The Christmas Proposition

by K.A. Mitchell

  This time I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be a fist.

  The whole communication couldn’t have taken more than a second. Then the light brown eyes blinked before fixing on the speaker. “C’mon, Chuck. Face like yours, all the pretty you’re getting is pretty wasted.”

  That broke the tension at the table, and I could see the other three men getting ready to leave.

  The tension at the table might have broken, but I could still feel the cord of it between me and the man with those whiskey-colored eyes, even after the diner doors had swung shut behind the five men.

  “Thanks, Mel.” Becky met me back at the beverage station. “You can have their tips.”

  “Nah. I’m sure you earned them. But you can keep an eye on my last table while I start to close.” A tangle of arousal and nerves spread out from my belly. The arousal mostly headed south. The nerves, well, those were going to have to take a backseat to my dick. I bused the last two empty tables, fighting the urge to rush out back.

  In the kitchen, Henry said, “No hard feelings right, Mel?”

  I grabbed two big trash bags. “For you, Henry, never a hard feeling.” I doubted he got the joke.

  The bags thudded and clanged as I tossed them up into the dumpster. The air froze the inside of my nose, almost enough to make the smell bearable. I might have been expecting it, but my heart still leapt into my throat when a hard warm body pressed into me, shoving us through the back door, pressing me up against a stack of empty crates from Doyle’s Dairy.

  The smell of him, sweat and dirt and man, chased away the leftover stench that leaked from even frozen garbage.

  The back door banged shut behind us.

  “Still fucking cold,” he said.

  “It’s winter.” Not my best comeback. I’ll warm you up had a lot more charm. But my heart still pounded and the smell of him, the feel of him against me had way too much of that circulation focused on my dick. My brain was suffering oxygen deprivation. At least, that was my story, and I was sticking to it. It had nothing to do with whose body had me pinned against the crates.

  The body that was sliding down, the man who, without a word or a kiss hello, was dropping to his knees for me. Why kiss me hello? He hadn’t bothered to say good-bye.

  I knocked the cap off his head. Even in the dark, his hair gave off those beautiful auburn highlights I remembered from two summers ago.

  Bryce reached behind me and untied my apron, letting it drop to the floor before working back around to my fly. His breath flowed hot and damp over my cock.

  The instant before those full lips closed around me, I whispered, “Just like the first time, huh?”

  Chapter Three

  The first time had been in April, coming up on three years ago, and blissfully free of our usual spring harvest of mud. A soft and warm spring night, the kind that makes you think winter’s really over, though it was only ever a tease because it always snowed at least once more between Easter and Mother’s Day.

  A tease, like the warmth of his breath as he laughed. “Yeah. Like the first time.”

  It had been a hell of a surprise that first time—a guy dropping right to his knees for me. Usually the guys who drifted through town wanted it the other way, a hard shove on my shoulders if I wasn’t going down fast enough. And sometimes I got lucky enough for a thank-you suck in return. I’m not claiming there’s such a thing as a bad blowjob. Every time, that first wet, hot kiss on my cock made me jerk and groan as if it were my first one.

  But Bryce— God, it wasn’t just a do-this-so-you’ll-do-me-after. Bryce sucked like he wanted to be there, was starving for it. He moaned and hummed as if he could get off on nothing but my dick in his mouth. His hand came up to wrap around my shaft, keeping everything warm and tight while he licked and pulled me in deeper.

  In minutes my knees were buckling, and he started bobbing like we’d win a cool million if he got me off in the next sixty seconds.

  Not that I had a problem with that plan. Hand, lips, tongue, throat. Pure bliss chasing away the sharp dig of plastic-edged crates in my back, the whisper of icy air around his grip, even how pissed I was that he thought he could just pick up as if he hadn’t disappeared two and a half years ago. Because, damn him, he could. It was absolutely impossible to be pissed at someone whose mouth was riding your dick. Whose tongue was flicking there. There. My brain finally shut off as the spark hit my balls, leaving me with barely enough coordination for a half-hearted warning tug on his hair.

  “Gonna—” was all I got out before he hummed and dove deeper, swallowing me into tight wet heat and that was it. I buried my hands in his hair and held him as I flew over the top, shooting into his throat with one long, sweet spasm after another.

  He licked and swallowed until I let him go, then sank back on his heels and wiped his mouth on his canvas sleeve.

  If that was his idea of an apology, it beat the hell out of flowers.

  A Bryce Campion-inspired orgasm was enough to put me into a stupor, so it was a second or two before I felt the rush of frigid air flowing over my wet cock. Bryce helped me tuck myself away then rolled to his feet with insolent grace—and an equally irritating grin. “I was a little worried about my tongue sticking to a frozen pole.”

  “Very funny.” It was the snappiest comeback I could manage, my brain still trying to work out how to transfer my weight off the milk crates and back onto my feet. Then there was the wondering what I should do about the solid length straining against the fly of Bryce’s jeans. I wasn’t the kind of guy to just get off and get gone—but then I remembered that he was. That after four days of wondering why I was suddenly sleeping alone, I’d had to hear from Tiff that Bryce had taken his top geologist, Kurt, and gone down to check out a site in West Virginia, and by the way, check out the ring Kurt gave me.

  He was still grinning as he leaned in like he’d kiss me, and I shoved him away. Hard.

  “Thanks for telling me you were leaving.”

  His grin only slipped a little. “I did. I asked you to come with me.”

  “Saying ‘Why don’t you leave this one-stoplight shithole? We could have fun,’ isn’t exactly a firm invitation. Besides, you knew I couldn’t.”

  “Right. You said no. I didn’t think there was much to say after that.”

  Well, he had me there. There was a lot to say, about how I couldn’t leave the farm and Cas couldn’t see that she wasn’t only taking the pills because her back hurt and Epiphany was changing so fast right in front of me. But that was all me, not Bryce.

  “So what? You trade one shithole town for another?”

  “That’s just the work. There’s lots of fun in between, especially when you’re the boss. Spent Thanksgiving week fishing. Spearfishing. In Hawaii.”

  I liked fishing. Line, pole, boat adding up to perfect peace and quiet. Bryce’s version sounded anything but. And I wanted it. That sudden yearning shocked the hell out of me. I picked up my apron. I was sure Bryce had read every bit of that on my face, and I wished the square of cotton was big enough to hide behind.

  Bryce stepped close again. “So does that mean we can’t fuck anymore?”

  “No.” But there was a qualifier in my answer and he could hear it.

  “Some other reason? Your old boyfriend finally come home?” His tone might have been mocking, but the rigid way he held his body told me he actually gave a shit about my answer.

  “No.” Stuart wasn’t ever coming home. And I had been stupid to share my disappointment at that broken promise, at how easy it had been for Stuart to move on, from me, from Epiphany, just because Bryce could make me scream in bed.

  “Good.” He kissed me. Hard and too short. But I had to get back to the dining room.

  “Where’s your trailer?”

  Most of the towns where Campion Gas had work weren’t big enough to support much in the way of accommodations. Half Bryce’s trailer was what you’d expect at a work site, kitchen area, dinette converted into workspace, but the back half
was what five-star hotel rooms looked like on TV. Pillow-topped, king-sized mattress with exquisitely soft sheets and dozens of pillows. Thick carpet underfoot, recessed lighting and a huge flat-screen TV. Pleasure slut, I’d called him when I’d first seen it. Oh yeah, he’d acknowledged with a grin.

  “The trailer’s about six hours away. I caught a ride with a crew coming up here when Kurt called. Got in late and came out to grab a bite.”

  Well, at least he’d missed “Wee Three Kings” on the news. “Did they know they were riding with the boss?”

  “Mike did. The rest of ’em, probably not.”

  Bryce did a lot of that, working with his crews, disguised as a regular human and not someone who’d made ten million dollars before he turned thirty. Kind of like one of the Greek gods who used to go out among the mortals to see who was worthy. I suspected he had an equal amount of arrogance.

  “Ice Castle or Sleepy Inn?” I named Epiphany’s motels.

  “Are you kidding?”

  It was my turn to grin. “Wait. You came up here. No truck. No trailer. No place to stay. And—”

  “Threw myself on your mercy with a blow job. Does that get me a decent bed?”

  “Farmhouse is full of Halners. My brother and sister-in-law are here. They came to help out so I could go to St. Thomas.”

  “Last I checked there were three bedrooms.”

  Bryce had all the subtlety of a steam roller. I felt myself sliding under.

  He cupped my head. “Get your coat. Let’s go.” The promise in his voice almost flattened the last of my resistance.

  “I’ve still got to finish closing.”

  Bryce rolled his eyes, but waited patiently while I retrieved my keys from inside so he could warm up my truck.

  He tossed the keys high and caught them, turning to face me as he walked backward across the parking lot. “Hey, Melchior, saw you on TV. How come you told me your folks were big baseball fans and named you after Mel Ott?”

  Chapter Four

  If I’d made a list of my worst case scenarios when I got up this morning—which I often did, thank you, it never hurts to be prepared—having my plans for St. Thomas end up in the crapper would be number one on the list. Even I couldn’t have imagined that by midnight Bryce Campion would have had a chance to witness my greatest humiliation, me up on that platform, in that stupid purple dress. Evidently I was still worth blowing—though spending most of his time on work sites probably left Bryce so desperate for dick that even my Melchior costume couldn’t change his mind.

  Given the amount of upheaval—okay and one really awesome orgasm—that had occurred since I stepped out with the bags of trash, I almost expected some kind of change to have washed over the diner. But I’d barely been gone for fifteen minutes. Henry didn’t look away from the TV as I cut through the kitchen. Becky tipped her head to indicate the just-passing-through couple was ready for their check. Apparently neither post-orgasm bliss nor post-Bryce steam-rolling shock showed on my face.

  I offered a bright smile and a free slice of cherry pie as an apology to my last table. We’d have to throw it out anyway. To my relief, they declined, and I went through the rest of the motions of closing and cashing out, most of my thoughts careening from the excitement of sex with Bryce and the memory of how flat and dull things had been after he’d disappeared the last time.

  A week and he’d be gone again. It wouldn’t be like that first time, when I’d had months to get used to having him around, had started to wonder if maybe this was more than the convenience of finding someone to fuck while stuck in a small town for both of us. Then a few days after he issued that not-much-of-an-invitation, he was gone.

  So what if the plans I had for standing on a beach looking so gorgeous he could eat his heart out had been flushed. I could still enjoy a week of getting that itch scratched to utter fucking perfection. Between me and Bryce, we’d see that Tiff and Kurt had a nice wedding and then—yeah, that was the part of my brain I couldn’t get to shut up and turn off. And then, and then, and then. The eternal refrain in my head. Being the responsible one sucked.

  Bryce was in the driver’s seat—and I tried to ignore how apt that metaphor was—as I approached my truck. He didn’t move, and I was freezing so I ran around to the passenger side.

  “You driving?” I asked as I slammed the door.

  He didn’t turn to face me. Just blinked. The light from the dash showed off his long lashes. Except for the stubble over his cleft chin, with his full lips and his long hair and those lashes he might be pretty enough to get punched when he went out on a work site—if he weren’t the one whose name was at the bottom of their checks.

  “It’s cold and I’m in a hurry.” He put the truck in drive and bounced us out of the lot while I was still trying to buckle myself in. “Is this rust bucket always so hard to start?”

  The truck had enough rust holes to make me doubt it would pass state inspection next May, but it didn’t give me too much trouble. “Not if you’ve got the right touch.”

  Bryce answered my smirk with a snort and stomped on the gas pedal.

  Neither the seat belt, nor the panic handle, nor the brake I kept trying to find in the passenger footwell helped. Bryce drove as if he expected everything to get out of his way. Stray deer, his company’s endless line of trucks and even the mountain the road curved sharply around. I was reasonably sure anything with the ability to make eye contact would yield, but even Bryce might have trouble shifting a piece of the Appalachian range. Though Campion Gas was working on that too.

  Still, everyone respected black ice. We’d had fresh wet stuff earlier. I put a hand on his thigh.

  “Almost there.” He grinned but didn’t look away from the road.

  “And I’d like to have all my pieces there to appreciate it.”

  “I’ve never hit anything.”

  “Yet.” I searched frantically for a piece of wood to knock and ended up rapping on my head.

  Bryce snorted a laugh, reminding me of Fred when I opened the door to let him out on a cold morning, a note of sweet-of-you-to-offer-but-are-you-crazy clearly understood. We spun off onto the gravel road to the farm.

  “Could you at least consider the advantages of stealth?”

  “Your family knows. Your sister—”

  “Yes, but unless you want to spend time talking—”

  Bryce eased off the accelerator before I could finish my warning. “Just keep your hands to yourself or we won’t make it upstairs.”

  If I didn’t think half of that was desperation born of deprivation, I would have been flattered. Bryce was almost comically careful as he eased the truck door closed, large strides ending in cautious placement of his boots as he followed me to the back hall door. We dumped our jackets on the freezer. As I knelt to work out a wet knot in my bootlace, Bryce’s jean-clad ass was right in my face as he tended to his own. A perfect peach under denim. I wanted to sink my teeth into it. Hell, I wanted to sink my dick into it. And over the freezer would be fine with me. I knew Bryce would have the kind of supplies our back hall pantry lacked.

  I calculated the trajectory with as much care as I’d plot out mowing around a blue spruce seedling, then launched myself. Too late. Bryce straightened, and I caught my chin on his elbow as I careened toward him.

  “Whoa.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Tired?”

  I swallowed the copper taste from the bite on my tongue.

  “Or eager?” His eyes lit with an intensity behind them. “Want to fuck you.” His hand slid through my hair, cupped the back of my neck. “Need to fuck you.”

  That might not have been my plan a minute ago, but Bryce had never disappointed. “I can get behind that.”

  Bryce had been about to kiss me, but now he smiled against my lips. “Really?”

  I considered the idiocy of what I’d just said. If I couldn’t shut off my stupid brain, why couldn’t I at least keep the stupid from leaking out?

  His mouth was still curved when h
e brushed it against my lips, and I couldn’t help smiling back. The kiss went on like that, smiles moving together, a tease of his tongue on mine, a playful squeeze of my ass.

  After Stuart, my first sure thing, had turned out to be not so much, my opportunities for sex revolved around three things, kind of like those questions they taught us for writing good essays. Who, as in is he? And if he is, is he interested? Where, as in how many times can I do this in the back of the diner or in a parked car before I get arrested? And finally, what, as in what does he have in mind?

  With Bryce, there was usually no time for those questions. No time to stop and do my usual dance with doubts. Bryce had confidence enough for both of us. He knew exactly how it was going to go, never questioned whether we would both enjoy every second of it. Which is why I thought it was strange when he released me and headed not for the stairs but for the living room.

  I followed him down the narrow hall, then stopped to gape.

  There was a Christmas tree—a Frasier fir to be exact—in front of the big front window, its soft white glow the only light in the room. It hadn’t been there when I went to work at the diner, but it was there now, every limb decorated with either heirloom ornaments or one of our horrific arts and crafts efforts that my grandmother had admired. Despite our coming in the back hall, I’d have seen it from the road if Bryce hadn’t been driving like a maniac.

  “Beautiful.” Bryce pulled me to his side. “I always wondered what kind of Christmas tree a tree farmer would have.”

  No kind, usually. The year my grandmother died, she had the audacity to do it in the middle of peak season and we got out of the habit. I guess the same couldn’t be said for my sister-in-law.

  “Well, I wanted to get an artificial one, preferably one with the fake snow glued on—”