Holiday Hearts

by A. C. Arthur

  Outside, she heard a light drizzle--freezing rain and sleet. She’d noticed it when she walked from the dining room, through the kitchen. If she got close enough to the window, she could hear it hitting the glass and making a tiny clicking sound. There was no denying the logic of her staying at Ian’s tonight. Driving would be a disaster. Still, she wished there was another alternative. Or did she?

  By the time she’d come out of the bathroom Ian had the fire roaring again and the television was tuned to some black and white movie. The shirt from the laundry basket that she’d put on was long, and the fabric was soft against her skin. His distinctive masculine scent clung to the shirt surrounding her like a warm cocoon.

  She walked over to the sofa unsure of herself and sat on the edge of the cushion, trying to decide once again if she was doing the right thing. Did she really have to stay here with Ian or was it a convenient excuse? Maybe she should have gone to a hotel. That way she wouldn’t be tortured by her desire for something that was at best only fleeting. It was unfair of him to suggest that she stay with him. Dinner was virtually prepared and waiting, as if he’d been expecting her all along. And the setting—the dim lights, the gorgeous Christmas tree, the moonlight that poured into the living room from the huge windows—created the most romantic surroundings. Why didn’t he invest in mini blinds like other people?

  “Here we go, nice, hot cocoa,” he said. His smile was a bit too broad, his steps a little too sure-footed. As he sat on the sofa beside her, offering her an oversized mug with cute little Disney characters on it and a mountain of whipped cream piled on top—she thought he was a little too damn smug for the situation.

  “Ian, maybe I should go,” she said, as he thrust the mug toward her hands. The cup was warm as she took the handle with one hand and held the bottom with the other.

  “Careful, it’s hot,” he said and used his now free hand to grab one of the dishtowels he’d thrown over his shoulder and gave it to her.

  Why did he have to be so considerate? He was making this too hard.

  Reluctantly she took the towel wrapping it around the mug, but refusing to put it down on the table beside her. It wasn’t just that he’d managed to give her a mug with one of her favorite characters on it—Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh—but the scent of fresh cocoa and whipped cream was like a drug. Each time she inhaled, the aroma wafted to her nose, calming and easing her worries, and making it difficult for her to come up with a good reason why she should leave.

  He was settled back in the chair with his mug of cocoa cradled in his hand. “Now what were you saying?”

  “Ah,” she stammered. What was she going to say? Oh, yeah, she was going to leave. “I was just thinking that maybe the roads are clear now.”

  “That was the problem, remember? The streets are coated with black ice. It’s slippery and dangerous to drive on the highway, especially in that car of yours.”

  He dipped his head to take a sip of cocoa, and licked the whipped cream off that covered his upper lip. She watched his profile, his strong jaw line moving as he swallowed. His close-cropped hair tapered softly against his head, as his dark eyebrows arched slightly over his deep brown eyes. Stop it, she warned herself. Admitting that Ian was a very attractive man had never been an issue for her. But desperately wanting to sleep with him had been a problem.

  “So, how do you like your cocoa? Do you need more sugar? More whipped cream?”

  His question tore her away from her lustful thoughts and she hurried to lift the rim to her lips for a taste. It was perfect, the moment her lips touched the edge of the mug she knew it would be. The cool whipped cream had already begun to melt in the steaming mug of cocoa. When she sipped the sweet hot-and-cold combo, the warmth slowly moved through her body increasing her temperature ever so slightly. For what seemed like the billionth time tonight she remembered her childhood and the holidays.

  “It’s just right,” she said quietly.

  “Good.” Ian moved closer, settling next to her. When he’d come into the room he could see she was having second thoughts, trying to come up with reasons why she shouldn’t be there with him. His plan was to divide and conquer, but he couldn’t exactly ignore her concerns.

  Keysa was nothing if not practical. So when she’d mentioned leaving, reminding her of the hazardous weather conditions was his only defense. Before he had a chance to regroup, she got that far away look again—the one that suggested there was more to her apprehensiveness about being near him than she was willing to admit.

  “Do you know what movie this is?” he asked when he saw her staring at the television screen.

  “I do,” she said simply.

  “It’s one of my favorites.”

  “Really? That’s surprising,” she said after a little pause.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re a man.” She shrugged.

  He chuckled. “Yeah, but last time I checked men liked movies too.”

  Moving a hand from her mug she waved at him as if to dismiss his words. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Okay, explain.”

  “I just meant that guys don’t normally like holiday movies. And if they do, they usually aren’t black and white movies.”

  “I don’t know what guys you’ve been hanging around with, but the best holiday movies are black and white. Now, take this one,” he said pointing at the screen. “The Bishop’s Wife was such a hit that twenty years later, they did a remake called The Preacher’s Wife.”

  “Hmmm, I know,” Keysa said. As she took another sip of cocoa, high cheekbones arched just a bit higher as she swallowed and smiled. “So which one is your favorite? I mean, who do you like best as the angel, Cary Grant or Denzel Washington?”

  “That would probably be a toss-up. They were both classy in the role. But the real stars were the wives.”

  “True,” she nodded. “Whitney Houston did a good job.”

  “So you didn’t like Loretta Young?”

  She looked up at the screen at the scene where Cary Grant takes Loretta Young to lunch and she tells him she feels old. His response is that the only people who are old were born old, and she was born young. The way Loretta Young looks at Cary Grant is pretty much the way Keysa has secretly been looking at Ian. Even though she can’t see the way she looks at Ian, it just has that feeling. “No, I think Loretta Young portrayed the character Julia the best.”

  “See, there’s something to be said about old movies.”

  Keysa nodded. “I agree. There’s something that seems a bit more sincere that you just don’t see in movies today.”

  “You’re absolutely right. That’s why I have such a huge collection.”

  “Really? What else do you have?”

  “My prized possession is my Humphrey Bogart movie collection.”

  “Ooooh yeah,” she crooned. “Casablanca.”

  She’d settled in, folded one leg under her and sat sideways so she could see the television and him.

  “There you go with the chick-flick first,” he chuckled turning so he could face her. “The Maltese Falcon was the best.”

  “Speaking of actors from The Bishop’s Wife,” Keysa said noting his frown because she ignored his comment about one of Bogart’s suspense pictures. “Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story is another favorite. Oh, and Bachelor Mother, David Niven starred with Ginger Rogers. ” She nodded towards the television but kept looking at him.

  He noticed it in her eyes. If he’d been deaf and had missed it in her voice, it was there in the depths of her brown eyes—pure unadulterated joy. He’d finally hit upon the one thing she was unguarded and excited about—classic movies. In that moment Ian thought Keysa was absolutely beautiful. She was gorgeous in his shirt, her legs folded carelessly like a young girl, her hair just a little out of place, as she sat in front of his big Christmas tree. She was perfect. He laughed to keep himself from reaching out and pulling her closer towards him and taking her the way he’d
wanted to for months.

  “Those aren’t my only favorites. I could go on,” she said taking another drink.

  “I’m sure you could.”

  They were silent for a moment as the sound of the television echoed around them. In The Bishop’s Wife, Cary Grant’s character is asked to perform a miracle, to prove that he’s an angel. And tonight Ian felt like he needed a miracle. He needed fate to intervene to make Keysa stick around, to admit the attraction that had been circling around them the past year. Maybe it wouldn’t take a miracle, he thought hopefully. The cocoa and the movie seemed to be doing the trick, or so he thought.

  “I’d rather not watch a holiday movie,” she said, somewhat solemnly.

  “It’s three days before Christmas. How can you not want to see holiday movies?”

  “My parents’ divorce was finalized twenty years ago on Christmas day,” she said, and sat up as if she hadn’t meant to blurt it out so abruptly.

  “Oh.” He’d known her parents had divorced when she was a child. That was something she’d told him on one of the dates they’d been on. She’d been seven years old and her mother had moved them to Detroit right after the split. It wasn’t an amicable split, she’d said, and custody and visitation difficulties between her parents resulted in Keysa being estranged from her father.

  “It’s silly,” she said, leaning forward to place her mug on the table. “You’d think after all this time I’d get over it. But every year the same hurt comes back.”

  “Maybe you don’t want to let it go?”

  Her head snapped around as she glared at him. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that if you keep memorializing their breakup, then it’s likely to keep hurting. Sometimes we need to forget those hurts and let them fade away so we can heal and move on.”

  “It’s not for me to heal,” she said testily. “I’m not the one who got divorced.”

  “No, but you’re the one who was most affected by it. Didn’t you say your mother never remarried and she’s not even dating?”

  Keysa sighed as if she regretted telling him so much about her family. “No, she never remarried.”

  “Did she ever date?”

  “Not really. Not while I was living at home.”

  “And let me guess, she hates Christmas too?”

  Her shoulders stiffened a bit. “Don’t make it sound like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like she’s some bitter old maid who needs to get on with her own life and stop pulling me down with her unhappiness.”

  “I didn’t say that, you did.”

  “Ha. Ha. Very funny,” she quipped then rubbed her hands over her face. “Maybe we should just get some sleep. I want to be in the office early tomorrow and I need to go home and change first.”

  And that was that, Ian thought. Gone was the happy Keysa, replaced by the stubborn, resolute one. He should’ve been pleased that the cool, unflappable Keysa hadn’t returned, but this wasn’t exactly the way he wanted the evening to end.

  “Fine,” he said despite his feelings. He wasn’t going to push her any further tonight because he sensed that what she’d said about her mother was an admission that had been a long time coming.

  FIVE

  The fire had died down, but the moonlight spilled into the room through the windows. Ian’s body was on full alert, warmth moving through him and pooling in his groin as he inhaled her soft floral scent. He lay on his back with Keysa curled in his arms, their legs were entwined as his long shirt that she’d worn was riding up over her hips. Under the blanket his hands splayed over her lower back, downward to touch the delectable curve of her buttocks.

  She shifted in his arms, her hair brushing over his chin as her head lay on his chest. Ian inhaled deeply, loving the feel of her full breasts pressed against him. She was so soft and so pliant in his arms he wanted to hold her here forever. When she moved again her knee slid up his leg, resting dangerously close to his swollen arousal.

  His moan couldn’t be contained and Ian’s hand slid over her bottom to grip her thigh, pulling her leg up higher until it brushed over his arousal. The feeling was intense it sent shivers through his entire body until he was grimacing in pleasure. Her hands splayed over his chest and her hips jutted forward. He wanted to yell out, to pull her on top of him and sink his length deep inside of her, but he had to be sure this was what she wanted.

  Keysa Donovan was no ordinary woman and making love to her wouldn’t be a brief sexual encounter for him. He’d wanted her on a level he’d never experienced before and so he had been patiently waiting for her to come around. Tonight he wanted her, badly. He wanted to consummate their new relationship, to make her understand how much he needed and desired her. He had so much he wanted to give her, so much he wanted to share with this woman, if only she would open up to him.

  As if she’d heard his inner pleas, Keysa’s head lifted until her deep brown eyes were staring at him. Her curly hair was mussed, her eyes tinged with lust.

  “What are we doing?” she asked in a hushed tone.

  “Whatever you want to do,” was his reply.

  For a moment she hesitated, then her head dipped lower and her lips touched his. It was a feather-light touch at first, and Ian responded tentatively. Then her tongue stroked his lower lip and he heard himself groaning again. Extending his tongue they engaged in a sensual exchange before their lips finally touched again and the kiss went even deeper. By this time Keysa’s body had moved so that she was on top of him. Ian’s hands cupped the round swells of her bottom, pressing her center into his erection.

  Sliding his hands underneath the band of her bikinis, he quickly felt her heat and sighed when his fingers slid through her moistened slit. She gasped and opened her legs wider. Finding her center, Ian slipped first one, then two fingers deep inside her, kissing her mouth with an urgency that had his heart pounding in his chest.

  Keysa began undulating her hips, moving against the slow and tortuous rhythm of his fingers. When she stilled and moaned, long and deep Ian thought he would simply explode. Instead he slid his hand from between her legs and hastily removed her panties. In a twist of arms, hands and heavy breathing, Keysa pulled his boxers down his legs and pushed them aside, and resumed her position on top of him. She looked down at him momentarily before positioning herself over his rigid length. Guiding himself into her slickness Ian kept his eyes on her face as sensations swirled inside threatening to engulf him completely.

  “So hot,” he murmured. “So sweet.”

  Keysa’s hips rotated as she settled on top of him, taking him in deep. “Yes,” she whispered.

  His hands griped her hips, guiding her into a slow ride that seemed to caress every nerve ending from his head to his toes.

  With ever swerve and lift of her hips Keysa felt sexy and powerful. Her swollen breasts heaved and tingled as she lifted the hem of the shirt and pulled it over her head. His hands instantly came up to grab her breasts, his thumbs tweaking her nipples. She sighed, dragging her tongue over her lower lips. His touch felt good, the sound of his voice whispering her name was blissful. The feel of him buried deep inside her was unspeakable.

  Her mind was free of everything and everyone except Ian and this moment. Somewhere in the distance she saw the glimmer of lights on a Christmas tree and rays of moonlight cast about the room. But her focus was on this man and this driving need to take everything he was offering her.

  When he sat up, wrapping his arms around her waist to keep her astride him. Her eyes opened and locked on his. He was looking at her as if she were the only person in the world, not just in the room. And when his lips descended on hers again, she felt as if it was just the two of them—just her and Ian—wrapped in this beautiful dream and this night of passion.

  She locked her legs behind his back and gasped when he stood holding her while keeping himself still buried inside of her. Lowering her to the floor he drove into her mercilessly, soliciting more moans from her as her mo
ist center sucked his entire length inside.

  His head lowered and his tongue found her puckered nipples. Keysa grabbed the back of his head, holding him in place, feeling her thighs clench with ever stroke of his tongue over her heated flesh. When his hand slipped between them, his fingers finding the tightened bud of her center and stroked it lovingly until Keysa exploded.

  Every nerve in her body was on end as pleasure soared through every pore. His name came in a heated whispered through clenched teeth.

  “Perfect,” was his hushed reply. “Dammit, you’re perfect!”

  He lifted her legs to rest on his shoulders and moved with quick heated strokes inside her until he was gasping and moaning his own release.

  When Keysa’s legs finally ceased shaking and her pleasure-dazed mind could think past the monumental orgasm she’d just achieved, she wrapped her arms around Ian once more.

  “I’m never letting you go now,” he said rolling over and pulling her with him. “You’re the best Christmas present I could have ever asked for.”

  With her head on his shoulder Keysa let his words wash over her without giving them much thought. “This moment is perfect,” she admitted kissing his chest and remembering him calling her perfect. It wasn’t her, she knew. It was them—together—this bonding that had been perfect. But for that millisecond it had been perfect, she told herself, if only for tonight.

  SIX

  Keysa rolled over onto her back and stretched. She hadn’t slept so well in weeks with work and the stress of the holidays riding her. Opening her eyes slowly she remembered she wasn’t in her own bed and wondered if that could have played a part in how well she’d slept. Inhaling deeply she smelled coffee and bacon and sighed.

  Ian was cooking breakfast.

  Pressing her palms over her face she replayed the events of the night before. She’d done exactly what she’d been trying to avoid with Ian for months. The decision to stop going out with him had been quick, and without much thought on her part. All she’d needed to know was that she really liked Ian Sanchez, and could see herself falling for him fast. Those facts alone made it impossible to keep seeing him.