Page 36 of The Humbug Holiday

He brushed his thumb over my cheek and pushed my hair behind my ear. “Now…I’m decorating a tree. There’s snow on the ground, holiday songs are playing everywhere, I have a wreath and garland on my door, and…I like it. All of it.”

I grabbed his wrist and kissed it. “Guess you’re not the Scrooge you claimed to be.”

He rubbed his nose over mine. “You’re not either.”

I had a comeback…somewhere. I was the biggest fucking Scrooge in town. I was a hardened asshole with a bad attitude and everyone knew it. None of that was true, though. Not really. I didn’t want to be hard and unhappy. I didn’t want to be an asshole. Not all the time, anyway.

This was better.

I pulled him to me, sliding my fingers through his hair. “Maybe not. Maybe I like this too.”

Cam released a shaky breath. “What are you doing to me?”

I smiled. “Nothing. I promise. Want to finish decorating the tree?”

“Later.” He unbuttoned my shirt as he sealed his lips to mine.

We took our time peeling off layers of clothing. There was no reason to hurry. We had all night. It seemed important that our lips stay connected, but we separated long enough to push our jeans and briefs out of the way. And I gotta say, that first slide of skin against skin was pure nirvana. We pressed ourselves as close as possible, rubbing and humping till the friction brought us to our knees on the rug in front of the fireplace.

I was about to suggest going upstairs when Cam tugged the thick blanket draped over the leather chair beside the fireplace onto the floor and fished a condom and packet of lube from his pocket. I wanted to make a crack about him being a damn Boy Scout, but I was too strung out to speak. I lay flat, stroking myself as I motioned for him to hand over the lube.

He tossed the condom onto my stomach, poured lube on his fingers and reached around to finger himself.

I stared at him, slack-jawed. “What are you—”

“Shh. Put the condom on, Joe.”

I obeyed. My fingers shook and my breathing sounded heavy to my own ears when he straddled my body and tapped my sheathed cock against his hole. Then…I was inside him.

He was hot and tight and so fucking perfect. He swayed his hips, smiling like a Cheshire cat as he jacked himself. I had a grapefruit the size of Vermont in my throat. I was so overwhelmed and in awe that giving in to the moment was my only option. We moved together…arching, swaying, and thrusting. Harder, faster with tongues entwined, roaming hands, and urgent sighs.

I rolled on top of him, licking a path from his collarbone to his chin, sucking his tongue as my hips flew.

My orgasm came out of nowhere. One second, I was there, and the next I was flying somewhere above, looking down at twinkling lights and into the eyes of a man I was pretty damn sure was the other half of me.

And yes, that scared the fuck out of me.

8

Cameron

The point of relocating to Fallbrook was to get away from professional and familial distractions and get some actual work done. I’d been reasonably productive for a while, but lately…not so much. The lure of being with Joe was too tempting to pass up. And no, we didn’t spend all our time in bed.

I helped him with a few projects around the house. We stripped wallpaper in the living room and hallway, sanded the floorboards he recommended replacing, or I just kept him company while he painted. We talked nonstop, sharing secrets and minor events in our lives—as if it really mattered that he knew about the time I accidentally kicked a soccer ball through a classroom window in high school or that I could still remember where I was when I received the offer to publish my first novel.

And Joe reciprocated by showing me his town. We strolled Main Street, peeked into stores selling maple syrup and holiday ornaments, and hung out at the coffee shop, where he introduced me to practically every single person who walked through the door. Old classmates, teachers, his mother’s friends, the local priest, the florist…you name him or her, there was a good chance Joe knew them.

The writer in me couldn’t help but observe that he fit here. The townsfolk might be in awe of my celebrity, but after telling me they liked my book or loved the television series, they didn’t have much to say. But they could talk to Joe all day, reminiscing about old friends or new happenings in town.

Just being with him gave me insider status, though. I felt like I was part of something for the first time in ages. Not an observer, a true participant in my life. And I liked it.

No, I reveled in it. I sent my aunts photos of the tree we’d decorated, and followed it up with a FaceTime call so I could walk them through the improvements Joe had made on the house. When they squealed at the wreath and garland on the front door, I grinned and told them it was all Joe while he rolled his eyes.

Our impossibly wide smiles told a story, but I couldn’t seem to control mine. It spread without my permission in the oddest places.

Like now…we stood under a lamplight decorated with red ribbon, cradling to-go cups outside of Rise and Grind while Joe’s mom toddled toward us, yelling, “Yoo-hoo! Wait right there, Joseph Linton.”

He lifted his coffee cup in acquiescence and gave me a look I couldn’t read. “I have a feeling I know what this is about. No wisecracks from you, author man.”