Page 12 of Once Upon a Thanksgiving
“Jack,” she breathes, one hand fisting in my hair, the other raking down my back. “Don’t tease. Please.”
I want to take my time. I want to savor her. But the way she squirms beneath me, the way she begs, has me stripping her jeans and panties, spreading her thighs, and settling between them. I trail kisses down her stomach, across her hips, untilI’m exactly where she wants me—where she’s soaked, swollen, desperate.
I look up, catch her gaze, and hold it as I lick a slow stripe up her center. She shudders, a high keening sound escaping her lips. I swirl my tongue over her clit, then suck gently, just enough to make her hips buck. I slide a finger inside her, curling just right, my other hand splaying over her belly to hold her down.
She chants my name, thighs shaking, breath coming fast. “Jack, oh, god, yes, don’t stop—”
I don’t. I work her with my mouth and fingers, relentless, loving every sound she makes. When she finally breaks, she comes hard, clutching my hair, crying out. I keep going, riding her through it until she’s spent, limp, smiling.
I crawl up and kiss her. I roll us over so she’s straddling me, eyes blazing. “My turn.”
She slides down my body, palms tracing my abs, undoing my jeans, freeing my cock. She wraps her hand around me, stroking slowly, her mouth hot and wet as she takes me in, tongue swirling, sucking, driving me insane. I fist my hand in her hair, hips jerking, cursing under my breath.
“Fuck.”
She laughs, voice rough and wicked, before climbing back up, kissing me hard. “I want to feel you. All of you.”
I grab her hips, guiding her down onto me. She sinks slowly, gasping, head thrown back, hair a dark halo. We move together, rocking slow, then faster, her nails raking my chest, my hands on her ass, pulling her closer. We lose ourselves, hands and mouths everywhere, bodies slick and desperate.
She rides me until I can’t take it, flipping us so she’s beneath me, her legs locked around my waist. I thrust deep, kissing her everywhere, murmuring how beautiful she is, how much I want her, how I never want to let her go.
She comes again, clenching around me, and I follow with a groan, spilling into her, both of us shuddering, gasping, holding tight as the world narrows to this moment.
After, we lie tangled on the couch, wrapped in a throw blanket, legs entwined. She’s draped over my chest, tracing circles on my skin, her hair tickling my jaw.
For a long time, we say nothing. Our breathing is the only sound, matched to the crackle of the fire. I press lazy kisses to her forehead, her temple, her lips, memorizing the taste and heat of her.
“Do you ever get scared?” she murmurs, voice small in the darkness.
“Of course,” I say, stroking her back. “Especially with you. It’s like I’ve wanted something like this for so long, but I never let myself hope it could be real.”
She kisses my collarbone, then looks up, honest and open. “Me too. I want it to last, Jack. I just don’t know how.”
I cup her face, brushing my thumb along her cheek. “I want to wake up to you every morning, fight with you about cocoa recipes, haul trees with you in the cold. I want it all.”
She smiles, tears glittering in her eyes, and kisses me.
We talk, curled together in the dark, about dreams and fears and what comes next. I tell her about my family. She tells me about growing up here, about loving the farm and hating it sometimes, about her life in the city.
When her voice finally trails off, she snuggles closer, her body soft and warm in my arms.
I hold her tighter, watching the fire burn low. I want her to stay, but I don’t want to clip her wings. She leaves tomorrow, and I don’t know how to ask her to stay.
Chapter eleven
Autumn
Sunday morning hits different. Everything is too bright, too sharp, too real. I wake before the alarm, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of my family downstairs. I’m hyperaware of the ache in my chest, the scratch of last night’s heartbreak still raw at the edges.
The tree farm is already alive. Dad banging around in the barn, Mia’s laugh trailing through the halls as she chases Connor with a tangle of twinkle lights, Mom humming Christmas songs as she whisks something warm on the stove. Usually, I’d be swept up in the ritual, but today it all feels distant, like I’m watching someone else’s life through a window.
I shower and dress slowly, folding each piece of clothing with too much care, stalling. My suitcase sits open on the bed, half-filled with clothes, half with things I know I’ll never use back in the city, mittens I only wear here, a scarf Mom knitted when I was twelve, the old Christmas tree farm sweatshirt I stole from Dad.
I keep glancing at my phone, hoping for a text from Jack, even though I know he’s already here, probably helping Dad or keeping Mia from turning the wreaths into some new TikTok “challenge.” I wish I’d woken up beside him, wish I could wrap myself in his arms one last time before everything changes.
Downstairs, Mom is pouring cocoa into to-go cups, the radio softly crooning old holiday songs. She squeezes my hand as I pass, her eyes searching mine. “You okay, honey?”
I nod, lying as easily as breathing. “Just tired.”
