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.