I was hoping the answer on my progress would be a resounding, “Yes, of course. Progress is good. A few more weeks, and you’ll be ready to go.”
But the reality is that it’s still a matter of time and guesswork. I’m under strict orders to maintain my stretching drills, but to take it easy on the weight for now. I apparently went too hard, too fast, and now the inflammation is back, so it’s an ice, heat, anti-inflammatory rotation plus gentle stretching and rest for at least the next few days while I’m here.
Which, on the one hand, is easier to do while traveling. But on the other, it pisses me off because I want to be better by now.
And apparently this setback is at least partly my own stupid fault, and that doesn’t make me any happier. Neither does sitting in a seat on the tiniest airplane in the commercial fleet for the last hour, but at least it means I’m minutes away from seeing Megan.
As much as I want to lower my good shoulder and plow through the people blocking my way, I’m aware that’s not acceptable behavior, and so I keep a tight rein on my irritation and wait patiently for the doors to open and people to slowly make their way off the plane.
Once free of the jetway, I lengthen my stride, maneuvering around everyone and making a beeline for the exit from the secure area. And come to a sudden stop once I make it out.
Because there’s Megan, radiant with happiness, holding a sign with my name on it, as though I wouldn’t recognize her.
A smile—the first genuine smile all day—tugs at my lips, and I close the distance between us, eyes only on her, completely unaware of anyone or anything else around us.
She drops the sign as I stop in front of her, wrapping her arms around my neck and hanging on when I pick her up with my good arm clamped around her and kissing her thoroughly.
Not for long enough, but we are in a public place, and it’s definitely harder to hold her up with just one arm. Reluctantly, I lower her back to her feet and end the kiss. She smiles up at me, her hands cupping my stubble-roughened cheeks, pulling my lips to hers for one quick, sweet kiss. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.
My brow wrinkles in concern. Megan’s not a cryer. She’s stone cold when she’s angry, and if and when she does let out her tears eventually, it’s in private. “Hey, now. What’s with the waterworks? Has staying with Lance been that bad? I mean, I lived with the guy for a couple years, so I get it, but I would’ve thought Abby would’ve toned that shit down by now.”
She lets out a gurgly laugh. “I’m just happy you’re here is all.” She steps back and laces her fingers with mine, taking my suitcase with her free hand since I’ve got the damn sling on. “Did you check a bag, or is this everything?”
“I had to check my garment bag with my suit.”
With a nod, she leads the way to baggage claim, standing next to me, leaning against my side while we wait. I wrap my arm around her, happy to just soak in her presence without a word.
After grabbing my bag, she leads the way to the car, and we make small talk as she drives us through our old stomping grounds to the downtown hotel where we’re staying the next few days.
“How was staying with Lance and Abby?”
She shoots a smile my way, the streetlights illuminating her face, and whatever weirdness had claimed her when she met me in the airport seems to have dissolved. “It was good. They’ve got a nice place now, so I got an actual bedroom instead of the couch.”
“Do they still have that same couch, though?”
She looks affronted at the suggestion they would’ve replaced the couch she shared with Abby when they lived together ages ago. “Of course. Why wouldn’t they? That couch is the best.”
I chuckle. “I don’t know. Maybe they wanted an upgrade from college-student chic?”
“Pssh.” She flips a hand, dismissing my comment. “Anyone would be lucky to have that couch. Plus, Abby’s too frugal. She doesn’t like replacing things that aren’t overtly broken or falling apart. I predict that Lance will be able to convince her to buy a new couch when that one either breaks or the fabric starts fraying in multiple places.”
“Good point,” I agree with a smile. That does sound exactly like Abby. Even when they got married, she had a hard time registering for new dishes and kitchenware because she insisted that what they had was perfectly fine. Megan, in her duties as maid-of-honor, forced Abby to at least register at a few stores and told her she could exchange anything she didn’t want for things she actually needed or return them and keep the cash after the wedding if having new dishes bothered her that much.
Of course Megan was counting on the fact that Abby would think she’d seem ungrateful for doing that, and so she ensured that her friend would at least get an upgrade from the mismatched thrift store dishes she’d been using for years. “It would be one thing if they were purposely mismatched and went well together,” she’d complained to me, “but they’re just grab-whatever’s-cheapest-on-half-price-day-at-the-thrift-store mismatched. I just want her to be happy.” And the artist in Megan insists that people are happiest when they have beautiful things.
And I have to admit that since living with her, I am happier. Arguably, that’s more about her than the things she surrounds herself with, but having her decorate our space certainly doesn’t hurt anything. Our condo is a riot of colors and textures, but they all harmonize with each other, and even when she’s not home, I feel better in that space than I ever did in the house I shared with Matt and Lance for a while with its crappy second-hand furniture, bare walls, and discount store bedding.
Mostly, though, it’s Megan. Her energy infuses our space, and being with her always makes me better.
Which is why I’m so glad to be here with her again. And when it’s time to go, I’ll be happy we’re returning home together.
Reaching over, I settle my hand on her thigh as she navigates the maze of one-way streets, finally stopping in front of the valet stand in front of a small, boutique hotel. The lobby is tiny, but sumptuous, full of dark woods and lush fabrics. We skip the check-in desk and head straight for the closet-sized elevator, because Megan checked in before coming to pick me up.
Once we’re in our room, I hang my suit up in the closet next to Megan’s dress so it won’t be wrinkled for Coach Hanson’s retirement party tomorrow before relieving myself of the sling, twisting my neck this way and that to work out a few kinks and gently stretching my tender shoulder.
When I turn, Megan’s eyes are on me, tracing the lines of my body that press against my fitted hunter green thermal henley.
She raises her eyes to mine when she notices that I’ve caught her in the act of checking me out. With a smile pulling on her lips she says, “You are a beautiful man.”
“Thank you.” I smile back, slow and sexy, reaching for her and reeling her in until I have her in my arms.
She sighs and wraps her arms around me, her cheek over my heart. “This is much better.”
A warm bubble of happiness swells in my chest. “You missed me?”
With a huff of laughter, she lifts her head and meets my eyes. “Of course. And you missed me.”
It’s a statement, not a question, but I nod my confirmation anyway, dropping my head to claim her mouth. “I always miss you when we’re apart,” I whisper against her lips. Missing her is a familiar feeling, especially during the football season. I’m frequently gone, and while she sometimes comes along, she also has commissions and shows to work for plus her schedule of art classes that she teaches for fun and a bit more steady income. Not that she needs it, because my income is plenty steady—at least for now. Though if my shoulder injury doesn’t start getting better soon, I suppose that might not be true forever. But teaching art makes her happy. And what makes her happy, makes me happy.
“I miss you too,” she whispers back. “And even though this time was my idea and my fault, I’m really glad you’re here.”
I slip one hand down her back and grip a handful of her ass
, tipping her hips so I can grind my hardening cock against her belly. “Me too.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Megan
After, I tell myself as Chris lifts my top, stripping it off over my head and tossing it to one side before he lowers his head to my chest. I’ll tell him after.
My tits are extra sensitive, and I gasp when he scrapes his stubble across the tops of my breasts, pulling the cup of my bra out of the way to gently tug my nipple with his teeth before sucking deep.
This is always the way we reconnect after an absence. Sometimes it’s hard and fast and raw. Sometimes it’s slow and sweet and sensual.
I have a feeling this time will be the latter. We’re both tired, worn out from the time apart and our own stresses. For him, I know it’s his shoulder. And I know the meeting today didn’t have the news he’d hoped for, which means he’s still got a long road to recovery. He hasn’t said much, but if it had been good news, he would’ve called me immediately. This reunion would be frenzied and joyful, instead of the way he’s clearly seeking comfort in my body.
I love being his safe place to land. His co-conspirator for hijinks. The one who celebrates the wins and grieves the losses.
And while this isn’t technically a loss, anything other than a win feels like one for him.
So we’ll reconnect, welcome each other home, and then I’ll share my news. I hate that I haven’t told him yet, that he doesn’t know, but I want him to be able to savor the moment, and he’ll be able to do that better after.
Soon we’re both naked, and I’m spread out on the bed while he kneels on the floor, his face between my thighs, licking and sucking and fingering me to orgasm. Then he stands with my ankles still over his shoulders, lines himself up, and sinks inside me. We both groan in pleasure, my oversensitive tissues stretching around him, aftershocks radiating through my core as he hits all those nerve endings again.
“God, Megan,” he says, his voice rough as he rocks into me with tiny thrusts, his hips plastered against the backs of my thighs. “I fucking love you.”
“Unghhh,” is all I manage to get out, because I’m too overwhelmed with sensation to form words.
With a soft chuckle, he folds my knees back toward my chest so he can lean over them and kiss me. I return his kiss enthusiastically, sucking his tongue into my mouth, writhing under him as he continues fucking me, each thrust slow and deep and everything I need right now.
He straightens up as his pace quickens, faster, harder, each punch of his hips sending him into my G spot, all my nerve endings so strung out and oversensitive that it’s not going to take much to make me fall apart around him all over again.
He growls, adjusting his grip on my legs, pounding into me, and I fucking love it when he gets like this—feral, unrestrained, powerful, the god-athlete in his prime, all cut, flexing muscle, and I almost wish there were a mirror off to the side so I could turn my head and see the divot in his glutes each time he flexes into me. But I’m so wrapped up in what I’m feeling that I don’t think I could focus on that anyway. All my attention is on our connection, on that magical spot he’s hitting over and over, each time making my muscles coil tighter and tighter, the tension almost unbearable.
When he finally sends me over the edge again, I come with a scream, the release as powerful as the tension that preceded it. He moves even faster, harder, prolonging the orgasm until he grinds himself into me, his grip on my thighs punishing, and he pulses inside me in time with my own orgasm.
His knees slump as he finishes, his muscles barely wanting to hold him up, but he reaches for something on the floor—his T-shirt—holding it against me as he pulls out so his cum doesn’t spill everywhere. “Be right back,” he mumbles, heading for the bathroom.
He comes back out with a warm wet washcloth a moment later, taking the time to clean me up, which sometimes feels awkward, but is always endearing. Then he pulls back the blankets and climbs into bed, patting the spot next to him in invitation.
I crawl up to join him, settling into his embrace, reveling in the warmth of his body, the spicy smell of exertion and sex mingling in the air. Enjoying the moment, not wanting to break the spell, I stay quiet. Just for another minute. I’ll tell him when we’re finished basking in the afterglow.
But I’ve been patient for a long time. And I really just want to spill the beans. So I wiggle out from under his arm—which is heavy and floppy like he’s just about asleep—and flip over to face him. “Chris,” I whisper, hoping I can rouse him before he drifts too far into dreamland. Maybe it’s shitty to wake him up when he’s so obviously tired, especially since he probably won’t be able to go back to sleep right away when he hears the news. And his body needs rest to heal.
A soft snore greets me, confirming that he’s dead to the world. There’ll be no telling him the news right now. I guess I’ll have to wait until later.
With a sigh, I sit up and reach for my sketchpad. Tired as I am, I’m not actually sleepy. And he is beautiful. I haven’t sketched him in a while, and since I’ve been focusing on more abstract paintings lately, I need to do other things to keep my figure drawing skills sharp. Settling in, I start laying down the broad lines of his body, getting in the outline before starting to fill in the details and shadows.
Even after all this time together, I still love this man more than any other. I hope he’s happy when I tell him my news. I’m pretty sure he will be. And hopefully it’ll give him something to focus on other than his injured shoulder and his worries that his career is on its way down the toilet.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lance
Matt and Hannah’s house features a lush pine wreath on the door, festooned with red ribbon edged in gold glitter. White lights wrap around the porch columns and large ornaments hang from the tree in the front yard, combining with the thin layer of snow on the ground to make a picture of a postcard Christmas. All we need is softly falling snow, and we could be in a snow globe.
Hannah answers the door wearing a cream sweater and red felt antlers on her head that jingle when she moves. “Hey, guys!” she greets us enthusiastically. “Come on in. Daniel and Elena and Evan and Layla are here. Only Chris and Megan are missing.”
“They’re running late,” Abby chimes in beside me, stepping inside the house and handing Hannah the hash brown casserole we brought as our contribution to the potluck. “Chris was tired and apparently fell asleep once they got back to the hotel. She just woke him up, and they’ll be on their way soon.”
“So they’ll be here in like an hour, then,” Matt says, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen. “Figures.”
Hannah’s decorated on the inside too, adding Christmasy throw pillows to the minimalist tan couch that replaced the old, lumpy threadbare one I shared with Chris and Matt when we lived here. A decorative bowl of glass balls in Christmas colors sits in the middle of the coffee table she repainted in a rustic farmhouse style last year. A little cluster of bottlebrush trees sits on the corner of the entertainment center, complete with white batting as fake snow. A large Christmas tree stands in front of the window facing the street, and a few wall hangings that say things like Joy and Merry Christmas are interspersed with their usual artwork—including a few of Megan’s prints.
Carter—Daniel—and Coopman—Evan—stand and come over, giving side hugs to Abby and shaking my hand, their faces wreathed in smiles as we exchange greetings.
Even though Carter still lives in town, we don’t see each other much. I know he and Matt hang out some, and occasionally we all get together, but it’s been several months. Between Matt’s work that keeps him traveling a lot of the time, Carter’s schedule as the football coach in the fall, and my own work schedule, coordinating a time when we’re all available is tricky.
This little Christmas party should be fun, especially with the addition of our out-of-town friends like Coopman and his girlfriend and Chris and Megan here for Coach’s retirement party tomorrow.
I set the gift bags we brought f
or our white elephant gift exchange under the tree, nestling them next to the other wrapped presents already there. I make a show of picking up a box and shaking it by my ear.
“Hey, now,” Elena protests, wagging a finger at me. “No cheating. You can shake the present before you open it if you really like guessing to see if you’re right, but you can’t shake the presents to help you decide which one to pick. That goes against the spirit of the game.”
Grinning, I set the package back down. “Leave it to the lawyer-to-be to arbitrate the rules of a wacky gift exchange.”
She sticks her tongue out at me and settles back into her spot on the couch with Carter. He laughs as he tucks her against his side. “It is on brand, though, you have to admit,” he says to her in a low voice.
“I admit nothing,” she says, crossing her arms with her chin lifted in a show of defiance.
Turning, I hold out my hand to Coopman’s girlfriend, Layla, offering her a warm smile. “Hey. Good to see you.”
She takes my hand and shakes it gently, giving me a quick smile and a soft, “Hello,” before dropping my fingers like she doesn’t want to touch me for too long.
I’m not offended, though. She’s always been a shy and cagey one. A lot like Abby in that way, and since Coopman was never really in my circle of friends, I haven’t had the opportunity to get to know her much. They’re here because Elena is friends with Hannah, Matt’s girlfriend, and Coopman and Carter are friends, so our circle grew with time.
Coopman and I exchange nods and brief pleasantries about what we’re up to—work for me, school still for him, and I can’t help being impressed by his pursuit of a PhD. I don’t think I’d have the discipline to stay in school for that long. While I did fine, I was glad to leave the grind of classes and papers and studying behind. I’ve worked my way up the ranks a bit at the Forrester Group, and I have a stable of accounts I work with regularly, plus I’m constantly meeting with new potential clients to bring on board. It’s challenging and engaging, and I get a thrill from analyzing data to maximize our customers’ profits and earning potential with their ads campaigns.
A Very Marycliff Christmas Page 4
