4. . . God Bless Us Every One

The hand that he doesn’t have buried in my hair starts roaming my ass as the kiss becomes more about feeling than technique. 

I’m only interested in the sensation of slick flesh rubbing over slick flesh as this coffee-tinged man becomes my new favorite flavor.  I don’t care about choreographing a picture-perfect kiss.  This one is undoubtedly ugly, but it feels so damn good to have him sucking on my lips that I absolutely do not care.

Greedy fingers start working the buttons on his vest, inspiring him to break the kiss so that he can watch.  I love watching him watch, so I don’t complain about the loss.

When the vest is open, then I start all over again with the shirt.  Well, not all over.  He’s graciously given me a head start by leaving the first three open.  It takes only the twinkling of Santa’s eye before the rest are parted, and I skim aside the halves to stroke the solid wall of hairy chest. 

I might have purred, and he chuckles under my touch.  “Looks like you’re the one doing the unwrapping on this Christmas exchange.” 

“If you only knew how bad I need this, you wouldn’t give me such a hard time,” I mutter.

“Yeah?”  His wrists capture mine, forcing me to look into his face.  “Tell me how bad you need it.”

Hovering on the dawn of my Christmas miracle makes me more forthcoming than I should be. 

All the filters fall away, and I confess, “Nobody’s made me come since you.  I can only get off if I masturbate, and it’s sooo not the goddamn same.  I need it before I develop some weird psychological disorder that inhibits my ability to orgasm with a man.”

“Oh, Tiny.”  He chuckles the words, but there’s no amusement flickering in eyes now so dark I wonder if it’s only shadows that I’m seeing.  “You’ll get it.  Remember how you came for me last time?  Until you couldn’t hold your fucking head up?  Remember how sore you were the next day?  That’s what you’ve got to look forward to on Christmas, baby.”

I can’t hold back the groan of anticipation as I pepper kisses across his chest, stopping to lap at a flat nipples until it goes rigid against my tongue. 

“Tiny.”  I barely register his voice and go after the second nipple, sucking until firm hands encase my head and angle it so that we’re looking at one another again.  “Tell me you know what the rules are.”

I was so excited about the next five, ten, fifty, four hundred and fifty minutes that it almost doesn’t bother me to breathlessly recite, “You won’t text.  You won’t call.  You won’t fall in love with me.”

“That’s right.  I won’t.  Even if I want to.” His chin dipped meaningfully.  “You okay with that?”

“I’m horny enough to sign my soul away to Satan Claus.  Yes.”

His laugh makes me smile.  “I might’ve missed you.”

I know without a damn doubt that I’ve missed him. 

Reaching down to the crotch of his jeans, I find a soft package of goodies and trace it up to a hard ridge designed for a woman’s pleasure. 

“I think you did.  Now, can we knock this first one out of the way, so I can relax?”

The next thing I know, I’m flat on my back with the wind knocked out of me and Jon Bon Jovi looming over me like the sexiest vulture ever.  An unapologetic hand is shoving under my dress, pausing only long enough to pet the section of thigh that’s left bare by my stockings before pushing my panties aside.  Proficient fingers stroked the seam that was already soaked with anticipation.

“What if I’m not ready to fuck you yet?”

“Mmnh…”  At least two fingers spear inside without preamble, making me grunt with surprise at both the suddenness and how frigging amazing it felt.  Jesus, this man knows his way around a woman.  “Who… said anything about fucking?  I asked you to make me come.  Method of delivery is up to you.”

Another quick jam buried feisty fingers that much deeper while a bossy thumb starts in on my clit.  I gasp so loud that I almost miss hearing him say, “Maybe I should eat you.  Huh?”

Talk about visions of sugarplums dancing in my head.  Imagining his tongue among all the other activity that’s going on below my waist, I almost squeal from excitement.  Or maybe it’s from the skillful manipulation that’s taking place in the secret recesses of my body. 

“Good.  So good,” I breathe when his other hand pushes into the deep v-neckline of my dress to pop out my breast.  There’s a sharp tug on my nipple that has me exhaling through my nose in an unladylike way before he bends to capture it between his lips. 

“Yes.  God, yes.” 

His hair is a lost cause now that my hands have become twitchy.  The sensation of those soft strands tickling the webbing of my fingers was another tactile titillation that was taking me from ninety-eight point six degrees to 7800 degrees.  There isn’t a single part of me that isn’t singing with tidings of joy.

“Talk to me, Tiny,” he breathes against my nipple while he’s mastering the ski resort between my legs and hitting all the slopes hard.  “Tell me what’s gonna make you cream, Coffee Girl.”

That.  Right there. 

The heat of his breath, the follow-up suck and bite of my nipple, the in and out, the slip and slide, the flick, the diddle, the scrape, the hard-on impaling my thigh, his smell, the taste of coffee on my tongue and the guiding star in the East all come together and lead me to the Holy Land.

“Oh!  Oh, oh, ohgodyessss!” 

My inner muscles go into lockdown, rippling over the exquisite fingers that I’m now holding hostage.  He, however, doesn’t slow the hard suckle of my nipple and continues to knead my breast and tantalizingly torment my clit while I twitch, spasm and moan with the best orgasm in the history of orgasms. 

When he can finally slide his fingers free, my outer lips get a sweet little massage, and juicy lips pop loose from my chest.  His eyes are dancing with sin and well-earned arrogance when he murmurs, “Find what you were looking for?”

“I love you,” I sighed without thinking and then jerk my head up from the couch cushion to hurriedly clarify.  “Not that kind of love.  Like coffee.  Because you’re satisfying and…  Ah, shit.  Just forget it.”

I’m hopelessly screwing this up, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about from the land of Orgasmia.  I simply relax my neck muscles and let the sofa cradle my bouncing head when it lands.   At least I got my Christmas miracle before opening my mouth and inserting an entire boot.

“Tiny.”  His voice is right there, and when I open my eyes, so is he – so close I almost can’t focus enough to see the humor crinkling at the corners of his eyes.  “I never said you couldn’t fall in love with me.  It was that I won’t fall in love with you.”

Arrogant asshole.

“Ugh.”  I give a half-hearted push at his chest but censor the not-so-pet-name I want to call him. 

After all, the man hasn’t crossed his own finish line yet.  That means I’m eligible for another Tiny Christmas miracle.  No reason to piss off my generous benefactor. 

He climbs to his feet, laughing quietly while extending a hand to help me off the couch. 

“Before we take this to the bedroom, I gotta ask… where are you picking up your bed buddies?  VirginsRUs?  ‘Cause they clearly don’t know how the hell to have sex.”

I bite back a grin at the “VirginsRUs” thing, because you know… it’s funny.  The man is lava hot, a sexual savant and funny, yet I’m not supposed to fall in love with him.  How in the hell is that fair?

“Not everybody has your level of experience,” I play off with a shrug, running one hand through my hair while smoothing my dress with the other.  “Are we moving this to the bedroom?”

The truth is, I picked the guys up on Tinder since there are no strings attached that way.  Maybe they were virgins, but I seriously doubt there are that many pure middle-aged men in New York. 

Tonight isn’t the night I choose to contemplate it, either.  There are much better things to occupy my time, and I’m nose to nose with him.

“Yeah.”  Not releasing my hand, he tows me along to the foyer, where my heels click over marble as we navigate the narrow hall I saw earlier.  Glancing back over his shoulder, Jon casually offers, “Those boots are sexy as fuck, by the way.  If you think you can keep from gouging my kidneys with the heels, I might want you to keep ‘em on.”

“I can probably manage,” I say with a grin, liking this man a little more than is wise. 

He’s talked to me more this evening than during the entire night last time.  I can’t say that we’ve gotten to know one another on some deep, personal level, but we know some deeply personal things.  That counts for something, right? 

Dropping my hand, he slides out of both the open shirt and vest in a single, swift movement and tosses them over the back of the desk chair.  I presume I should be ditching some of my clothes as well, but the sight of his rippling back and bare chest are just the tiniest bit distracting – magnetically distracting. 

When he turns around, I can’t keep from roaming my hands over the downy fuzz that does nothing to disguise rock hard pecs.  “You feel good.”

Okay, so I’m talking a little more than last time, too.  Probably more than is smart, but I can’t seem to censor myself. 

I press a kiss to his sternum while my thumbs simultaneous scrape over flat nipples.  That gets me a quiet snuff of approval before he tucks a knuckle under my chin and nudges upward. 

“Not as good as I’m gonna feel,” he murmurs against my lips before slicking his tongue inside.

I love the way his wide hand completely encompasses the back of my skull and holds firm so that I can’t escape the assaulting slant of lips.  As if I want to escape.  I want nothing more than to be this man’s Christmas dinner and meet his every thrust with an eager one of my own. 

The desperate little whimpers are mine, I’m pretty sure, and one more thing I can’t find it in myself to be embarrassed by.  They just seem to make him hold tighter and kiss deeper, and I love the way he kisses. 

It’s with the desperation an alcoholic who’s been without booze too long, and I’m so damn willing to be his vice. 

“Dress has to go.”

His rumble combines with the visual of our kiss shining on a mouth that’s now dark pink from rubbing against mine and makes me hornier than I was before the first orgasm.  I really want those lips to look that way for another, more intimate reason, but I’ll give him some time before I start getting pushy. 

Instead of demanding oral favors, I demurely spin on one “sexy as fuck” heel and pull my hair aside to request, “Unzip me?”

The zipper vibrates against my skin before cool air hits it, as expected.  What I didn’t expect was the hot breath and soft nuzzle against the nape of my neck.  Or the sensation of being lightly sucked upon.

“Did you just give me a hickey?” I ask as he unceremoniously transforms my flattering dress into a shapeless black heap on the floor. 

With him palming the flesh below my belly button and kneading one breast, the answer is irrelevant.  I’m his Christmas gift.  He can play with me any damn way he wants.   

“Problem?”

“Not in the least.”  Feeling sassy, I paraphrase that last thought.  “You can play with your Christmas gift any way you like.”

“The night isn’t long enough for that.”  The hot revelation against the curve of my shoulder makes me shiver as much as his teasing stroke under the top edge of my panties.  “I wanna play with you in ways I haven’t played in years.”

Stiff denim scrapes my backside when he grinds into me, and the nip at the meaty part of my neck has me inhaling sharply.  Still, I can’t hold back my curiosity.

“Like what?”

Now his fingers aren’t teasing anymore.  They dive under the black lace that’s embarrassingly wet where he’s headed, and Jon rubs easy circles against my clit. 

“Fuck your mouth while you sit on my face.  Feel your thighs quiver against my jaw after you come, knowing they can’t support you but putting you on my dick and making you ride me anyway.  Spanking your ass when you can’t, and then pounding you from behind.  From the front.  From the side.  In the bed.  The floor.  The shower.  Against the goddamn windows, smudging them in a way that leaves no fucking doubt what happened there.  For all of Manhattan to see.  You’ll beg me to stop because you can’t take anymore, but you’ll come again when I don’t.”

By the time he finishes the growly pornographic fairytale, I’m panting.  I want that.  All of that, or as much as I could get.

My breasts ache from the kneading that was brutal but not enough.  My clit throbs from the touch that wasn’t enough.  I need enough.

Displacing his groping paws, I turn in his arms to breathily inquire, “So where would you like to start?”

The gorgeous blue eyes are nowhere to be found.  There’s nothing but dilated black pupils staring back at me, and I’m sure I can see the fires of a beautiful Hell simmering in their depths.  That sliver of blue ringing the black is just a different set of flames that burn hotter.

“The window.”

My nipples go rock hard.  I’m going to get fucked in the middle of Manhattan.  Granted, it’s from the fifty-second floor.  There won’t be many spectators, but I’ll see everything until I see nothing.

“Anything you say, baby,” I demur quietly, reaching for his belt.  “Tonight’s yours.”

“Ours.”  The quiet word lifts my attention from the flapping belt buckle back to his face. “It’s your Christmas too, beautiful Valentine.”

Fuck. 

Fuck.

Damn the man.

Damn him!

Why did he have to say that?  Why?  It changes my perception of everything.

Because now his kiss doesn’t feel deliciously dirty.  It’s just delicious. 

The hands that push my bra cups under my breasts aren’t vulgar.  They’re erotic. 

Those same hands can’t be called crude even though they’re rough in shoving panties down to my knees.  They’re just eager.

When my breasts smash against glass at the force of his grunting possession, it isn’t two strangers looking for a simple physical release.  It’s passion. 

Passion lights the skyline for me as my lover’s fingerprints embed in my hips.  As he drives from behind time and again.  As he whispers that he’s thought about this for months.  As he tells me how fucking good I am and whispers meaningless nothings that I take too literally.

My orgasm this time doesn’t come in a blinding wave of white light but is filled with color.  Like fireworks that illuminate Central Park just for me.  Or maybe it’s the prettiest display of Christmas lights I’ve ever seen. 

I’m no longer sure if I’ve been given a Christmas miracle or a curse, because the spectacular display of twinkling and shimmering lights shines brightly enough to illuminate the truth. 

The truth is what I’ve subconsciously known for months.  There’s no getting over this man.  It’s him or it’s nothing, and after tonight….

I know which it is after tonight. 

His weight sags against me and I feel the scalding heat of his breath as he kisses my neck, rocking into me one more time.  “Merry Christmas, baby.” 

“Merry Christmas,” I whisper, leaving a cloud of condensation on the glass and savoring a moment that will have to get me through a lot of lonely nights.  I hold no bitterness.  Only a slightly melancholy gratitude.  My once-in-a-lifetime experience came with an encore, and I’m just going to bubble wrap each memory for safe-keeping. 

No regrets.

Jon eases back just far enough to snug both arms around me and tucks his chin on my shoulder.  “You got any plans for New Year’s?”

My dull heart thumps back into full animation, doing that Grinch thing where it stretches to three times its normal size.

“Only if you’re asking.”

Is it possible that I’m going to get two encores?  Jon Bon Jovi seldom ever does two encores in a show.  When it happens, the crowd knows they’re getting something special. 

If he says yes, I know I’m getting something special. 

“I’m asking,” came the contented murmur in my ear.  “Meet you back here for New Year’s?”

“Yeah.  Why not?”

That cinches it. 

Hallmark, you can bite my ass.  My Christmas miracle has my boobs squashed tighter than a mammogram plate and on display for Manhattan, but it’s mine, dammit.  And I like it!

 

3 . . . O Holy Night

“Hello, Funny Valentine.”

Jesus, Mary, Joseph, three wise men, a shepherd and half a dozen sheep.  Oh, and let’s not forget the angel, because the man standing in the doorway is beautiful enough to be one.  Those dazzling blue eyes and sculpted cheekbones were God’s handiwork as much as the sunrise and sunset.

Standing with his feet planted apart, he is prettier than any sun event I can summon from memory.  I try to be subtle about drinking him in from toe to head, but I have to look.  To admire. 

Black boots, dark jeans, white shirt, and black vest are all the perfect foil for that silvery hair.  I can see the faintest hint of stubble on his jaw, but it only makes him more handsome.  There’s something about a little scruff that makes a man….  Well, manly. 

The whole package is nothing less than a total turn-on, and I decide he looks even better than he had back in the spring. 

“Hello, Jon.” 

I totally get credit for managing to sound casual an unaffected by the man who has been holding my orgasms hostage for months.  I deserve a damn medal for not throwing me and my panties at his feet, and I’m so focused on not doing that, it takes a few seconds before I notice the stillness again.

“Nothing personal, but David doesn’t throw a very lively holiday gathering.”

Jon smiles, but not the one that’s full of swagger and confidence.  Nor is it the lip service smile that doesn’t go above his nose, leaving bland baby blues.  This one was endearingly sheepish as his chin drops into the open space left by unfastened buttons on the banded collar shirt.

“If you wanna come in, I’ll explain that.”

Oh, I’m coming in.  From the instant my brain and libido recognized him, any other option simply wasn’t an option.  It will take a pretty damn big bouncer to get me out of here at this point.

“Alright.”

I stroll into the marble foyer at a leisurely pace, leaving a respectable distance between us as I pass.  Those two or three feet aren’t enough to keep me from catching a hint of the subtle cologne I recognize from last time. 

They say that the strongest memories are attached to the sense of smell, and I’m now a firm believer in that bit of trivia.  I don’t even get a full whiff – it’s more like a faint trace – and my knees go weak. 

Almost like I’m about to die, memories of that night assaulted me in a XXX highlight reel, and I completely lose the illusion of composure when I stumble over my own feet.

Jon reaches out to grab my arm, bringing two nostrils full of his scent along for the ride, and damn if I don’t think I’m going to embarrass the hell out of myself by hitting the floor.  It’s only his scalding grip on my elbow that keeps me upright, and I bite the inside of my cheek while the outside of it heats with embarrassment.

“Tripped on a shadow,” I quietly wisecrack after regaining my footing. 

“Little bastards are everywhere.”

When I look up, it’s to find those brilliant blues of his sparkling with merriment.  Yeah, he’s laughing at me, but there’s an underlying softness that says he kind of likes my idiocy.  That look at this close range is deadly, I’m here to tell you. 

Oh, and he’s still holding my arm.  I’m dying a slow but pleasant death.

“It’s good to see you, Tiny.”

Dead.  That’s the final nail in the coffin.  I’m dead without enough sense to lie down and stop breathing. 

Thank God he lets go of my arm in that instant.  That may be the only thing keeping me alive.

“I’d say the same, but it’s proven that women around the world will hand over large and small fortunes just to see you.  I hate to be redundant.”

With a growing smile, Jon releases the door that seals us into what appears to be a deserted hotel suite.  At least that’s how it sounds.  I haven’t managed to drag my attention from his face long enough to actually look.

“You’re anything but redundant.  Can I take your coat?”

“Sure.”  I pass over my clutch purse and unknot the coat belt, sliding it down my arms and into his possession as well.  The coat disappears into a closet, because this suite is swanky enough to have a coat closet in the foyer, and I venture, “So… have I been snookered or is there a very quiet party’s worth of people lurking in the other room?”

The closet door closes, and a wave of his open hand guides the way from marble flooring to mahogany.  I vaguely note passing a powder room and narrow hall that presumably leads to the bedroom, but we’re entering the living/dining area. 

A round table large enough to seat six is off to the right, along with another room sealed by teak pocket doors.  Large, open windows act as the exterior walls, and I can see the lights of the Upper East Side on the other side of Central Park.

“There’s no one lurking around here besides me, but you haven’t been snookered.  No more than I have, anyway.”  Another hand gesture indicates a bar tucked into the living area.  “There’s Kahlua eggnog in your honor.  Would you like some?  If not, I can fix you an Irish coffee or there’s plenty of straight booze and wine.”

“If it’s in my honor, then by all means… I’ll try the eggnog.  But I reserve the right to call in the Irish coffee as a reinforcement.”

“Duly noted.”

The eggnog must be the “coffee-ish beverages” promised on my invitation.  Not that I give a damn. Watching him prepare my drink and one for himself, I don’t even care if I have been snookered.  I’m down with anything that scores me another encounter with this man. 

My Christmas miracle will be complete if it ends up in a naked encounter but, considering his pesky relationship status with the gorgeous news chick, I may be stuck wearing this dress for the duration.

Rubbing my arms inside the sheer lace sleeves, I step past two champagne silk arm chairs to a velvet settee of the same color and peer through darkness to the lights in Columbus Circle.  There’s not much to see down there, so I don’t spend time gawking at nothing when I have a very handsome something to gawk at instead.

I slowly pivot on the Oriental rug to again face the living area.  The squat coffee table with its carved legs also looks to be teak, and I see that it bears a tray of no more than a dozen appetizers.  If this is indeed supposed to be a “holiday gathering”, the guest list is an intimate one. 

“So, you were going to explain?”

Jon’s gaze cuts to me for a split second before stowing what’s left of the eggnog and carefully shutting the door on the little fridge. 

“Yeah.”  Yet he doesn’t seem exactly excited to do so and is slow to pick up our drinks.  The pace doesn’t pick up any when he turns to extend one of the pedestaled mugs of creamy cheer in my direction, but I accept without comment.  “Have a seat.”

“Okay.” 

That slight sense of foreboding returns as I sweep aside the cutesy throw pillows to make room on the sofa.  Black velvet sinks under the seat of my inky dress, and I briefly wonder if I’ve just become a chameleon – invisible in my surroundings.  Invisible isn’t really the goal, so I scoot forward to the edge of the cushion and sip the eggnog while he tosses the remaining pillows onto a chair. 

There’s a pause while he takes a swallow of the eggnog, grimaces and puts the mug on the table.  I can sympathize.  It’s not great but does have the tang of coffee.  I’ll tolerate it until he finishes talking.  Then I’ll go Irish. 

“I really don’t know how to say this and not be offensive,” he broaches slowly from the other end of the sofa. 

Offensive, huh? 

It will take something of epic proportions for me to find it offensive.  Like a billboard in Times Square with my photo and a caption of, “Slut” or something equally crass.  I mean, I’m sipping on a beverage that’s masquerading as coffee and have the undivided attention of a walking fantasy.  I’m feeling pretty damn generous.

Dare I say that?

Hell, why not? 

“I have a faux-coffee beverage and very charming company.  It would take a lot to spoil my appreciation of either.”

See?  I don’t voice every one of my crazy thoughts verbatim, and the edited version sounds open-minded without encouraging a restraining order.  I think. 

My mug finds a spot on the table beside Jon’s as he pulls a little frown and then gently announces, “You’re my Christmas gift.”

My hand freezes in its release of the clear glass handle, and I seek his eyes.  My gaze sticks there as I dumbly utter, “Pardon me?”

I can’t have heard him correctly.  I’m a Christmas gift for him?  Who in the hell thinks I’m what he wants to unwrap this gift-giving season? 

Whomever it is, I want to kiss that person right on the damn mouth. 

He’s leaning back in the corner of the couch with his right hand tucked between crossed thighs. 

“First of all, let me clarify that I knew nothing about this until about half an hour ago.  I got a party invitation – same one you did, I guess – that told me to be here at six-thirty.  Dave opened the door, said, ‘Merry Christmas, Tiny will be here at seven’ and was gone.”

“Ummm...”

“It happened too fast for me to stop him,” Jon continues, taking my speechlessness for disapproval.  “Then the fucker wouldn’t answer his phone.  I didn’t want you to show up to an empty room, so…  here we are.  I’m sorry.”

First of all, let me say that a slightly embarrassed Jon Bon Jovi is cute as hell.  Don’t get me wrong.  I prefer the CEO who is large and in charge, oozing confidence and inspiring me to ooze other things.  He’s always going to be my favorite, but this apologetic facet might be a close second.  Definitely top ten. 

Tucking a shock of hair behind one ear, I rearrange on my cushioned perch and shift to face him more directly.   I need clarification on a couple of points, but from my perspective, the evening is taking a very distinct upturn.

“What exactly are you sorry for, Jon?”

The hand that isn’t tucked between his thighs turns palm up in the air with the pinky finger looking more crooked than usual.  He’s in an awkward spot, and his body language isn’t doing a damn thing to hide it. 

“That he’s a crazy asshole.  That he dragged you away from your family on Christmas Eve.  That he thinks it’s acceptable to make a ‘gift’ of you.”

He’s not sorry that I’m here.  At least, he’s not saying so. 

“What about your family?  Your girlfriend for that matter?  Shouldn’t you be spending Christmas Eve with them?”

A shadow streaks over his face before Jon quietly advises, “My kids are in the Caribbean with their mother for the holiday, and I’ve got plans to see my brothers and parents tomorrow.  No girlfriend.”

No girlfriend? 

What?

“I just saw a blurb yesterday about you and the anchorwoman at some event.”

His silver head shakes slowly.  “She’s a friend that I like well enough to use as my ‘plus one’.  That’s as far as it goes.”

O Holy Night. 

I think he just told me I’m locked in seclusion with a single man who holds the key to Pandora’s box.  Well, my box.  Pandorgasms.

My heart picks up speed even though I tell it to calm the fuck down.  There are still unknown variables at play here, so my panties also receive a strict set of orders to remain dry.  No premature dampness is allowed. 

“Why….  Uh, why would David think this is a good gift idea?”

His restless embarrassment dissipated as if on command.  That flapping hand fell serenely into his lap, and the eyes of one very large and in charge CEO met mine without a single damn sign of discomfort. 

“Because I want you and am too stubborn to break my own rules.”

My undies now have permission to go swimming.

“The ‘I won’t text, I won’t call’ rules?”  All I get is a single, sage nod, but it’s enough to make me slide over a cushion and reach for his hand.  He lets me have it and watches stoically as I lift it to kiss the palm, my tongue flicking out for a sample of salty flesh.  “So, you wanted to text or call?” 

“Maybe.”

I lift my face to grin.  “Would you be more forthcoming if I tell you I haven’t had a decent orgasm since we were together?”

He gently withdraws the hand I’m holding and uses it to rake the hair back from one side of my face.  “I wanted to call.”

He wanted to call. 

Those quiet words are almost enough to incite a spontaneous ‘gasm. 

“You want me,” I murmur, watching the denim blue of his irises go indigo.  “I sure as hell want you.  Seems like the crazy asshole did us both a favor.”

Unhurried fingers twist in my hair with just enough pressure to ensure compliance with his rough, “C’mere and kiss me.” 

And when his coffee-flavored tongue licks against mine, I know that he’s ruined me.  Plain coffee will never give me this kind of satisfaction again.

2 . . . Winter Wonderland

Although it had nothing to do with Chanukah, the card was from David and included a handwritten note on the back. 

“Coffee(ish) beverages will be provided as an incentive.  It’s like turtle soup, Tiny.  Don’t think about it.  Just be there. – DB”

I am proud to say that I don’t throw the threatened conniption fit.  In fact, I mention to Marjorie how cool it is being invited to a celebrity party, and we go on to speculate whether anybody super-famous will be in attendance – like Bruce Springsteen, perhaps, since they’re all Jersey boys. 

Poor Marjorie even wonders about Ed Asner, but I crush those dreams before they get out of control.

Personally, I’m more curious as to whether Jon Bon Jovi and his girlfriend will be there.   Even if I can just get close to him and absorb some of that self-assured testosterone…

Anyway, I still have no idea who the guests are – or why I am one – as I step from the taxi in front of the Mandarin at six forty-five on Christmas Eve.

As Grinchy as I’ve been, even I am not immune to that stillness that you only find on Christmas Eve.  These are the few precious hours each year when the world holds its breath, and you can almost believe something magical is about to happen.

I rub at the goosebumps under my long wool coat, telling myself that the illusion of serenity is not actually the world teetering on the precipice of magic.  At this time of evening, most everyone is home with their families to prepare for Santa’s arrival.  Those that aren’t have found parties of friends or co-workers, where they are getting jovially trashed with the knowledge that they can sleep in tomorrow.

Regardless of the source or what would happen in the hours before and after midnight, Manhattan is currently as quiet as you will ever find it.

I pause on the nearly-deserted sidewalk and sneak a quick look around to be certain no one is around.  There are only a couple of people in the area who aren’t paying attention to me.    

My inner Cindy Lou Who really wants to believe Santa’s ride is going to streak across a full moon in full silhouette, and I steal a quick glance up at the sky  – and what do you think happens?  Cue the fine folks at the Hallmark Channel, because a single snowflake lands on my cheek. 

It isn’t only silence that will blanket the big city tonight. Making Irving Berlin proud, New York is going to have a white Christmas this year.

Stuffing Cindy Lou back into Santa’s bag, I slowly stride into the Mandarin’s lobby.  The pencil heels of my tall suede boots tap over the marble in time to an elevator music rendition of “Winter Wonderland”.  Good old Irving is on a roll tonight, and it suits not only the pending weather but the wintry décor in the hotel. 

White lights, candles and poinsettias are strategically placed among evergreen to create a look of cool elegance throughout the area and it reminds me that I’m about to hobnob with someone who can afford the fourteen-thousand-dollar-a-night price tag on the Oriental Suite. 

Yes, I Googled it.  I tried to stop myself from being that nosy, but morbid curiosity got the best of me.  Trust me when I say I’ll be inspecting the place thoroughly to see what warrants that kind of moolah.

I covertly scan the area for elevators with the tops of the boots brushing my coat’s hem.  Between the two, I am completely enshrouded in black from neck to toe, and that color scheme carries from my outerwear to my sedately sexy dress right on down to my undies.

Not exactly holiday festive, but no woman ever went wrong by wearing a little black dress.  I figure my loose ash blonde waves and diamond hoop earrings add a splash of light to the ensemble.  No one will be mistaking me for Santa Claus, but I won’t get falsely identified as the Grim Reaper, either.  

Finally locating the elevators, I step inside one of the fancy schmancy cars with its wooden floor and brass rails and punch the button for the fifty-second floor.  The vertical chariot doesn’t magically whisk me away to the Oriental Suite, however.  The stupid button won’t even light up. 

What did light up was the key card slot right beside it, and I’m pretty sure it’s mocking my peasant status with its repetitive flash of red. 

Okay.  I clearly need a magic card to get upstairs.  This strikes me as odd, considering there’s a party up there, but fine. 

Me and my cute but uncomfortable boots saunter leisurely out of the elevator as though this was the plan all along, and I smile at an older couple who is obviously returning from their own holiday soiree. 

Nothing to see here folks.  Just a woman from the Bronx proving how inept she is in the ways of the Upper West Side. 

I take my saunter to the front desk, where the clerk on duty is quick to grace me with a courteous and freakishly white smile.  “How may I help you?”

Feeling inept on the inside is one thing.  Showing it is a whole different ballgame.  I will eat one of my knee-high boots before radiating anything but composed confidence to the young man whose nametag reads “Grant”. 

Even if his suit probably cost more than my entire ensemble tonight.

“Hello, Grant,” I greet with a smile that’s just a tad condescending.  I’m a personal investment banker, remember.  That means I deal with wealthy people every day.  I know how they roll, and the well-dressed flunky will never realize I’m not one of them.  “I’m attending a function in the Oriental Suite, but my host neglected to mention I’d need a keycard to get upstairs.”

Attentive eyes shoot briefly to a spot beneath the counter before lifting back to mine.  “May I ask your name?”

Recalling the inscription on the invitation, I supply, “Valentine.”

That’s the magic word. 

Word.  Name.  Whatever.  It does the trick. 

With a capable flick of the wrist, Grant produces a key card as though he’s been waiting all evening for my arrival.  Who knows?  Maybe he has.  That’s what these guys are paid for, right?

“Here you are, Ms. Valentine,” he offers with just the right amount of deference for someone of his position.  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Other than having yourself a lovely evening, not a thing.  Thank you, Grant.”

The desk clerk hits the high beams on that brilliant white smile.  “Thank you, ma’am.  You as well.”

I spin on the ball of my foot with a nod of acknowledgement. 

The holiday season must finally be seeping into my veins, because I don’t even want to rip the kid a new neck hole for calling me “ma’am”.  I simply retrace my steps back to the elevator, where I force-feed my newly acquired card to the condescending red lights. 

The sense of satisfaction I got when they morph to a soothing shade of solid green was a little over the top, but…

Neener, neener, neener.  Fuck you, snotty elevator.  Grant knows I belong here. 

All of this internal conversation is inane, ridiculous and every other nonsensical word in the dictionary.  I’m very much aware of that, but it passes the time and keeps my mind occupied with something besides what I’ve been pondering for the last twenty-four hours. 

Why am I here?

With no answer readily available in the eight-foot square box, I shut my mind down except for the thought it requires to hum “Winter Wonderland” to myself.  The fifty-one floors pass swiftly, and it seems like only seconds later when the doors glide open with a gentle whoosh. 

Rather than the traditional hotel hallway however, the Oriental Suite boasts its own private foyer, which creates the illusion of a private residence instead of a nightly rental. 

I step out of the car and pause.  

The air here is as still and expectant as that on the street.  While that’s a lovely continuation of the whole Christmas Eve miracle mindset, it’s also weird.  Why is there no noise?  Shouldn’t there be music or party chatter coming from the other side of the black lacquer door?  A television?  Piano?  Something?

Yet there isn’t. 

The only discernible sound is the scrape of wool as I shift my stance, and it’s almost… eerie. 

My mind races through all the celebrity news I’ve heard in the last weeks.  Was there any mention of David Bryan splitting up with his wife?  Surely Jon isn’t passing me along to his friend as a “get reacquainted with the fucking scene” date? 

Oh, Jesus. 

The pencil heels make no sound on the rug, preserving the silence that’s at such odds with the clatter going on inside my head. 

What am I going to do in that case?  There’s something yucky about fooling around with men that are close friends, because you just know they talk trash about the girl afterward.  Good trash or bad, it’s still trash, and I’m not sure I want to be the butt of locker room – backstage – jokes between the two.

Yes, maybe I’m getting a little ahead of myself, but for crying out loud.  I work with numbers all day.  I can see when things don’t add up, and this doesn’t add up to a “holiday gathering”.  The hair standing up on my arms tells me there’s something else afoot, and it isn’t reindeer hooves on the rooftop.

Instinct and logic tell me I should just go.  Turn right around, feed the snotty elevator and throw the card at Grant on my way back out the door.  That’s what would be the wisest possible choice.

Yet I can’t stop staring at that damn door. 

Normal people are scared of eerie silence.  Me?  I can’t help but wonder what’s lurking on the other side of that quiet door.  I am totally the person you yell at in the movie theater, saying, “NO!  Don’t go in there!”.

I figure the worst possible scenario involves me telling David Bryan I don’t want to sleep with him.  I sure as hell don’t think he’s lured me to my untimely demise.  He’s just not the serial killer type. 

Drawing a deep breath, I step forward and stab the buzzer before I talk myself out of it again. 

I was promised coffee-ish drinks.  Through the power of caffeine, I can endure all and-

My inane mental shenanigans screech to a halt when I hear the lock pop and the door handle move.  Pasting on a polite I’d-love-a-drink-but-don’t-plan-on-fucking-me smile, I patiently wait for the door to swing inward.  When it does…

You might as well just stick a feather duster up my ass and call me a turkey.