Christmas Spirit

by Amy Garvey

  Chapter Eight

  Their plan had worked for almost thirty minutes, Sam thought as he tugged Charlie’s shirt off. He’d set up the laptop down in the kitchen with a reheated cup of coffee and Charlie had gone upstairs to her office dutifully. They were going to work, they were going to be responsible adults, they were not going to discuss the supernatural or her family history, and they most definitely were not going to kiss. Or even touch.

  Until ten minutes ago, when they’d collided on the staircase, Charlie coming down to ask him something pointless about Word’s macro options and him going up to ask if he could pour himself another cup of coffee. At least they were both terrible liars, he thought, and tossed her shirt somewhere behind him.

  She whimpered a little bit, and reached for his belt buckle, but he wrestled her hands out of the way. “Not yet,” he whispered, and felt a tug of heat in his groin when his words pulled another needy, desperate sound from her throat.

  They’d stared at each other for all of five seconds on the stairs before he pulled her up against him and kissed her, licking hungrily into her mouth. Her arms had gone around him without hesitation, and when he’d steered her back up the stairs, she had taken the lead and pulled him into her bedroom.

  The afternoon sun through the thin Roman shades at the windows bathed the room in gold light, a layer of warmth over the carpet and the gleaming wood; all Sam could see was bed and Charlie herself. She was trembling, blinking nervously, reaching for him in her old jeans and that loose white shirt, and somehow she was the most gorgeous, desirable thing he had ever seen.

  They shouldn’t do this, and he knew it. Not here, in this house. Not when he couldn’t tell if the ghost or whatever otherworldly emanation it gave off was making them behave this way, which was so unbelievable he couldn’t believe he was actually considering it. The problem was, he wanted Charlie too much to care, no matter what was making him feel that way.

  But it wasn’t right not to at least mention it, he argued with himself silently, pushing her backwards onto the bed gently. He’d stripped her down to her bra and panties in no time, both plain cream-colored satin, and he’d already lifted her glasses off and set them on the bedside table.

  She caught his wrist in her hand, but he pulled back quickly. “Charlie, we should talk,” he managed, which was a definite accomplishment, given the pure need rushing hot in his blood. “This house, that heat ...”

  “I don’t care,” she said firmly and stood up, closing the few steps between them quickly. “I really, really don’t.”

  “You’re sure?” he said, and let her unbuckle his belt this time. Her fingers were surprisingly steady, and the minute the belt was unfastened, she unbuttoned his jeans and reached for the zipper. The polite thing to do was obviously to strip off his shirt.

  “I’m so sure,” she answered, her voice gone ragged and soft with desire. When she looked up at him, lips parted and still slick from their kisses, he gave in without a fight.

  “I’m so glad,” he whispered, stepping out of his jeans and black boxer briefs. He toed off his socks as she backed onto the bed, climbing up and kneeling on it until he came close enough for her to wind her arms around his neck.

  “I want this,” she said, mouthing along his jaw line. She was warm and soft against him, still vibrating with a fine ripple of excitement, and his cock was hard against her belly. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “I believe you,” he said, voice gone rough with arousal as her fingers trailed over his shoulders and pecs, traveling down to learn the shape of his ribs. Her touch was light, wondering, the soft pads of her fingers just brushing the skin. “I want you, too, Charlie. So much.”

  He climbed onto the bed then and lowered her onto her back, kneeling over her and looking his fill. Her breasts were already flushed above the cups of her bra, and her hair had spilled out over the comforter in a golden brown fan.

  Normally, he would take his time. Luxuriate in a new body to learn, tease and whisper and make it all easy and comfortable. Normally, he wasn’t already hard enough to hammer nails and trying to remember his own name past the throbbing rush of blood in his head, in his belly. He could feel his own pulse skating higher as he simply looked at Charlie, and when she raised her arms, beckoning him closer, he knew there was no normal right now.

  This was different. It was too urgent, too fierce, too undeniable. But normal or not, he was going with it, hell yeah.

  Then he was stretched out over her, fitting their bodies together, and kissing her like she was the air he needed to breathe. She arched beneath him, rubbing her breasts against him, wrapping her legs around his waist, and he kissed her deeper, biting at her bottom lip and licking at her tongue, memorizing the taste of her.

  “Want,” she said faintly against his mouth, and wriggled beneath him. “Sam.”

  “What do you want, baby?” He mouthed along her collarbone, and swept his hand up her arm. She was hot all over now, velvet skin flushed. “Tell me.”

  “Bra,” she managed, pushing at his chest, and he kneeled up to reach around her and unhook it. It came away in his hands, loose scraps of silk, and he tossed it backwards, wincing when he heard a faint hiss.

  “It’s the cat,” Charlie breathed, wriggling out of her panties laughing. “Ignore him.”

  “With pleasure,” Sam answered, and slid down to take one rigid nipple in his mouth. They were both hard already, dark pink, straining away from the sweet white slopes of her breasts and begging for his mouth. He licked at the first one and stroked the second between his thumb and forefinger, thrusting his hips against her when she bucked up into the sensation.

  “You like that?” he murmured, pulling at the nipple in his fingers until she shuddered, nodding. He answered by suckling her nipple deeper, using his tongue on the cushy underside to push it up against the roof of his mouth, drawing hard.

  “Yes.” The word was broken into at least three syllables, but he didn’t even smile at the evidence of how desperate she sounded already, the way he usually would. He was right there with her—he’d been idling at ready since the porch, and he’d turned the corner, speeding into right now ten minutes ago.

  He wanted to spread her open, lay her out and feast on her, pull those whimpering mewls out of her throat, but that was going to have to be later. Much later, because right now he just wanted to be inside her, deep and hot and possibly forever.

  Seventeen, he thought absently as he pressed kisses in the smooth valley between her breasts and stroked her hip. He’d been seventeen the last time he was this ready, this close to the edge before he’d even been inside.

  Then it had been a senior girl, in his pal’s narrow, slightly smelly bed while an end-of-summer party raged on outside the closed and locked door. He’d been hoping for weeks, putting his best effort into every make-out session, mentally calculating the number of times she’d let him go beneath her shirt, her bra, and finally into her panties with careful, shaking fingers.

  When she’d showed him the condom she’d stolen from her older brother’s dresser drawer after he’d brought her a dripping red plastic cup of beer from the keg Scott’s older brother had provided, the rush of knowing he was about to lose his virginity had almost knocked him on his ass.

  All told, he thought now, ignoring the way his cock twitched as he slid down Charlie’s body, the friction sweet and hot against the swollen head, that first time had taken maybe three minutes. One finger inside her to see if she was wet, which his own older brother had told him was absolutely necessary, and then he’d rolled the condom on, fumbling with the slick latex and jerking a little at the snap when it was in place.

  She’d gasped a little when he first thrust into her, and it wasn’t like he’d imagined, it was strange and tight and unbearably exciting and ... yeah, three minutes. Maybe.

  That was a long time ago. He’d had a whole lot of fun since then. But something about Charlie put him back in that place of innocence. Well, this was his first time wi
th her. He promised himself that it wasn’t going to be the last.

  And then she wrapped her legs around him, tightening them around his ribs and lifting her head to look down at him. “Sam,” she breathed.

  Twenty-five minutes at least, he thought a little wildly. He could definitely do that much.

  Charlie didn’t even know what she was asking for, really. Okay, well, that wasn’t completely true, she wasn’t a virgin, but this? She’d never wanted a man the way she wanted Sam right now.

  And she didn’t just want him, she needed him. At the moment, the long, solid weight of him on top of her felt like the only thing keeping her from breaking apart entirely.

  She could feel him everywhere—the whispering sensuality of his breath on her skin, the wet, lazy swipe of his tongue, his fingers pressing into her hips, her waist, and, oh, sliding along her thigh now. The world had diminished to nothing but Sam and her own body, the sounds of their breathing as it husked out over skin, the gentle creak of the bedstead under the cushy mattress as they moved, the taste of his tongue in her mouth, the hot rush of blood pounding in her head.

  “Sam,” she said again, and spread her legs wider as he shouldered between them. His fingertips were tracing designs on her thighs as he kissed her belly and the delicate skin between her hipbones, and she still didn’t know what she was asking unless it was more or now or please or all three.

  “Let me taste you,” Sam murmured, and she shivered, breath hitching in her throat. He slid even lower and slid one finger through the wet heat between her legs, careful, exploring, and then his mouth was there, pressing a soft kiss to the curls, mouthing at the folds, tongue licking into her.

  Her head fell back on the pillows and she gasped out loud as her hips rocked up to meet him, knocking against his mouth.

  “Easy, baby,” he whispered, soothing her with a steady hand on her thigh. “Just a little more.”

  More? She could barely take this much, but it didn’t matter, really, because she still wanted it, all of it, everything he could give her.

  She’d never felt anything like this. She’d had sex, sure, and sometimes it had seemed pretty good. She loved kissing, even if she’d always been worried that she wasn’t very good at it, and the “after” of sex, when it was over and it was all about lying in each other’s arms, warm and loose and relaxed.

  This wasn’t relaxed. This was so far from relaxed, it was sort of terrifying, in fact, but it was also ridiculously good. She was beginning to understand why there were people who loved roller coasters and bungee jumping.

  She was beginning to understand why people loved sex.

  She knew, somewhere in the back of her head, where higher function was still possible, that she should think harder about this. About sleeping with a man she barely knew. About wanting to sleep with a man she barely knew so much that she could barely stand to wait another minute until he was inside her. About why she wanted him so much when she barely knew him, and why she had suddenly found this unexpected vein of courage running through her like ore through stone.

  But that would have to come later, she decided as Sam licked into her again, tongue touching off a shower of sparks, fiery and hot, as he carefully circled her clit. So much later.

  “Sam,” she said again, and realized it was the only word left to her. She tried again, arching against his mouth at the same time, and came up with, “Please.”

  “Want to make you come first,” Sam murmured once he’d pulled his mouth away. He kissed her thigh, lips wet against her skin, and then leaned down again.

  She struggled onto her elbows, breathing shallowly as she watched him, his sandy head moving languidly as he kissed and licked her. The sight blazed through her like a flame—it was so intimate, so powerful, the way he was feasting on that dark, secret place—and before she could protest that orgasm didn’t usually happen for her that way, or any way, he did something complicated and brilliant with his tongue.

  Oh God, it was too much. She was coming, the sensation rolling up from her toes, rough, sweet fire that lit her up from the inside out until she was gasping, shaking.

  “Oh,” she whispered when she came back to herself to find Sam crawling up her body again, kissing her all the way. “I ...” There were no words for what that had felt like, how good it had been, but when Sam climbed off the bed entirely, she found her voice. “Um, Sam?”

  He straightened up with a foil-wrapped condom in one hand, his eyes dark and intent. He ripped the package open as he stood by the bed, setting the wrapper on the bedside table. His erection was flushed dark with blood, and the tip was already shiny wet as it bobbed up against his belly.

  “Oh,” she said again, and bit her bottom lip. They weren’t done. Yes. “Let me,” she said, and held out her hand.

  The mattress dipped when he climbed up again, kneeling over her. The rubber disc was slick and cool in her fingers, and she swallowed hard as she took his erection in her hand. There was a pulse on the underside, a heavy blue vein that ran the length, and the head was like a plum, flushed and ripe. A thready voice in her head whispered, Taste it, and she bent her head and did just that, without even thinking.

  Sam groaned, a long, low, urgent sound, as she swirled her tongue around the head. It was salty and hot, and this close she could smell the dark musk of his skin. She’d never done this before with any man, not that there had been many— one of them had been little more than a college boy, anyway—and she didn’t know why.

  A stupidly blissed-out part of her wondered if she’d simply been waiting for Sam.

  “Charlie,” Sam gritted out, as if it was his turn to communicate everything he wanted her to know by using simply her name.

  She kissed the wet tip once more before angling up to roll the condom on, and then she fell back on the pillows. Sam didn’t hesitate—he kneeled between her spread legs, using one finger in the folds of flesh to smear the slick wetness around her core. She bowed up, reaching for him, and he settled around her, driving home in one smooth thrust.

  “Charlie,” he whispered, and she found his mouth as she clung to his shoulders.

  He felt so good inside her, filling her completely, the hot length of him sliding in and out as he rolled his hips. He sped ahead of her, thrusting hard at first, before a sudden, insistent side-to-side grind, and then all that hard heat bottomed out again before retreating, until she was nearly sobbing.

  There was nothing but this, pleasure like a living thing inside her, twisting and traveling, clawing its way up and out, and she bit her lip hard as he thrust home again with a grunt. His face was so completely open, pleasure so naked and honest in his eyes, that the tension wrapped tight inside her uncoiled with a violent snap, and she came as he did.

  For a moment they were both panting and shaking, frozen as the release shivered through them. Then Sam gently dropped his forehead to hers, and she wound her arms around his back. She’d been clinging to his shoulders so hard, she’d probably left bruises, she thought in a kind of wonder.

  He kissed her, slow and easy, still buried inside her, and she waited for that moment she’d felt before, when it was simply comfortable, urgency faded to a warm, dull glow ... and it didn’t come. When he slipped out of her and rolled onto his back, dragging her up to his side with one firm arm, all she felt was an overwhelming loss, the need to have him inside her again as soon as possible, layered over the pleasure.

  And that was frightening, really. As she laid her head on his chest, pushing up into the hand that stroked her hair steadily, she closed her eyes and felt the memory of that heat in the spare bedroom.

  Desperate, punishing, consuming. And for the first time, she thought she understood where it had come from.

  Chapter Nine

  At six o’clock, Lillian couldn’t stand it anymore. She’d been pacing around the shop all afternoon, Gloria at her heels, paging through invoices and Internet orders without really reading them, nodding at customers without making much conversation, her brain
focused on the Prescott house and what Sam had told her was going on there.

  Not all of what was going on there, of course. But she wasn’t an idiot, and she could see the heat in Sam’s eyes when he talked about Charlie.

  That was ... troubling. None of her business, either, but troubling nonetheless.

  Not that she didn’t trust Sam. She’d met more than her share of Sams in her lifetime, but she was willing to bet that Charlie hadn’t. And even though most of the Sams Lillian had met were even less charming and nowhere near as smart as Sam Landry, not to mention as kind-hearted as she instinctively knew he was under that edgy exterior, she was willing to bet that Charlie was going to get thrown for a big fat loop, knocked on her delicate ass with her heart in her hands.

  Men like Sam didn’t stay put. Men like Sam didn’t understand weddings and taking out the garbage and staggering out of bed in the middle of the night to soothe a baby with his mother’s eyes and his father’s healthy lungs. For a long time Lillian hadn’t understood those things, either, or the desire for them, but Charlie was a romantic. Charlie had probably been dreaming about those very things since she was a kid. And, unless Lillian missed her guess, Charlie wasn’t the type to give herself, body and soul, to a man when there was no hope that one day they might consolidate their dishes and CDs and argue over whose turn it was to do the dishes and put the CDs back in their cases, until they figured out they would be better off switching to paper plates and MP3s.

  And then there was the issue of the ghosts.

  Pages carried a skimpy selection of books on the paranormal, Lillian realized halfway through the afternoon, when her curiosity had gotten the better of her. It was tempting to rectify that but, then again, the store had never had much call for them before now.

  Ghosts. It wasn’t as if she’d never considered the idea before. Hell, she’d been through the Summer of Love and the subsequent years while still in grad school. She’d considered everything from raising her consciousness to the existence of alien life forms, free love, and the life-altering benefits of having your astrological chart done and eating more tofu. Ghosts seemed sort of tame in comparison, and living in New England all her life she’d heard more than her share of tales about things that went bump in the night.