Tropical Christmas Stag

by Zoe Chant

  She threw arms around his neck and he let her kiss him again, bending to meet her hungry mouth with his own.

  Every time she thought the kiss was ending, they found some new way of touching tongues, or his fingers found new places to tantalize her. Even his teeth were amazing, when she dared to explore them, and her lips felt crushed and sensitive and ravenous.

  “Conall,” she breathed, when they broke for breath.

  His arms tightened around her, and he made a noise that sounded like grief and happiness at the same time.

  “I want more,” she said shyly. “I want...” she wasn’t sure how to articulate herself and feared looking like a fool. “Will you do sex with me?” That wasn’t right.

  “I would like to make love to you,” he said earnestly.

  That sounded better.

  Much better.

  He was kissing her neck now, which Gizelle hadn’t known was a place that would like to be kissed so much, and it was very distracting. They were still on their knees together in the sand, and it seemed like a poor place to continue what they’d started, so she was delighted when he rather suddenly picked her up and got to his feet with her in his arms.

  She could still kiss him this way, and he could carry her back to his cottage.

  Chapter 30

  Conall had fantasized about hearing again, imagined what strains of music would sound like, what noise the wind in trees must be making.

  He hadn’t imagined a din like this. He wasn’t sure if he was hearing insects or frogs, or possibly birds. And the wind was like a thousand whispers, voices just out of hearing, a radio just out of tune. The music was the least of the sounds he had in his head.

  And the very best of the sounds was Gizelle.

  He could hear her breath catch, and her little moans when he found particularly sensitive places. When she said his name, it was like a piece of heaven. She didn’t sound like he had expected, and it was a long moment, very distracted by her kisses, before he recognized that he wasn’t truly hearing her, he was hearing through her ears.

  His own voice was somehow distant and different as well, like hearing a poor recording of himself.

  She was a scant armful, all long, smooth limbs and hungry mouth, and finally having her in his arms was the answer to every question he had ever had.

  His cottage was fortunately close to the beach, because between Gizelle’s demanding kisses and his own desperate need, he would not have gotten much further.

  The door was not locked, and he fumbled with one hand to open it and then kicked it closed behind them so hard that it bounced back open. He left it open, carrying Gizelle into the bedroom.

  This door he kicked closed with a little more finesse, and it stayed shut.

  Removing his clothing with Gizelle in his arms proved to require more limbs than Conall had, so he finally, reluctantly, put her down to tear at the buttons of his shirt. In that instance, the silence was back like a lightning bolt, and just as quickly, the roar of sound returned as Gizelle pressed up close again. The jolt between hearing and not was enough to stagger him, and the return of the din threatened to overwhelm him.

  Gizelle was kissing him again, up on her tiptoes as he bent to meet her mouth with his own. She was touching him everywhere his skin was bare, fingers like the whispers in her head.

  Conall wanted to strip out of his pants and lay her down on the bed to claim her at last, but he held himself back with the same iron will that had seen him through his final year at Juilliard without being to hear the things he had composed.

  He had waited this long... his noble intentions faltered as Gizelle stopped kissing him and tugged at the waist of his pants, trying to work out how to release him.

  “Please,” she whimpered. “I want...”

  Conall wasn’t sure what was more intense; her words, or that he could hear them. His hands on her shoulders tightened.

  “Gizelle,” he said, hoarse to her ears. “Gizelle, I have to...”

  She had worked out the button and was puzzling at the zipper. “I know you have to be naked for this part,” she said breathlessly.

  Chapter 31

  With Conall’s help, Gizelle got the pants and the briefs down and the glory within sprang free, causing her to pause.

  His cock was beautiful; long and thick and much more than she had expected. When she touched it reverently, Conall shuddered and gave a strangled moan.

  It was impossible. It could never fit in her.

  More impossibly still, she wanted it to.

  She felt hot and full of need and his skin couldn’t be close enough; she wanted to be wrapped around him in entirety.

  “A condom,” Conall said urgently. “I need a condom. Your friends might murder me if I don’t.”

  Breck had explained these details to her, but it had all been so ridiculous sounding. Once she had started, she could not stop touching the fascinating manhood, reveling in the way it made Conall suck in his breath and tighten all of his muscles.

  “I’m going to need five condoms,” he said between gritted teeth. “Gizelle...” He took her hands in his own. “Slow down, sweetheart. Just for a moment. It’s... been a really long time.”

  He let go of her, fishing a little crinkly plastic square from the overflowing bowl by his bed. Gizelle watched, fascinated, while he opened it and deftly unrolled the nearly-invisible sheath over himself.

  When he turned back to her, she wasn’t sure what to do, or where to put her hands.

  “I’ve thought about this a lot,” he said gruffly.

  “Me, too,” Gizelle confessed. Her hands still didn’t know where to go, and she was glad when he took them, jolting a little at her touch.

  He drew her back to the bed, close against him, so his cock was pressing at her belly. He kissed her, gently this time, hands lingering at her face, then lay back on the bed, guiding her up to straddle him.

  “You say when,” he said, hands soft at her hips. “You say how.”

  He was so large, jutting up against her waiting entrance, so firm and alluring. She had to hold herself up with her legs to keep the pressure from being unbearable, and she could barely breathe for the anticipation that was crowding her chest.

  “I choose you,” she whispered. “I choose you.” And she let herself slip onto him, the resistance so delicious and the friction so sweet.

  Something so uncomfortable shouldn’t feel so wonderful, she found herself thinking, and somehow still more fit in, and still more, until she felt so filled up that she might slosh over like a glass of water.

  This must be what ecstasy felt like, she realized, but then Conall pulled away a fraction of an inch, lifting her away. She made a noise of protest, not ready to be done, and he moved back in like a wave and there was something more amazing yet, any discomfort barely a memory.

  He did that again, and again, and his hands were all over her body, cupping her breasts and running thumbs over her hard nipples, stroking her sides and her arms.

  Gizelle felt like a panic attack was building in her whole body, except that it was exquisite, and when she fell, she didn’t want to run, she wanted to be falling forever.

  She realized she was making noise, that she was crying out in pleasure and release, because Conall was too, trying and failing to keep his hands at her waist gentle as he thrust in her with the same urgent need that had just broken over her.

  Gizelle did not mind his hands grabbing at her; it was somehow perfect for the moment, and she knew beyond anything else that she was safe here, with him.

  She had chosen him.

  He was hers.

  Chapter 32

  Conall woke to quiet.

  No, not to quiet.

  To silence.

  It was silent again, and Gizelle was gone.

  Despair felt like a heavy blanket. There was moonlight through the windows that Conall had never bothered to pull the curtains across, and he stared out at the jungle canopy that was moving in a night breeze he coul
dn’t hear.

  After an indulgent moment of self-pity, he made himself throw off the blanket and get up, turning on the light beside the bed so he could navigate to the bathroom.

  He was splashing cool water on his face when he caught sight of her in the mirror.

  Gizelle was curled up in the corner of the tile shower, tangled in a towel, with another draped over her as a blanket. Her eyes were closed tight.

  “Gizelle,” he said, not wanting to startle her as he approached.

  She was shivering.

  No, not shivering.

  She was trembling, her limbs twitching as if she were trying to flee but couldn’t.

  “Gizelle,” he said again, and he gently touched her, braced for the explosion of sound.

  He jumped, releasing her, and spun around at the voices. They vanished as his hand left her skin, and a quick survey of the room revealed no one with them.

  Cautiously, he touched her again, laying careful fingers on her bare shoulder.

  It sounded like there was a storm, a bone-deep rumbling, screams. A man’s voice was saying in agony, “We’re losing her!” A wolf howled in agony, and someone... sang.

  She was dreaming.

  “Gizelle,” he called. He couldn’t hear his own voice.

  Unable to leave her lying there, he gathered her into his arms, towels and all, and carried her back to the bed. “Gizelle,” he called, and she continued to dream. He guessed from what he felt through his arms that she was whimpering, but she couldn’t hear it, so he couldn’t either.

  He slipped in behind her, curling close, propped up on a pillow. “Gizelle,” he whispered into her hair.

  The sounds were awful, drowned in other sounds he couldn’t even identify, like radio static or wind, and she wouldn’t wake up.

  So he sang to her, mouth near her ear, a lullaby his mother had sung when he was a child.

  He was no opera singer, but he’d done time in the boys’ choir in school and had always been able to carry a tune. He had to trust he still could.

  After a long moment, he realized he could hear himself. It was distant and faint, but just enough to confirm his notes were true.

  Too sad, he thought. The music was too sad.

  Gizelle was excited for Christmas, so Conall took a breath, and sang her the happiest Christmas song he could think of, Santa Claus is Coming to Town. He drew her back from her dreams with his voice until she was lying peacefully in his arms and the voices were gone, swept away in the chaos of the jungle night noises.

  Then she opened her eyes. “I remember,” she said softly, sitting up.

  Conall sat up with her, dreading what she would say next. Did she remember cages and chains? Torture?

  “I remember that today is the day Chef is making figgy pudding,” she said in glee. Then she smiled sunnily and bounced in place. “The bed is softer than the floor,” and she was stretching and yawning.

  Did she not remember because she didn’t want to? Transference or denial or some psychological term? Whatever the reason, Conall was sure it was a mercy.

  “Gizelle,” he said softly, gently. “You don’t have to remember.”

  She sobered. “If I don’t, he might forget to share it with me. Scarlet says I’ll like it, and that it wouldn’t be Christmas without it. I’d better go tell him right now.” She started to scramble out of the bed.

  Conall caught Gizelle’s hand at the last moment, the silence when their contact was briefly broken a curious, short burst in the din of their shared hearing. “It’s the middle of the night,” he reminded her, pointing outside to the moonlit porch.

  “Oh,” she said, disappointed. “I suppose Chef won’t be up yet.”

  Then she smiled, full of mischief and suggestion, and it heated Conall’s blood to his toes. “I can think of something we can do. You said you could show me more ways to do that!”

  Conall realized he was grinning in reply, and then she was flowing into his arms for kisses.

  Chapter 33

  When Gizelle woke again, daylight was streaming in the windows and doors and she was still in the bed.

  The bed was far, far more comfortable than the floor had been.

  So comfortable that Gizelle was surprised she had slept.

  But it didn’t feel like cheating, it felt like home, and the pillow beside her still had the dip where Conall’s head had dented it.

  She rose from the bed and wandered around. Conall wasn’t in the bathroom or on the deck.

  There was a sundress folded on one of the chairs, so Gizelle put it on.

  She was sore, deliciously sore, in places she’d never been sore before, and it made her cheeks feel hot.

  She scampered to the bathroom to see herself blush, but it was already gone when she got there, so she frowned at her reflection.

  Lydia’s pretty braid was looking less and less tidy every day. Gizelle supposed she would have to go back to the salon and sit for hours again to have it look nice again. This explained why some people went to the salon every day, she guessed.

  Looking good was hard work.

  She wasn’t sure it was worth it.

  Then she remembered that Conall had liked the braid, and she thought perhaps it was worth it.

  There was a note on the counter in the bathroom, strong letters written on a piece of Shifting Sands stationery. Conall had left her a letter, she realized, heart soaring.

  Maybe it was a love letter.

  She puzzled at it, trying to make the letters resolve into words from sheer force of will until her stomach growled. She considered grazing, because it was the easiest, but probably she should eat like a person. Tex always had a bag of nuts behind the bar if she didn’t feel brave enough for the buffet.

  As she walked, she continued to try to make sense of the letter. She knew her name had a zee, but didn’t see one anywhere. Maybe he had used a different name. What had he called her? Darling? Sweetheart?

  “What’s that you’ve got, Rapunzel?” a voice interrupted her.

  Her feet had walked her to the pool deck.

  “It’s a letter,” she said, glancing at the man. He smelled like Tex’s trash can and his nose was too red for his face.

  “Pretty important looking letter,” the man said, moving to block her path. “It’s got all of your attention. There are better things to do.”

  Still looking at the paper, trying to figure out its secrets, Gizelle didn’t have the energy to spare for him.

  “Mmm,” she said, trying to skirt around him.

  Then, to her horror, the horrible man snatched the paper away from her.

  “No!” she shrieked. “That’s mine!”

  Chapter 34

  Conall was bent over his phone answering emails with his thumbs when the bar vibrated beneath his elbows.

  He looked up to find Tex holding a baseball bat and thumping his fist down.

  “I swear, I haven’t hurt her,” Conall said swiftly. “Why does everyone think I would?”

  But Tex pointed to the edge of the bar deck, urgently, and Conall left his phone behind as he went quickly to the railing and looked down.

  His hands balled into fists as he took in the scene below.

  He couldn’t hear Gizelle’s cries, but he could see the distress in every line of her body as she frantically tried to grab for the paper that some muscle in a Speedo and a t-shirt was holding out of her reach. The bastard was taunting her, clearly teasing her as she grew more agitated. A few guests in lounge chairs were frowning and looking at each other, but no one was stepping in.

  As he stalked towards the stairs, Tex caught his arm. Conall turned to snarl at him, then realized the bartender was offering his bat.

  “I don’t need that,” Conall growled, and he was flying down the stairs as he unbuttoned his shirt.

  “Leave her alone!” he hurled in challenge as he reached the bottom, hoping his voice would carry over the water features of the pool.

  If the man said anything, he didn�
��t turn so that Conall could catch it, continuing to bait Gizelle with the paper she so obviously coveted.

  There were tears in her eyes and it took all of Conall’s self-control not to simply shift and destroy the man on the spot. “Leave her alone!” he repeated, throwing his shirt over the back of one of the lounge chairs.

  The man turned, just in time for Conall to catch, “...just a bit of fun with her.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re that deaf moose, aren’t you, fancy boy.” Apparently, it wasn’t just helpless women he enjoyed taunting. Conall couldn’t hear if his speech slurred, but he guessed the man was drunk from the flush on his face.

  “Moose?” Conall said evenly, slipping out of his shoes. “Gizelle, get back.”

  “You want to have at it?” the man said in challenge, removing his own shirt viciously. “Maybe you don’t know that I’m a grizzly bear, and I can take on any deer. You’re all prey to me.”

  “I’m not a moose,” Conall warned. “I’m an elk.” He gave a quick glance to see that the guests around them were properly far off and Gizelle had retreated a few steps.

  “That’s just what you stuck-up Europeans call moose,” the man said dismissively, taking off his Speedo defiantly.

  “I’m from Boston,” Conall told him, unbuttoning his own pants. “And I’m an Irish elk.”

  He shifted seamlessly the moment his clothing was free, and the man scrambled back in front of him. Extinct since the ice age, his elk stood seven feet at the shoulder and had a rack wider than a car.

  The odious man swiftly turned into his grizzly counterpart, but even standing on rear feet, he wasn’t level with the elk’s eyes.

  Conall snorted once, tipped his head, and charged forward.

  The bear didn’t even have a chance to slash out with his claws before Conall had scooped him up with his antlers and tossed him out into the pool with a massive splash.

  Conall shifted back to human and turned to find Gizelle kneeling in defeat at the side of the pool. She raised tearful eyes to him as Conall came to comfort her.