chair from in front of an old-time desk and plunked his ass down on it.
“Night,” I whispered, opened the door, and slithered in like a sneaky snake. The lights were low in here. So low that it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to having only the firelight in the hearth to see by. Once I could see, my eyes flared after they landed on Anders, spread out over thick covers, naked as a jaybird with an erection that made my mouth water. I looked around for Della. She was curled up in a lush stuffed bed by the fire, snoring softly, all four feet in the air.
“So punctual,” he said as he took his cock in hand. “Come to bed, Mitchell, I long to feel you bare and pressing into me.”
Into him. Shit. That was something we had not tried yet, but I was certainly willing. Eager even. My cock was throbbing at the mere thought of being inside that man.
He didn’t have to ask me twice. My jammies and robe went flying as did my slippers after I high-kicked them off like a Rockette. One flew up to land on the canopy over the big bed Anders reclined on like an erotic fantasy come to life.
“There’s lube and condoms in the chevet,” he said, his hand palming that juicy cock.
I blinked. “Uhm, in the what now?” I asked as I crawled into bed, the mattress so fat that I sank in so deep I feared I’d disappear from view.
“The nightstand.”
“Sure, I knew that.” He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me down to capture my mouth. His strong biker’s legs encircled me, heels on my ass, as he rolled his hips upward. I mewled when his prick rubbed mine. His mouth was sinful, sweetened by the coffee he must have had recently. Knees lost in the mattress, I bracketed my hands on either side of his head, the pillows tumbling this way and that. Our gyrations sent a few to the floor.
“This makes it hard to find the lube,” I panted when we broke for air. He mumbled something into my shoulder, his hand skimming my ribs and then under my arms as his cockhead and mine shared precum.
“This makes many things hard,” he replied with a small laugh before he raked my nipples with his thumbnails. My God, the man was like a squid. “I need to be touched and loved so badly tonight, Mitchell.”
“I’ll love you,” I promised while trying to snake out an arm to find the chevet. Fancy word for a nightstand. Probably French. Sounded French.
Mitch, seriously, are we tracing the root country of words right now?
Yes, yes, we are because if he keeps humping my dick while tweaking my nipples, I’m going to come before I can get inside him.
Good point. Carry on.
Right, French. Always sounded so much fancier than American. Take chevon, for instance. Goat meat in American. In French, it sounds so lyrical and—
Anders grabbed my ass cheeks, both of them, hard, and rocked his cock between my dangling balls. His cockhead slid over my taint and hole. All thoughts of goat meat flew out of my head.
