by V. L. Locey
“I know, but we’re Santa this year. I’m off to find the goodies. You get that box out of the closet and get to work. I’ll be back before midnight. I hope!” I kissed his scruffy cheek, grabbed my keys and my coat, and off I went. I wasn’t the least bit worried about my new hubby. He was a smart man, college-educated, top-tier goalie for the Stanley Cup champions, and all-around snazzy guy. Surely, an intelligent man about town like Bryn Mettler could assemble a child’s bike without any problem whatsoever.
Chapter Two
Bryn
I was having problems.
That irked me because I prided myself on being a smart man. I spoke four languages—English, Swedish, German, and Welsh—and was in the process of trying to nail down Russian, so I could converse with some of my teammates in their native tongue. Also, I enjoyed hearing Russian being spoken. Such an aggressive, passionate language. So yes, languages and a college degree in Nordic Welfare from Halmstad University should certainly make me intelligent enough to put a damn bike together.
“Why are there no written words?” I asked the fat evergreen in the corner, then turned the meager assembly instructions around, thinking that perhaps if I read them from a different angle, they would make sense. “What is wrong with the written word? I cannot tell if this screw is 42 slash B because they all look the same!”
The only thing assembled so far was the handlebars. And those I had snapped together.
“Easy assembly my ass,” I muttered, tossing the instructions aside. “Stupid bike company only using illustrations.” I whispered several nasty words in German, added a few in Swedish, and then picked up the instructions so that I could wad them into a ball and throw them into the fireplace. I derived some pleasure watching them sit there by the fake fire. Pity Michael wouldn’t allow a real one until after the live tree was no longer in the house. Using the handlebars of the bike, I poke-checked the ball of paper under the faux logs and silly fake fire. “Who needs instructions? I rode a bike for years as a child. I’m not a simpleton.”
An hour later, I had to concede that I was, in fact, a simpleton. It was midnight, the bike was as it had tumbled out of the box, and my patience was being sharply tested. Not knowing what to do, but knowing I needed help fast, I did what any man would do in my situation. I called my father in Bamberg, the lovely city that he and my mother had retired to. My paternal grandmother lived there, as well, and they kept an eye on her. It would be just around six in Germany, and my father would surely be up and making coffee for my mother, who liked to sleep in.
“Guten morgen! Frohe weihnachten, Bryn.”
“Guten morgen. Frohe weihnachten, Papa.”
“You sound strained, son. Is everything okay?” Ah, my father knew me well.
“To be honest, Papa, I’ve been working on assembling a small child’s bike for over an hour now and have only the handlebars together. The instructions were useless so I pretended to burn them in fake fire logs that Michael insists we use.”
“Pretend burned?”
“Yes,” I softly chuckled at my own foolishness, then sat back, spine to couch, legs out in front of me. “Don’t ask. I was wondering if you recalled how to assemble a bicycle. Surely, you put together a few back in the day.”
Papa laughed. “Oh yes, a few and then some. You tended to crash into things such as trees, walls, and postal trucks with regularity. Let me grab a cup of coffee, then show me the instructions.”
“Danke, Papa.”
With Papa on a video call and a fresh latte, we had the big boy bike put together in under twenty minutes. It was a snappy thing. Dark green paint and a metallic silver seat with training wheels. There was a helmet somewhere that went it, and elbow pads. Were they here or over at Kelly’s? God only knew. I was growing sleepy and slow. A yawn snuck up on me, making my jaw pop, it was so deep.
“You should go to bed, son. Make sure you call when things have settled to speak to your mother and grandmother. We’re so sorry we couldn’t fly over for the holiday, but the darn gout has your grandmother down again and—”
“Papa, please, no need to apologize.” I rose from the floor, slowly, giving my spine a chance to realign. The cracking in my hips wasn’t a pleasant sound for a goalie to hear. “I wish we could come to you, but I only have three days for the holiday break. We’re on the road again on Wednesday.”
“I know. We’ll plan for you and Michael to come out during the summer. I think he would love seeing Germany, and your grandmother would be thrilled to see you again.”
I liked the sound of that a great deal. I’d perhaps book that trip as a first anniversary gift for my sexy new spouse. He’d be surprised, and delighted, I was sure. The other two trips we’d taken showed his love of travel and adventure. Our honeymoon in Honolulu was incredible. The sand and the surf, the sex, the biking and hiking, the sex. Yes, the more I thought of taking Michael to Europe, the more I liked it.
“We’ll have to see if we can work that out, Papa.” The front door opened and Michael stumbled in, arms full of gifts, his hair covered with cobwebs. “Ah, my husband is home with presents. We’ll call tomorrow. Love you. Goodbye, Papa.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Mettler!” Michael called, then dropped the boxes to the sofa. “There are more. I had to crawl around in the attic to find them. It’s like a scene from Arachnophobia up there.” He shuddered dramatically. “Oh hey, look at that bike! It’s perfect. You did a great job. Oh, shit, the elevator!” He ran out and I followed, just catching the door on the elevator before it shut. Inside was a small mountain of presents. I stared at them openly. Then I glanced at Michael. “I know, I know. I think everyone went a little overboard.”
“Yes, perhaps so.”
“Curse of the only child. You should be familiar with it.” He bumped my hip with his. In truth, I was quite familiar with the only child windfall every Christmas and birthday. “Let’s get them inside before someone rings for the elevator.” Pulling a chair from the small foyer to bar the door, we hustled in and out, carrying gifts, until they were all under the blinking tree. Then, we freed the elevator.
“We should put the bike somewhere he won’t find it,” Michael said, standing by the tree, tapping his chin as he contemplated.
I flopped down on the sofa. “Didn’t we just spend hours bringing the presents out of hiding so he could find them?” Another yawn rolled out of me. My sleepy eyes found the clock on the wall over the mantle. It was ten after one.
“Well, yes, but if he sees the bike, he won’t pay any attention to the others.”
“Come sit down with me. We’ll take the bike into our room when we turn in.” I sat up as he neared, slipping my arms around his waist, I tugged his sweater up a bit to bare his stomach. His fingers slid into my hair while I rubbed my cheek over his belly. “Mm, I do love your soft little belly. So sexy.”
“I love that you love it. My tube cookie adoration doesn’t have to be held in check,” he replied, his voice softening. His fingers moved through my hair, soft strokes that relaxed and enflamed me. I began nibbling his flesh, tonguing his navel, then tugging on the course hairs of his stomach with my teeth. His breathing grew faster, his grip on my hair tighter. “We should go to bed.”
“But I want my treat now.”
“Holy holly berries, Bryn,” he gasped but didn’t pull away. I burrowed my face into the front of his soft fleece pants. His dick was half-hard. I pressed my lips to the growing length of him, letting my mouth move up and down his cock. His body rocked forward and back gently, as if he were eager one moment then reluctant the next. I took hold of his ass cheeks and kissed up the underside of his prick. Tiny bits of fleece clung to my lips as I teased, nibbled, and rubbed my rough cheeks over his dick. “Bryn, if he wakes up…”
“We’ll hear the hinges squeak. I dislike the fuzzies on my tongue.” With that, I went in search of my treat. Hard and slick with precum, I pulled his cock free and swallowed him down to the root. A groan rumbled out of him. His hips flicked forward. I
pulled off with a pop that made the man shiver, despite the warmth of the house. His bright green eyes met mine. With a smile, I slid his cockhead between my lips. His mouth formed a little O as he drew in a shaky breath. Knowing what the man liked, I worked him slow and easy, hand aiding my mouth, until he was a stroke from blowing apart. Sometimes, we liked to play with edging, but not tonight. I swirled my tongue over and around his swollen cockhead. Hand in my own pants while one lingered on his ass, I stroked myself faster while Michael coated my tongue and throat with cum. The taste of him propelled me over. Fingers coated with spunk I tugged and pulled, smearing the warm spend all over myself as I pumped my hips madly.
“Oh, oh, oh,” Michael gasped, his knees folding, his fingers gripping my hair in tight fists.
“That should be ‘ho-ho-ho’, no?” I asked, licking a few pearly drops from my lips as he tumbled away from me, falling to the sofa like a felled tree, dick hanging out. “Ugh, such a mess.” I pulled my hand out of my pants, kissed my husband’s bare ass cheek, and then went to the kitchen to wash my hands. When I returned to the living room—or FAO Schwartz—I caught Michael cramming cookies into his mouth. I cocked an eyebrow at him. At least he’d taken the time to tuck his dick back into his pants before he’d attacked Santa’s goodies.
“Someone had to eat them,” he told me, crumbs stuck to his lips. I chuckled and sat down next to him, pulling him close into my arms, then kissing him deeply. His mouth was sugar sweet, his body warm and supple, and his arms happy to encircle me. “Mm, almost as good as tube cookies,” he purred when the kiss ended.
“Almost?” I asked, bristling with fake indignation.
His smile was tranquil and playful. I kissed him a dozen times, had the last cookie on the dish, and then washed it down with a sip of room temperature milk.
“Ugh, warm milk is gross,” he gagged, while passing the glass back to me. I put it beside the now empty cookie dish, snuggled him close, and stared at the lights on the tree until they became blurry. Which didn’t take long. “We should go to bed.”
“Agreed.” I dropped a short peck to his hair, then stood, my back cracking as loudly as Michael’s knees when he rose. “I suspect it will be a short night.” Grabbing the big boy bike, I held out my free hand to Michael. He slid his fingers through mine and we shuffled down the hall, past where the boy with visions of sugar plums dancing in his head slept.
The bike was stashed in the closet until morning. We fell into bed. I vaguely recall my husband turning off the light on his side of the bed, but nothing else, until someone with a sticky finger was poking me in the cheek. I blinked awake, barely, and there stood Liam, stuffed Cap dangling from his left hand, his right pointer finger poised to jab me in the face again.
“Wake up, Uncle Bryn, I think Santa was here. My brain is picking up all kinds of presents,” Liam informed me.
“You have Christmas present sense?” I asked sluggishly, fearful to look at the clock beside me.
“Yeah, like spider sense, only I never got bited by a spider. Uncle Mike! My brain is tingling!” And with that, the poker ran around to jab Michael into consciousness. I dared to peek at the clock. It was ten minutes after four.
“Joyous noel,” I mumbled into my pillow.
Chapter Three
Michael
“Happy Christmas,” I yelled in my sister’s ear. Good thing Liam wasn’t listening beside me, or his ear would have been toasted. The profanity was warranted. It was quarter after four in the morning but she had told me to call no matter the time. So, here was the call. “Santa has been to our house and your son is crackling with excitement.”
“Dark…so dark…outside,” Kelly croaked. Adam asked something of her—it was garbled to my ear—but she replied with a mushed-up sentence that included the words “brother” and “jerk”, which made me snigger.
“Let me get the laptop fired up so you can witness the carnage.” She grumbled. “That’s my polite way of telling you both to get some clothes on.”
“Eww, gross. Stop thinking about us naked.”
“Stop being naked and making me think about it,” I countered. My baby sister said more bad words. “You’re not really festive, Kelly Nicole.” Liam pounded into the living room, his lower lip dangling out, a piece of dry toast in his hand. “Your mom is being a grump.”
“Why do we have to make coffee and toast before we open presents?!” Liam demanded to know. I reached out to flatten down the wild blond spriglets of hair standing at all angles. They refused to flatten, as I knew they would. “Because Uncle Bryn and I are old and need starting fluid. Eat your toast and go sip on some hot chocolate.”
“Why do you need started? Don’t you wake up started?” the child asked, his toast now mashed between his fingers.
“Nope, I don’t wake up started anymore. I used to when I was your age and had to walk a hundred miles to school, in the snow, with nothing on my feet.” Liam gaped at me. “I’m kidding. We rode the bus, just like you. I’m just old. Go help Uncle Bryn make more toast. Oh, your Mom is on the phone.”
“She’s old, too,” he sniped, slamming off to berate Bryn for being crotchety and unable to self-start, I assumed.
“I’m not old,” Kelly moaned into my ear.
“Of course not, pudding. Now, let me get the laptop ready. I’ll buzz you on Skype in a few. Go find your wrinkle cream and your support hose while I’m gone.”
“Asshole.”
I sniggered and hung up, the blinking and winking tree lights seeming a little less annoying now that I had pestered my sister.
Ten minutes passed quickly. For me. For Liam, they dragged on through the eons, his moans and whimpers of boredom making Bryn chuckle. The child had a future on the stage, dramatic roles only, please. Once we had a clear connection with Kelly and Adam—both were clothed and somewhat awake—we let the beast off his leash. Liam tore into the presents like a dog in a butcher shop. Paper was shredded, bows flung aside; it was bedlam. Anything that was clothing was instantly discarded. Bryn gave me a long look over his coffee when the boy threw a new Ravens jacket to the floor.
“Liam, perhaps you should say thank you to Uncle Bryn for that Ravens jacket,” I prompted the wild-eyed lad. His green eyes flew from the tiny box in his hand to Bryn. “Remember how we said some presents were from Santa, and some were from me and Uncle Bryn?”
“Thank you,” he said, then returned to freeing some toy cars from their wrappers.
I glanced at my hubby sitting beside me. “He likes it, he does, there’s just too much stimulus right now. And you know how boys are about clothes…”
“I always enjoyed getting new clothing.”
Well, of course he did, Dapper Dan that he was. “Ah, well, you’ve been a fashion plate from birth then. I never cared about clothes when I was young.”
“You still don’t,” he offered, giving me a sly look over his steaming mug.
I smiled. “No, you’re right. Clothes are to keep my backside warm. If they match or not doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed,” he teased, lowering his cup so I could kiss him and his sassy lips. We sat back and let the boy have his dues, his mother scolding him to no effect to slow down and read the tags. He’d slow down then, for a moment, his blond brows would beetle, and he’d slowly read the tag on the present resting on his lap. His gaze would flicker to the adult name on the tag, he would thank them, and then the present would be stripped of its coverings.
“It’s akin to watching Wolverine carve his way through a mob of mutant haters,” Bryn whispered. Liam heard that, and so we were treated to thirty minutes of the boy pretending to be Wolverine, snarling and growling and tossing out ‘Bubs’ until his mother called a halt to it. I snickered throughout most of the shenanigans. The boy was just being a child. Sure, manners are important, but you’re only five once. In another year or two, some big dummy kid at school would tell Liam about Santa not being real, and we’d forever lose this innocence. So, if the lad got ca
rried away and shrieked in glee over something Santa had left, I could see no great harm in his behavior. Of course, I was the fun uncle who tended to dote. My head was packed full of great lines and tidbits for the blog, but those would keep until tomorrow. Today was for family.
While Liam worked through the mound of gifts that had his name on them, Bryn and I swapped a few of our own. A sweater and a silk scarf for him from a fancy little designer boutique he loved over on Ivy Street. Then, a tie from PT Designs, a chic store over on Penn Avenue that Bryn loved to browse through when he was online. Some slippers from Liam and a snazzy tweed flat cap from Kelly and Adam completed his big gifts. There were oodles of tiny stocking stuffers piled up on the table in front of him. He was beaming at me over that darn silk scarf, going on about how he could pair it with his black London Fog coat.
“You have good taste, Michael,” Bryn said, as Kelly and Liam were discussing how to make a hat out of the used bows. Adam, it seemed, had conked out, the lightweight. “Now, open mine, and the ones from St. Nick, of course.”
“Of course.” I adjusted my red velveteen Santa cap. As I had been handing out gifts, I got to wear the hat, and dove into my pile with as much gusto as Liam was tearing through his. Bryn gifted me a gold sweater with green glittery yarn knitted through it.
“The green will highlight your eyes,” he informed me. I kissed him in thanks. Then, I opened up a new day planner set complete with pens and highlighters. “Open the one with the silver paper.” He pointed to a present resting by my calf. I tore off the fancy red bow and handed it to Liam, who was now making a bow hat in-between his ripping and tearing. My mouth hit my chest when I unwrapped a gorgeous black leather attaché case with shoulder strap. “I had it specially made for you by Gorge, the man who runs that small leather artisan shop over in Upper Hill.”
