Winter Wishes (The Play #1.5) (4 page)

“Kind of like you and Emily,” she says.

“Like you
and
Emily,” I correct her. “Not that you’re a dog.”

She raises her brow. “I’m a bitch sometimes.”

I give her a dry look. “You both came to me when I needed you the most. It just took a while to realize it.”

She grins at me. “Well, it was really only a week before you got a clue.”

“Now that I know what I was missing, anything more than a second is an eternity.”

It doesn’t take long for the man to stop drawing, holding out the paper and admiring it with a curt nod of his head, like someone who has just painted a masterpiece.

He holds it out for us, and I have to hold back a laugh. In a way, it is a masterpiece. The guy has some talent…and a lot of that talent went toward making Brigs look as ridiculous as possible. He’s got Buster Keaton’s hat and the requisite bags under the eyes, but he’s smiling—rare for both Keaton and Brigs—and his teeth take up half of his face.

Of course, Kayla being Kayla, doesn’t hold back at all. She laughs—loudly—and points, shaking her finger at it.

“Oh my god!” she exclaims, clamping a hand over her mouth. “Look at Brigs! He looks fucking crazy. He’s half Buster Keaton, half Mr. Ed.” She looks at me, smiling big, a devious gleam in her eyes. “He’s going to
hate
it. It’s great.”

The artist frowns at her, so I quickly pay him for it, telling him he did a great job. That doesn’t stop him from glaring at Kayla as he slowly rolls up the portrait and slides a rubber band on it, smacking it on with a loud
snap
.

With the Christmas shopping all done, there really isn’t much else to do but wander. A group of guys walk past, clenching beers in their gloves, and something inside me tightens. Darkens. Not quite like a flame going out, but like a silent, black fire spreading inside me.

I don’t realize I’m clenching Kayla’s hand—and my jaw—until she says, “What’s wrong?”

My throat feels too thick to speak. My body is burning with oily flames and need, this horrible, unrelenting, unwanted need. Just from the simple sight of a few beers. If I weren’t so busy being torn by simultaneous self-loathing and fear, I’d revel in the amazement. How I can go from normal and content in one minute to having my soul scream in the next is something I’ll never understand and never get over.

Being an addict is a lot like grief. It permeates every essence of who you are.

I shake my head. “I’m okay,” I manage to say, my voice gruff. “Let’s just go home.”

She nods, frowning. “Okay.”

But as we head toward the street, she pulls me to a stop at one of the last stalls. Before I have a chance to ask her what she’s doing, she’s grabbing handfuls of tinsel in silver, red and green, a string of lights, plus a few cheap ornaments and a wiry gold star tree topper.

I have to admit, I’m grateful for the distraction, even though it’s leaving me confused.

“But we don’t have a tree,” I tell her as she quickly pays for it all. I grab the bags from the merchant and we head on our way, cutting up Hanover Street.

“Don’t worry about that,” she says.

Once we’re inside, the dogs run over to us, tails wagging, tongues hanging out, just happy to have us home. The flat itself seems to exhale with relief at our presence, or maybe it’s just me.

“I better take them out,” I tell her, grabbing the leashes.

“Before you do, do you mind putting on a fire?” she asks. “I want to make things all cozy for when you get back. In fact, take them for a longer than normal walk.”

I pause. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she says, though her tone suggests otherwise.

I observe her for a moment, loving how her lip quirks up just so when she’s plotting something special. And with her, special usually means sexual. I have no complaints about that.

Though I never used the marble fireplace in the drawing room, since she’s moved in we’ve had the fire going on chilly days. There’s a small stack of wood left which I once kept primarily for ornamental reasons, so I throw in the remainder with some kindling and light a match.

When I’m satisfied the fire will stay strong, I get the whimpering pups and head back outside, throwing a glance at Kayla over my shoulder. She’s nearly trembling with energy, her cheeks flushed. She’s definitely got something planned.

I take my time walking the dogs, heading around the park and then down toward the Leith waterway. The stars above peek through fast moving white clouds, aglow from the city lights, and even though everything is merry and loud down on Princes Street, over here it’s so quiet, like the neighborhood is holding its breath. Rows and rows of stone houses sit silently, lit in a range of Christmas lights. Some flats have displays out front in their tiny patch of a yard, maybe a Santa statue or a plastic snowman. Other places just have a wreath, a string of amber lights. As night falls deeper, so does the cold, and what remains of the snow crunches under my boots.

I’m glad Kayla asked me to go on a long walk. In fact, that’s always been what’s helped when I feel like I’m losing the battle against myself. Long walks. And sex. And I have a feeling she knows exactly what she’s doing tonight.

And that’s yet another reason why I’m so madly in love with her. It’s not just about a connection—that tightened wire of energy that binds you to someone else. It’s about what happens at either end of that wire. You’re not just connected to that person, you
are
that person. Kayla knows me, all of me, and embraces every lost, crooked, damaged part.

I never have to say anything with her. She’s inside me—she knows. And she loves me despite all that. In a world where magic isn’t supposed to exist, I’m sometimes dumbfounded by love, because how can that be anything else but mystical, magical? Love bends reality to our will.

Emily gives a little bark beside me, snapping me out of my thoughts. I reach down and scoop her up in my arms. She gets colder easier than the other dogs and isn’t afraid to let you know. Though I’ve never been a fan of dressing up dogs, perhaps a tiny Christmas sweater is in order for the grouchy old maid.

When I’ve been gone for about a half hour or so, I head back to the flat, nearly slipping on the ice outside before heading up the staircase to our level.

I pause outside the door, listening. I can hear Christmas music, some jazzy version, coming from inside.

“I’m back,” I call out, stepping inside the foyer. I’m immediately hit with the warm smell of hot chocolate. The door to the dining room is open, but the one to the drawing room is closed. The dogs rush forward to the side table against the wall where a steaming mug of cocoa is resting. I deftly unleash them then pick up a note beside the mug.

Come by the fireplace and come alone. Bring the hot chocolate.

“Come alone,” I read out loud. I raise my brow and look down at the dogs. “Sorry, guys. Those are my orders.”

I pick up the mug and take a sip—it’s thick, more like melted chocolate than hot chocolate, but it still tastes delicious—then put my hand on the doorknob to the drawing room, slowly turning it and pushing the door open.

Naturally the dogs rush toward me, but I push them back with my leg and step in, closing the door behind me.

The room is dark except for the fireplace, bathing the room in flickering light. It takes me a moment for my eyes to adjust, and I don’t see Kayla anywhere until I realize I’m staring right at her silhouette by the window.

“Kayla?”

I take a few steps toward her and then stop. She’s posed with her hands on her hips, but she’s not moving at all. She’s nothing but shadows and form, and I can’t see her face.

“Go to the outlet by the far wall and plug in the socket,” she says, her voice throaty.

“Okay,” I say uncertainly. Now I have absolutely no idea what the hell is going on, but I do as she says.

There’s a spark and then a glow beside me. I turn, and my mouth nearly drops on the floor as Kayla stands there, absolutely fucking naked, with Christmas tree lights wrapped around her, from her ankles to her neck.

“What the fuck,” I say breathlessly, straightening up and running a hand over my jaw. “What are you doing, you crazy girl?”

She gives me a pointed look which is hard to take seriously when she’s a naked Christmas tree. “I’m distracting you with Christmas cheer, that’s what I’m doing. Now, decorate me.” She nods at the box of tinsel and ornaments beside her.

I can only stare at her.

“I said, decorate me,” she says. “I’m your Christmas tree. Do me justice.”

Now this…this is something new. And even though I want to stand there, staring at her and scratching my head, I can see the faint flash of unease in her eyes, the idea that I may laugh at her, that she’ll become embarrassed. I love it when Kayla gets all red in the cheeks over something but not when she’s bare and vulnerable and out on a limb.

Literally, too. Because I’m going to have to pretend she’s a bloody tree.

“Yes, m’am.” I reach down for a long string of silver tinsel and look up her naked, glowing body. “Where do I start?”

“Anywhere you want,” she says.

So I start down at her ankles. I wind the tinsel around the wire of the lights to keep it in place, then I bring it around and around and up her calves, her thighs. I pause between her legs and slide my fingers up the soft skin of her inner thighs. “Here?” I ask, my voice already husky with lust. I can’t ignore the fact that I have one hell of a hard-on straining against my jeans, something that will have to be dealt with in a major way before the night is over.

“Mmm,” she says and I drag my fingers between her pussy, lightly skirting over clit. I’m not even sure if I want to continue, especially when she moans so loudly and her legs start to shake.

“Don’t stop now,” she whispers and I press one finger, then two into her, so tight and wet, it’s intoxicating. She squeezes around my finger and it’s like a hot vice on my balls, my cock, my chest. All the air leaves my lungs.

“No,” she says, voice low and straining. “Don’t stop decorating. It can’t be over yet.”

“Oh, you’re no fun. I’ve never made a Christmas tree come before.”

“You will, believe me,” she says.

Reluctantly I withdraw my fingers and drag her wetness over her stomach, having a bit of fun as I press the tinsel into her. “Well, if you’re giving me free rein here,” I say. “I mean, the tinsel doesn’t want to stay on you on its own.”

She grins at me, her face lit by her own lights, looking both ridiculous and ridiculously sexy. “That’s what the hot chocolate is for. I made it extra
thick
for this purpose. Or, you know, your own contribution, though let’s save that for later, shall we?”

I look behind me at the mug of hot chocolate and pick it up. It was already too thick and rich before and now that it’s cooled down, it resembles melted chocolatey mud.

Without hesitation I dip my fingers into the mug, still warm, and start painting her body with it. I make my way up her soft stomach, alternating between painting it on and licking it right off, then smearing it up over her breasts, taking extra time over the hardened pebbles of her nipples.

She gasps, looking shaky again, so I bring up the tinsel, pressing it in until it sticks. I slather on more chocolate – all over her delicate throat, her thin collarbones, her shoulders, her arms, moving around to her spine, the small of her back, her perky little arse. I get more tinsel, gold now and green, and continue to drape it around her, over and over again.

I’m turned on as hell. My cock strains against my fly, nearly fighting its way out. I’m not sure how much longer I can last, hold it together. The thing is, this may be the strangest way anyone has ever tried to cheer me up or distract me but I’m sure as hell grateful I’ve got a mastermind like Kayla by my side.

“Now the ornaments,” she says, adjusting her weight from foot to foot. I know she’s getting tired of standing so I make it quick.

Luckily, the only ornaments in the box are of the soft felt variety. Nothing made of glass or metal that might shatter or hurt us the moment I decide to throw her to the ground. Because, let’s face it, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.

I only manage to get on a few ornaments. Hanging two from her ears, a few from her fingers, when I growl, “Okay, I’ve had enough. I want you on the floor, on your knees, now.”

“Not yet,” she says, smiling like the she-devil she is. “You need to put on the star.”

Oh for Christ’s sake. I look down into the box and see the wiry star topper. I grab it, stretch out the gold wires so that it might balance on top of her head, then place it up there. Her crown.

I step back and admire her.

“How do I look?” she asks, her metallic and chocolate body lit up by the strings of lights.

She looks like a sexy alien queen, that’s what. Someone from the weird sci-fi porn movies Brigs used to smuggle into the house when I was a teenager.

“You look like an angel,” I tell her, hoping that sounds better. “All lit up like Christmas tree. From another planet. Actually you might be the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“But still hot enough to fuck, right?”