Santa Baby Maybe (Kane Christmas Book 2)

by S Doyle

  “Unhh,” she moaned, again knocking her head back against the door. I pulled her hips toward me while I pushed up deep inside of her.

  Shit, fuck, this was so fucking hot. Why was she so hot? It felt like she was burning me from the inside out. Maybe it was that, or maybe it was the feel of my precum spurting out of me in warning that if I didn’t get my shit together fast, this going to end way too soon. I locked down my body and got back into my head.

  I pressed my forehead against hers and together we panted out breaths.

  “Did I hurt you?” I asked.

  “No,” she whispered. “But you need to move. I need you to move. God, W.B., I’m so close.”

  It was with that first slick stroke pulling out of her that suddenly it made sense. Why she was so hot and wet. Why this felt so incredibly good. I wasn’t wearing a condom.

  “Fuck,” I muttered as I pulled completely free from her body. And the loss of her heat was like a kick to the stomach.

  “Noooo,” she moaned. “I’m so close. Please.”

  “Condom. I need a condom,” I panted. “Okay, baby, one more time, I’m going to lower you onto that left leg.”

  Which I did. Then I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. I’d put a condom inside weeks ago, telling myself I needed to be prepared if one of my blind dates connected, but the reality was that I’d been thinking about this impossibly crazy moment instead.

  I slid the condom out and tossed the wallet over my shoulder. As quickly as I’d ever done it in my life, I sheathed my cock and then, without hesitation, I lifted Joy against the door again and this time was fucking her without any restraint. I pulled her thighs apart and fucked into her high and deep.

  I felt her hands scratching at my back, trying to pull my shirt free where it was still tucked into my pants. Then her hands were on my skin, her nails digging into the small of my back, and it unleashed a whole new intensity.

  I closed my eyes and focused on slow and steady thrusts. I wanted to own her body. I wanted every sigh, every whimper. All of these things were mine. Pressing deeper, I shifted my cock inside her and heard her gasp.

  “There, please, there.”

  I hit the spot deep inside her and worked it. Snapping my hips so hard I was afraid I might break her. Instead, she gasped again and then cried out. Then I felt it. Maybe like I’d never felt it before. Her orgasm. The one I’d given her. She was squeezing me so hard from the inside I felt my eyeballs roll back into my head and I no longer had control over my body.

  One more hard thrust, then another. Shamefully, I whimpered as I came, joining her in her orgasm.

  It could have been an hour or a minute that I stood there with her in my arms, both of us trying to catch our breath.

  “I’ve never done that before,” she said thickly, as if speech were difficult.

  “Never had sex?” Geezus. Please don’t tell me I took her virginity hard against her front door.

  “No, never had fuck-me-against-a-door sex. I’d heard about it. Read about it. I thought it was a myth.”

  I huffed out a laugh, then quickly sobered. “I was inside you, Joy. Without protection. Just for a second, but…”

  “It’s okay. I’m clean if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “No, I mean, I’m clean too, but I don’t know if you’re on birth control.”

  She shook her head. “It’s fine. I just finished…well, it’s the wrong time of the month. We’re good.”

  We were good. We were very good, I thought. Then I had to back away before I got it in my head that we could stay like this all damn night.

  “I’m going to put you down again and then get you your crutches. Did I hurt your ankle?”

  She shook her head. “Or if you did, I didn’t it feel it, what with the mind-blowing orgasm.”

  “Yeah, mind blowing.”

  I set her down on her left leg and reached for the crutches. She settled them under her arms. Then I handed her her bottoms. “I’ll be back. I need to…” I gestured to my still wrapped dick.

  I made my way down the hall to the guest bathroom and took care of what I needed to. I thought about the second I’d been inside her without the condom and nearly whimpered again at the memory. I’d never felt anything as erotic in my life.

  I took the time to splash some cold water on my face. When I looked into the mirror above the sink, it was as if I didn’t know who the flushed man was with the satisfied eyes. This was trouble. This was not good at all.

  I hadn’t been able to stay away after kissing her. What the hell was going to happen to me now that I’d just had the best sex of my life? And of course she would have questions. After this morning she would probably be wondering what the hell I was thinking. If I would leave or stay.

  Stay.

  Leave.

  Apparently, even I didn’t know. One thing I did know was that hiding out in the bathroom was the coward’s way out. I opened the door and made my way back to the living room. Joy was settled in the large purple chair, back in her bottoms and her left leg pulled up to her chest as if she were using it for protection. Her ankle was wrapped and laid out on the ottoman in front of her. I took a seat there, careful not to jostle her ankle, and clasped my hands together.

  I didn’t know what to say so I searched her face, wondering if she had anything she wanted to say first. Apparently she didn’t, because her eyes stayed on mine. Steady, calm. Waiting.

  My focus drifted over her shoulder to a bookcase built into the wall that was filled on all five shelves with exquisite pieces of what I knew to be hand-blown glass figurines. I hadn’t noticed them last night because I’d been sitting in the chair with my back to it when she’d subjected me to The Kissing Booth.

  “Look at those,” I said as her gaze followed to where I was looking.

  “Oh, those are just some flawed pieces I couldn’t bring myself to melt down.”

  I stood and walked behind the chair so I could study them up close. I didn’t see any flaws. I saw only magnificent shapes and colors. Delicacy paired with intricacy. Similar to her Christmas wreath ornament. As beautiful as anything I’d ever seen.

  “Flawed? They’re amazing. You’re an artist,” I said, as if finally coming to understand what that meant. “I mean, you’re not just someone who makes ornaments. You could sell these.”

  She smiled. “That’s sweet. When I know in your heart of hearts you probably don’t think something like art is an actual profession.”

  “My mother thought she was an artist,” I said. And it was like I didn’t have control over the memories. They wanted to come out and so I let them. “She would make these clay pottery pots and bowls and other things. They were nice, I guess. Functional at best. But she would get so excited. She would tell me that a pitcher she’d made was so amazing that at the very least she would get five hundred dollars for it. Enough money so she could put a down payment on an apartment for us. Then she’d come back from whatever craft fair she’d gone to with maybe twenty or thirty bucks in her hands and I would get so mad. Not at her, really. Not because she didn’t have the money. I would get mad at myself because I fell for it every single time. Every time she told me she’d made something of incredible value, I believed her. And every time it was just…a bowl. Or a cup. Nice and functional, but never worth what she thought it was.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Joy said. She reached out and took my hand. Squeezing it. “That kind of constant disappointment can be tough.”

  “I’m not angry at my mother,” I insisted. “I don’t want you to think I have mommy issues or anything like that.”

  “Of course not. Where is she now?”

  “A commune up in Victoria, Canada. I call her and send her money a few times a year. She writes to me. Still making her pots and bowls. Selling her hemp products alongside them. But happy, I think.”

  “So you won’t be seeing her for Thanksgiving?”

  I shook my head and set the glass piece back on the s
helf. Looking down at Joy, I thought again of what I should do. Leave probably. Leaving would be the best for both of us.

  “You should have it with me,” she said with a tentative smile.

  “What?” I asked, losing the conversation because I was already trying to plot my escape.

  “Thanksgiving. My father is on a cruise this year with a new woman he’s been seeing, so it’s just me. I wasn’t going to do anything fancy, but if you want I can put together the basics.”

  “Like tofurky?” I grimaced.

  She cocked her head. “I can make you chicken, how about that? With stuffing and mashed potatoes and my famous green bean casserole.”

  “With the fried onions on top?” I’d had that once. A girlfriend in high school had invited me to her parents’ for Thanksgiving. It had been the first time I’d ever celebrated the holiday. My mother thought it wrong to commemorate peace between the settlers and the Native Americans when ultimately the settlers had destroyed the Native Americans’ way of life. So no, Thanksgiving hadn’t been a thing for me, but that day with my girlfriend I’d discovered a love for green bean casserole.

  “Yep,” Joy smiled.

  I shook my head. “I can’t ask you to cook.”

  “Please,” she huffed. “My ankle is already feeling better. In a few days, I’ll be fine. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll let you do the grocery shopping.”

  “Thanksgiving?” I mused.

  She wiggled her eyebrows. “With pie.”

  And just like that, I was sunk. “Don’t know anyone who can say no to pie.”

  “Good.” She beamed.

  “Good,” I repeated. “I…uh…probably should…uh…”

  “Leave,” Joy said. “Yeah, you probably should. For now it might be best if we take a little breath. But you’ll come back. So it’s okay.”

  “I’ll come back,” I promised. Because I was pretty sure I couldn’t stay away.

  10

  Thanksgiving

  Joy

  Why was I doing this? I shouldn’t have invited him for Thanksgiving. This was crazy. We hadn’t even really talked about what happened. Against my door. One minute I’d been teasing him about stealing my car and the next I was telling him I needed him inside of me.

  Insanity!

  It was only that I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him all day. How gentle he’d been with me on Sunday. How he’d held me while I slept, keeping my ankle elevated on his legs. How he’d needed to pee for a really long time, but hadn’t moved for fear of waking me.

  Then he’d kissed me and said it was a mistake. I should have been angry. I should have been furious when I found out he’d taken my car keys. But I hadn’t been any of those things.

  Instead, I’d been hopeful that he’d bring the car himself. That he wouldn’t be able to stay away.

  And he hadn’t. He’d come back that night and we’d had door sex!

  Then, after I’d invited him for Thanksgiving and he’d accepted, he kissed me on my forehead. ON MY FOREHEAD! And left.

  No mutterings of how it had been a mistake, but certainly no idea if we were ever going to do that again.

  Still, yesterday he’d texted me, asking for a shopping list, which I’d given him. He’d dropped off the groceries last night and it had been mostly awkward. I’d asked him inside and he’d told me he couldn’t stay.

  I didn’t ask why and he didn’t offer. He just gave me a half-hearted wave and I told him to be here around two today. He’d nodded, then gotten in his car and left.

  Now I was making apple pie and suddenly this all seemed so nerve-racking.

  The doorbell rang and it was too late. He was here, and maybe this was going to be the most awkward holiday meal ever.

  But he was here and there was a strange comfort in that. I stuck the pie in the oven and set the timer.

  Making my way to the door with a slight limp, crutches no longer needed, I took a deep breath and tried not to have any expectations about what this day was going to be.

  We were two…what the hell were we? Colleagues? Friends? Door-sex buddies? It didn’t matter. We were two adults having Thanksgiving together. That was all it needed to be.

  I opened the door and he frowned. Probably not a good start.

  “Where are your crutches?”

  “I don’t need them anymore. It’s just a slight ache now.”

  “The doctor said—”

  I cut him off. “I’m fine, W.B. I promise. I wouldn’t walk on it if it really hurt.”

  He pushed a bottle of wine in my direction. “For dinner.”

  I smiled. “Thank you. Come on in.”

  I backed away from the door to make room for him and tried not to wonder if he was going to turn me back against said door and have his way with me again. Yes, I’d worn a skirt, but that was only because I usually wore a skirt. It wasn’t a blatant invitation to pull it up over my hips and take me hard and fast.

  At least, I didn’t think it was.

  With decidedly more self-control, unfortunately, he made his way into my house and didn’t even so much as kiss me on the cheek. I took a deep breath and fought the urge to just call the whole thing off and spare us both the tension.

  For the thousandth time, I asked myself why I’d set myself up for this, but the truth was that I knew the answer. I just didn’t want to admit it to myself. I had a thing for W.B. I liked him. I liked seeing him and spending time with him. And I knew he liked me. When we weren’t fighting, or trying to avoid each other, the reality was we enjoyed each other’s company. As opposite as we were, we kept finding our way to each other and I thought that had to mean something.

  Then, when he told me the story about his mom, I’d felt like he was reaching out. Letting me inside, beyond the walls he used to keep everyone else out. Because I knew that’s what his asshole persona was. The reason he wore ties on Friday and kept to himself in his office. It wasn’t that he was aloof or remote.

  He was just self-contained. Now I knew why. Because while he didn’t think he had “mommy issues,” he totally had mommy issues. It made me want to care for him. It made me want to hug him and let him rest his head in my lap while I stroked his hair.

  It made me want to take him inside my body and give him all the comfort I could with my arms and legs and mouth. Sex for me had always been a little nerve-racking. I’d always had concerns about my breasts because of weird body issues, so getting naked with someone, trusting them on that level, was never really easy.

  With W.B., though, I hadn’t had any time to think. No time to get in my head. There had only been enough time to feel and what I’d felt was greed.

  A need for more and more. Which was now strangely coupled with this need to give and give.

  “We should talk,” he announced. He was sitting on my couch, his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped together.

  It didn’t sound like the good kind of we should talk. In fact, it sounded very much like the bad kind of we should talk. I thought about all the food I’d made that was probably going to go to waste if this ended badly.

  “Can I get a glass of wine first?” I asked him, holding up the bottle.

  “Sure.”

  “You?” I asked.

  “Yeah, wine would be good.”

  I made my way back to the kitchen and opened the bottle of already chilled Chardonnay. Jake was sitting on the counter, where he wasn’t supposed to be, giving me a look that let me know he was really the only man in my life I could count on. Then I reached out to pet him on his head and he snapped his jaw open in an attempt to bite me.

  “No bitey Mommy. Especially when she’s about to get dumped.”

  Because that’s what this felt like. Like we were about to have the conversation we probably should have had a few days ago and it was going be about how, like the kiss that same morning, it had been a mistake.

  I could tick off the items in my head even as I poured us two glasses of wine.

  We worke
d together and office romances never ended well. We were too different to possibly think we could end well. He was looking for someone else entirely. What had happened had just been a momentary lapse in judgment. On both sides.

  Because that’s what I was going to say. It wasn’t even so much about pride as it was…protecting him. I shook my head. It was crazy to even think it, but it was true. W.B. liked me. He wanted me. Despite all his best intentions. I knew it. I felt it. He showed it by his actions if not his words.

  Which meant walking away from me was going to hurt. And it would hurt him more if he thought I was going to be hurt by it. I didn’t want him to feel that way about me. I didn’t want him to be angry with himself for potentially leading me on. Because if he did that, if he let guilt seep into his pores, it would hold him back from looking for real happiness.

  Not the dimensions of a perfect partner, but a wife. Someone he could love.

  Except that someone wasn’t going to be me. I took a deep breath, picked up our glasses, and headed into the living room. He hadn’t moved from his perch. Jake followed me, then paused when he spotted W.B.

  Just for a second. Then he moved to where W.B. sat and bumped his head into his leg.

  “Wow,” I whispered. “He really likes you.”

  “Head butting me is a sign of affection?” he asked as Jake continued to bump along his legs. He did this until I walked over with the wine. Jake, having made his greeting, obviously felt free to go roam about.

  “Yes,” I told him, as I handed him the glass. Then I sat on the couch next to him. He didn’t flinch, but after a moment he did pull away about an inch or two.

  “So let’s just get this out of the way,” I began.

  “I went out on a date last night,” he said over me.

  The silence filled the room for a time. I knew we had to dismiss what happened against my front door. I knew we had to reset our relationship. I even knew that we had to find a way to put it behind us so we could work together.