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“I like being in your bed too,” I admit just as his stomach grumbles. I laugh. “Are you hungry?”
“Reckon I am. I haven't had dinner and it's late.” He looks at the clock on his dresser. It's about to strike midnight. “Almost Christmas morning.”
“I've never had a Christmas like this,” I say, running my hands over him.
“I suppose we ought to make the best of it. What do you want for breakfast?”
“We're having breakfast at midnight?” I ask smiling, feeling cozy in this warm cabin with Smith’s flannel sheets so soft against my skin. He gets up and opens a closet door. He hands me a plaid bathrobe. I sit up from the bed and I wrap it around my body, cinching the waist.
I feel so sexy wrapped up in his robe. It hangs off my shoulder and I twist my long honey blonde hair into a tie on the top of my head.
“You look so fucking hot,” he tells me, pulling on boxers and a tee shirt.
I follow him to the kitchen. “You think?” I ask, knowing full well I’m fishing for a compliment. He turns to me in the hallway. My back is against the bare wood wall. There are picture frames hanging in a row on the wall. I'm in a real home.
“Yeah. You look fucking sexy in my clothes. I don't want you to take them off except for I'm gonna need you to later.” He moves a hand under the robe, fingering my nipple, massaging my breasts. My pussy tingles with excitement.
“Agreed. We need to eat, after all, we worked up quite an appetite, but after? I’ll take everything off for you.”
He takes my hand, threading my fingers with his and he leads me to the kitchen. My bare feet against his wood floors. It feels like I'm in a Christmas movie. It's pitch dark out. The fire still glows, and he opens the fridge, pulling out food. A carton of eggs. A pitcher of milk, a loaf of bread.
“You like French toast?” he asks me.
I lick my lips. “Love it.”
“Good. It's my specialty.”
“Oh, you're a cook too? It's good to know.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “You making plans for our future?”
My cheeks heat up. “I don't know what I'm doing. I'm just really enjoying this moment.”
“Yeah, it's the best holiday I've had in years,” he admits. He finds a carton of orange juice and sets it on the counter. Then from deep in the fridge, he procures an ice-cold bottle of champagne. ‘Mimosas. That seems Christmassy, right?”
I laugh. “I think so. I'm honestly really surprised. A man like you has a stocked refrigerator. It's impressive.”
“Hey, I have a lot to offer. Isn't that what I've been telling you?”
“You have. It’s just, you're such a grown-up.”
He chuckles. “I'm hoping that's a compliment.”
I nod. “It is, Smith. It's a big compliment. I've never been around guys who were men. I've only been around guys who are assholes.”
“That's a sad fucking story,” he tells me, running his hand over my cheek. He kisses me and my belly flip flops. “But I intend to change the ending.”
I smile as he pulls out a bowl and begins mixing eggs and cinnamon and sugar. A little bit of milk. Butter dropped in a cast-iron skillet and thick slices of bread dipped in the batter sizzling on the grill. It smells like Christmas. Smith pops a cork, pouring us glasses of champagne, topping them with OJ.
“This can be our tradition,” he tells me. “Breakfast at midnight on Christmas morning.”
I smile, closing my eyes and making a wish in lieu of a toast because these words, the ones I want to say, I can't manage to utter out loud. They're too sacred, too secret, too precious to say or to give away. My wish though, is that this does become my tradition, my story, the beating of my wild heart.
He must know that whatever I'm feeling is too deep to say out loud because he doesn’t press. Instead, we take our food and move to the living room.
He stokes the fire and the Christmas lights glitter in the room. The stockings hung on the mantel are empty, but our hearts seem so full.
“I'm going to feel bad in the morning when it's Christmas and there's not a single present for you under that tree,” he tells me.
“We just met. I don't expect a gift. Besides, I don't need presents from you. You've already given me plenty.”
“The hot cocoa or the French toast?”
I laugh. “I was meaning an orgasm.”
He chuckles and I lean into him, our shoulders brushing together as we eat. This moment is so pure, so tender. I wish it could last forever.
“I need more syrup,” he says, and he stands and walks toward the kitchen. I see the thick outline of cock in his boxers and I know he has more on his mind than syrup. He's thinking about getting me back in bed and that thought sends a thrill through me.
