Lilian Darcy - The Baby Made at Christmas

He grinned, and it looked like relief, and she felt it, too.

Whew! So far, not a disaster. Let’s cautiously keep going and see if we can make it stay that way. Or even get better.

“Coffee’s ready,” she said.

“Better pour it, then.” He slid Virginia Woolf and George Orwell closer. Lee preheated the cups with hot water, steamed the milk, started the flow of rich, dark liquid through the spigot and into each mug.

And then they didn’t sit down. They just stood there in the kitchen, drinking the coffee with their backsides pressed against the edge of the counter and an arm around each other. “It’s really good coffee,” he said.

“I know. I have to ration myself. This’ll keep me awake half the night, drinking it so late.”

“Which is good, in my opinion. Kind of like the idea of you awake.”

“It does tend to enhance the experience.”

A little later, when the coffee was nearly gone, he told her, “You have foam on your top lip.”

“Oh.” She reached up and brushed it off.

“You know you weren’t supposed to do that, right? I was supposed to kiss it off.”

“In fact, I didn’t really have foam there at all.”

“No, you did. But you took care of it. Sadly.”

“You don’t need an excuse to kiss me, do you?”

“Valid point.” He put down his empty mug, took hers and put that down, also, peeled himself away from the edge of the counter and folded her in his arms.

They must have kissed for...oh, hours. They kissed until she was boneless, until her vision blurred, until she was practically a puddle on the floor, soft all over, throbbing.

She’d never known such kissing. So warm and strong and lazy. So hot and deep and luscious and perfect. So much an experience with her whole body. He made it totally clear that he was in no rush, and neither was she. Maybe no one had invented anything beyond kissing. Maybe kissing was the whole point, the be-all and end-all, the pinnacle.

Or maybe it wasn’t.

Finally, he took his mouth away long enough to say lazily, “Think they’ve quietened down, upstairs.”

She listened, beyond the slow thump of her heart and the giddiness in her brain. The music was turned off. There was no more laughing and yelling. She could hear a couple sets of footsteps going back and forth, and the occasional sound of a low-pitched voice. “I thought they might go on later than this. What’s the time?” She heard the creakiness in her own voice.

Mac peered over her shoulder at the microwave clock. “Midnight. Well, twenty after.” He sounded creaky, too. Rusty, as if too much kissing had clamped up their vocal cords.

She groped for rational thought. “I guess it’s Christmas tomorrow. There are some kids visiting who are still Santa age. Parents probably wanted to get the gifts under the tree, before they’re awakened at the crack of dawn. I noticed they’d corralled off the room with the big tree, and weren’t using it for the party. They’re saving that for their gift opening, tomorrow.”

“It’s Christmas today,” he corrected.

“After midnight. You’re right.”

“So...Merry Everything!” He smiled at her.

“Merry what?”

“Christmas itself is not the top thing in my mind, right now. So I’m leaving it open. Hoping there’s some merry other stuff about to happen pretty soon.”

“Well, Merry Everything back at you, then.”

“Pretty merry so far.” He pressed his cheek against hers, then turned his head a little so that he was kissing her again. “You have the best mouth....” he whispered. “The best body.”

“You’re not bad, either,” she whispered back.

“So that’s how we’re going to play it? I tell you you’re the best, and you tell me I’m not bad?”

“It’s not a competition,” she said lightly.

“And yet I really like to win.” His breath heated her ear.

“So do I.”

“I’m taking your top off....”

“Not if I take it off first.”

“You do like to win. But you won’t win this.” He peeled the red-and-green Christmas garment upward in one swift movement, taking her by surprise. When he ran his hands deliberately over the generous curves of her already acutely sensitized breasts on the way, she gasped and forgot about fighting back. How could anything feel this good?

He reached around to the back of her bra and turned his slight clumsiness with the hooks into a caress, thumbing the knobs of her spine with silky touches. The hooks stayed stubborn. “I am going to win the bra!” Lee said, because she knew the quirks of this one and had beaten them before.

Seconds later, the straps slid down her shoulders and her breasts fell into his waiting hands. “Mmm, so good,” he said. He cupped and stroked her, then bent to taste, and electric need ran instantly to her core.

There was something hugely erotic about being topless while he was still fully dressed, and they explored that for a long time, until finally she grew impatient and dealt with his black T-shirt almost as swiftly as he’d dealt with her red-and-green. His bare chest was silky and hot when she pressed her swollen breasts against him, and she couldn’t stifle the moan that surfaced from deep within her.

“Bed?” he said.

“Yes.”

They went through to it, stripping jeans and underwear and shoes on the way. There was no light on in the room, but it spilled through from the table lamps in her small living area in a soft shaft of gold. She liked the light, liked its softness, too. They could see each other, but not too clearly. They could see enough to discover that they were both smiling, not enough to see if the smiles faltered.

Because, you know, this couldn’t help but feel a little scary.

“Now...” he murmured, and she stepped into the heat of his body space once more.

He cupped her backside, tracing its curve down to her thighs, his touch light and slow, and she closed her eyes and stood motionless for several long moments, giving herself completely to the male scent of his skin, mingled with coffee and spice and beer, giving herself to the touch of her naked body against his, the sound of his breathing, the warm press of his mouth on her neck and shoulder and the slopes of her breasts.

It was beautiful. That was the only way to describe it. Funny and heartfelt and beautiful. The way they fell onto the bed together, the way he propped himself on his elbows above her and showed her just how ready he was for this.

“Tell me what you want,” he said softly.

“Nothing too fancy,” she replied, trying to tease.

He took her seriously. “No?” He whispered kisses at the corners of her mouth as he spoke. “Not?”

“Why? You?”

What do you like, Mac?

“Not that fancy, either. Gotta leave room for improvement.”

“We can start out pretty strong, even with nothing fancy.”

“We can.”

They grinned at each other in the low light. People called it “vanilla sex,” and didn’t mean that in a good way, but vanilla was a pretty popular flavor, after all. The feel of his weight poised over her, the hard heat of his body cradled in her opened thighs, the way she could hold him, wrap her arms all the way around and feel the strong, muscular cage of his chest. It was all so good, and it didn’t need to be inventive.

They didn’t need props or role play or gymnastics. Not tonight, anyhow. Not this first time.

Because she knew instinctively that it was going to be the first, not the only, and he seemed to know it, too.

He rolled her so that she was on top, and she arched upward to let him find her breasts again, with his hands and his mouth. He lavished them with hungry attention, cupping and stroking, covering her hardened nipples with his hot mouth. He lavished her with attention everywhere, in places she’d never thought of before. The creases between her arms and her body, the small of her back.