by Karina Halle
It’s pure Christmas bliss, if you’re into that kind of thing, and I think it’s exactly what Kayla needs to get into the spirit, to put a smile on her face.
“Oh my god,” Kayla says as we turn the corner and the whole sparkling world lights up before us. She’s so wide-eyed, like a little kid, that I can’t help but grin at her, squeezing her tight to me. “This looks so amazing!”
“I thought it might cheer you up,” I tell her. “It’s impossible to be in a bad mood here.”
“Yeah,” she says, looking around her at the crowds wandering to and fro. “Even though people are like my least favorite thing, at least here everyone looks happy.”
I’m not big on crowds or people either—probably one of the many reasons why the two of us work so well together—but here it just adds to the flavor of things. It’s amazing what you’re willing to forgive at this time of year.
Kayla wants to go on the Big Wheel, so we head on down to it.
“I thought you were afraid of heights,” I say, craning my neck back to look at the giant Ferris wheel with the enclosed pods. Shadows of people lean against them, staring at what must be an astounding view.
“I am,” she admits. “But I think this whole embracing your fears thing is rubbing off on me.”
But when we get near the line we hear the wait is at least an hour. So we stroll over to the market stalls instead. We both get cups of steaming hot mulled wine. I get the non-alcoholic version and so does Kayla. I’ve told her a few times that just because I don’t drink anymore doesn’t mean she has to, but she always dismisses it. Her support in just the most subtle of ways undoes me sometimes.
“Hey, help me pick out something for your family,” she says, taking my hand and pulling me toward some of the vendors.
I look over everything, most things geared toward Christmas, tapping my fingers against my lips. “Jessica and Donald are both easy and hard to shop for,” I tell her. “I know that doesn’t bloody help much, but it’s true. They have everything they could want, but what they always love is something personal. Something that made you think of them, that you could see in their house.”
“That helps,” she says, looking at me hopefully. “Want to go in on a present with me?”
I smile at her. “Of course I do. But you’re picking it out.”
She gives me an exaggerated pout before turning her attention back to the rows of goods. “Fine. But if you think they’ll hate it, you have to tell me.”
“Deal.”
It’s funny watching Kayla as she tries to find just the right gift. She goes from stall to stall, asking the vendors questions, examining every item like she’s an appraiser at an auction. Finally she settles on a plastic box of delicate glass Christmas ornaments that look about a hundred years old.
“They’re vintage,” she tells me, reading the tag. “Jessica has such an eye for design, especially antiques. At least that’s what I could tell from their house.” She hands it to me. “Look close at the pattern. There are miniature Edinburgh landmarks inside the glass, done up like frost.”
I peer at it and spot Edinburgh Castle in one, the cathedral in another, blending seamlessly inside the glass balls like a miniature, snow-covered world. It’s very beautiful and I think Jessica would think it’s absolutely brilliant. Donald would just be happy with whatever makes his wife happy.
“Done,” I say, fishing out some notes and handing it over to the vendor who takes it happily.
“Now on to Brigs,” she says, grasping the bag to her chest.
“He’s easy,” I tell her. “Highball glasses for his Scotch. He collects them.”
She raises her eyebrow. “That’s a little too easy. Let me guess, you’ve been giving him that gift for years now.”
I shrug. “We’re both pretty low maintenance in the gift department. And that’s a hint from me to you. Meaning, don’t get me anything.”
“Oh, I won’t,” she says, even though I know she will. Which reminds me, I’ve got to get her a gift. I’ve been stewing over it all week, and I still can’t come up with anything. There’s really nothing on the planet that could possibly express what she means to me.
“Brigs teaches film, right?” she asks as we get ourselves hot roasted chestnuts. “I mean, even though he teaches it, he’s obviously a film buff.”
I nod. “Aye,” I say, before inhaling the smell of the chestnuts. That always solidifies Christmas for me. Even when I was a young lad and didn’t have a proper Christmas, my birth mother always bought some for me every December. It’s one of the few good memories I have from growing up. In some ways, those rarities made it harder in the coming years.
“So,” she says as we walk by a stall where a caricature artist is presently sketching a squirming little girl. “We could get one of this guy’s prints.” She nods at the art lining the wall of the tent, some of random people, others celebrities, from Audrey Hepburn to Kanye West. “Or,” she goes on, “you have a picture of him on your phone, right? We could get a caricature of him drawn as whatever film dude he likes.”
“Film dude?” I repeat, biting my lip to keep from laughing.
She rolls her eyes, slapping my arm. “You know what I mean.”
I sigh, folding my arms across my chest and peering at the range of drawings. It would be utterly ridiculous to get Brigs something like this, but at the same time, I think he’s the type to appreciate it for just how ridiculous it is. Maybe Kayla is right. The same old thing does get boring after a while, and it’s always the thought that counts.
“Well, he’s always been a big Buster Keaton fan,” I tell her. “See if you can make that happen.” I bring out my phone, flipping to a photo of Brigs and me together. We’re both smiling, and he has his blindingly white, straight teeth on show. It’s going to be real easy for the artist to make fun of that.
She snatches the phone out of my hand, peers at it closely, and then waits until the artist is done drawing the little girl before she explains what we want.
The man shrugs, as if he draws Brigs as Buster Keaton every day, and we agree on a price before he starts working.
“You know what I think Brigs needs?” Kayla says to me as the man draws, working a lot quicker than I thought he would. “A dog. You should convince him to adopt one of your shelter dogs.”
I give her a wry smile, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Believe me, I’ve tried. After he lost Miranda and Hamish, I thought a dog could help him overcome the grief. But he hasn’t been interested. Too wrapped up in his own world, which I get. And he loves dogs too—he always talks about Lionel and how one day he’ll adopt. But I don’t push it. I think dogs come to you when you need them just as much as when they need you.”
“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 lo
oks 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 t
he 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.