'Twas the Night

by Sandra Hill

  He spoke those last words against her mouth, even as he took hers in a hungry kiss. Sam could be a gentle lover, when he wanted, but he was beyond gentle now. He devoured her with kisses so deep and demanding, she could only open and go with the flow of his passion. A journey that already had her whimpering. It was too much, and not enough.

  She ran her fingers through his short hair. She nibbled at his chin line. She spread her legs wider with a surging need to get closer to him, which was impossible with her Santa pillows.

  Sam laughed softly and nipped at her upper lip with his teeth. “Reba, honey, I could be out of this uniform in two seconds flat, but how are we ever going to get you out of that damn Santa suit? And then back in it, to finish the brigade program?”

  In between those two long sentences, Sam was doing incredible things to her ears, which he’d exposed by pushing her hair back off her face. Things involving the tip of his tongue and wetness and sexual simulation. Oh . . . my . . . God! She felt the effects of his tongue in her ear ripple to her breasts and between her legs.

  But Sam had said something that called for a response. At least, she thought he had. Oh. That’s right. The Santa suit.

  “I guess we better wait,” she said, “for a better time.”

  “I don’t want to wait,” he said and already, somehow, while her mind had been wandering . . . in the most delicious way . . . Sam had managed to open the front of her Santa jacket, revealing the pillow tied over her belly and her red lace Christmas bra. The pillow, which was belted around her waist, garnered a grunt of disgust, but the bra didn’t disgust him, she could see that in the widening of his eyes and the slight hitch in his breathing.

  “You lied,” he noted in a grainy voice as he undid the front closure. When she spilled out before him, his slight hitch turned to a gasp.

  She closed her eyes, suddenly shy before his perusal, embarrassed by the hardening of her nipples and the rhythmic pants which escaped her lips.

  “Reba, you are so beautiful,” he murmured, touching the tips of her breasts with his fingertips.

  “No, you’re the beautiful one,” she said, or at least she thought she said it. She couldn’t be sure because the erotic shock of his light caress caused her to arch her breasts forward and throw her head back. She wanted more. Much more.

  And it appeared she was going to get it because, when she opened her eyes drowsily . . . drowsily was all she could manage since her lids drooped with heaviness . . . she saw that Sam hadn’t been lying. He could, indeed, remove his uniform in two seconds flat. Well, at least down to the waist. His chest was bare, from wide shoulders down to the sinfully narrow, belted waistband of his slacks. And he was busy removing her pillows as well.

  In no time at all, she felt the delicious sensation of his chest hairs brushing against her nipples. And she, in her Santa trousers, and he in his Uncle Sam trousers, found a way to fit his erection against her arousal. Not perfect, considering the fabric between them, but satisfactory. Oh, definitely satisfactory. Especially when Sam placed his hands on her behind and moved her forward so that she barely rested on the edge of the table and had to wrap her legs around his hips for balance.

  “So sweet, so sweet,” he said against her breast as he took one nipple, then another, between his lips and suckled hard.

  She couldn’t help herself. She bucked against him, trying to rub that engorged part of her against that engorged part of him. She must have succeeded because he moaned and took her breast harder and deeper.

  Alternately, she mewled and whimpered, begging, “Please, please, please.” She was coming, much too fast, much too soon. Which wasn’t helped at all when he slipped a hand inside her Santa trousers, against her belly, under the waistband of her panties, where he found her wetness. He smiled . . . or tried to smile . . . through gritted teeth.

  In her mortification at being aroused so pathetically soon, she tried to shimmy back on the table, away from him.

  He allowed it, but only for a second. With expertise born of years of experience, no doubt, or maybe inventiveness spurred by desperation, Sam pushed her back and arranged her flat on the table. Then he climbed up and settled himself over her. She was going to have splinters in her butt, and he was going to have splinters in his knees, but who cared!

  Sam had learned lots of tricks over the years . . . things to hone his sexual expertise . . . she would bet her Santa suit on that fact. After all, they’d been bumbling virgins, learning together all those years ago. But he wasn’t employing any out-of-the-ordinary techniques now.

  It was all too fast and frantic. And, yes, dammit, it was out-of-the-ordinary, because it was her and Sam. That was the magic ingredient.

  With a whooshy exhale, he braced himself on straightened arms, his neck straining with restraint. No more preliminaries. The foreplay would have to come later. Afterplay. Yeah, she liked the sound of that. In fact, she liked everything Sam did. Even . . . oh, my God!

  He didn’t do that!

  Did he?

  He did!

  “I hope to God you’re on the pill, Reba, because my trembling hands couldn’t find a condom right now if my life depended on it.” How he managed to say all that, she couldn’t imagine. The man was a wonder, no doubt about it. Multi-talented. Definitely multitalented.

  She nodded that she was on the pill. Thank God for irregular periods that required that medical intervention. She couldn’t have waited for a condom, either.

  He smiled then. A genuine, stop-your-heart Sam smile. Then, the unthinkable happened.

  “Reba! Where are you?” It was Maudeen calling to her in the hallway. There was a jiggling of the doorknob. Luckily, she’d had the foresight to lock the door when she’d discovered Sam in here. “Where are you, Reba? It’s time to start the final Santa gift-giving part of the program.” Maudeen’s voice got increasingly more faint as she travelled down the corridor.

  “No, no, no, no, no!” Sam protested in a horrified whisper. “We can’t stop now.”

  Reba felt the same way, but, really, time for a reality check. They were in a public building, a store room, for heaven’s sake.

  “Don’t move,” Sam ordered through gritted teeth. His forehead was pressed against hers as he labored to get his breathing back to normal. She was making some puffing noises, as well.

  Finally, they were able to look at each other without crossing their eyes. They were only half-aroused now.

  “Whew! That was a close call.” He rolled to his side, tucking her under his shoulder, and winked at her.

  She laughed softly. The table was barely wide enough for one of them, but managed to hold the two of them as long as they lay really close, which they did. It was a good thing they hadn’t fallen off the table in their frenzied actions of just moments ago.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “For what?” she inquired, running her fingertips over his brow in an attempt to erase the frown lines.

  “For being too quick. For rushing you. For bad timing. For almost having sex in practically a public place. Holy hell, I behaved like . . . ”

  “ . . . a teenager?”

  “Yeah, a horny, inexperienced, overeager kid with his first girl.”

  “I remember our first time, together, and it wasn’t all that bad.”

  He made a snorting sound of disgust. “I should have gained a little control over the years.”

  “Me, too.”

  “No, no, no,” he said, shaking his head vigorously from side to side. “You should have no control when you’re around me, but I’m the man. I should have control.”

  “That is so sexist it doesn’t even merit comment. But, really, we better go.” Her remark was half-hearted, seeing as how she was so relaxed and happy right where she was.

  “Yeah,” he said. Then, “Look at us . . . at me.” Sam was staring downward where his Navy trousers and her Santa pants were gathered at their knees. “We’re pitiful.”

  She thought they looked rather nice. With an
odd irrelevance, she remembered reading one time about some famous English lady who said something in her diary to the effect, “Lord Samuel came home from the wars today and made love to me with his boots on.” Rather like her and Sam, making love with their boots on.

  “Sam, there’s one thing I want to say.”

  His body went rigid with foreboding. “It better be, `I love you’.”

  “Of course, I love you. I already told you that.”

  “Not enough. Not lately.”

  She gave him a playful tap on the chin with her fist for interrupting. “I just wanted to say that what we just did . . . almost did . . . doesn’t carry any promises.”

  Sam sat up abruptly and stared down at her. “Don’t you dare say you’re regretting what almost happened. Don’t you dare.”

  The hurt in Sam’s voice tore at her, but there were some things that needed to be clear between them.

  “Listen, Sam, when I gave you the Good-bye Kiss back in Allentown—”

  “It was not a Good-Bye kiss,” he asserted.

  “Okay, when I gave you that kiss, I implied that since you wouldn’t be coming back to Mainefor good, then there could be nothing between us. Well, I changed my mind. Remember what I said about your mother?”

  “My mother again?” He groaned.

  “Yes. I said that your mother must really have loved you if she was willing to give you up.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, confused.

  “Well, can I do any less?”

  When understanding hit, he stood abruptly and was already yanking up his pants. “You are not giving me up. No way, no time, no where, no how.”

  “Think about it, Sam. I’m giving you what you want. Freedom. Just what you want.”

  “Who says I want freedom?”

  “You don’t want your freedom?”

  “Yes . . . I mean, no. Hell if I know.” He glared at her. “Did I just get laid here?”

  She laughed at his bluntness. How like a man to take that conclusion from everything she had said! “We almost made love, Sam. Whether we completed the act or not is irrelevant. I love you. You love me. But there are no commitments.”

  Just as Sam had said he could remove his clothes in two seconds flat, that’s about how much time it too him to re-dress himself, to a perfect tee. Anger hastened his actions. Suddenly shy under his scowling scrutiny while he dressed, Reba began to cover her nakedness, too, though not as quickly.

  “This conversation is not ended.” Sam walked over to the door, unlocked it, ducked his head out and glanced both ways before closing it again and telling her, “All clear.”

  She nodded, already with her trousers raised and pillows in place. He came back and burrowed his fingers in her hair on both sides of her face. Then he kissed her . . . a long, lingering kiss full of just what she’d said she didn’t need—promise.

  Then he walked away, closing the door behind him.

  Moments later, he returned, opening the door just enough for his head to peek in, “You better hurry up. Everyone’s waiting for you. I told them you’d been in the ladies room, trying to seduce me. Everyone wanted to know if you were crying with frustration, seeing as how I’m so hard to get.”

  She made a clucking sound of disapproval at his teasing.

  “Just kidding. Everyone thinks you went jogging.”

  “In a Santa suit?”

  He shrugged, as if her jogging habits might be a bit weird. “One last thing, Reba . . . ”

  “Yes . . . ?” She couldn’t wait to hear what his exit line would be now. What was he going to tease her about? Her less-than-spectacular new body? Her lack of skills in the sex department? The way she was screwing up her Santa suit as she hurried to dress?

  “You were beautiful, Reba,” he said in a voice thick with emotion. “So beautiful you took my breath away. I’ll probably have a heart attack when we do make love, and mark me well, babe. We will make love.”

  Then he was gone.

  Talk about exit lines!

  Talk about charm!

  Talk about Sam!

  Talk, talk, talk! Sam was sick to death of all the talk.

  Morey in a Santa suit with candy cane suspenders wanted to talk to him about the soft shoe dance program he’d just completed with Bob, also in a Santa suit. Bob—or the Colonel, as he was called— had a “super keen” exercise proposal for Winter Haven that he’d like to discuss with him. Jane wanted to talk to him about the offer he’d made to sponsor that kid Richie with some anonymous monthly checks. Dr. Maggie and Dr. Meg wanted to talk with him about sex practices in military installations for a study they were contemplating. And he’d barely escaped Betty who’d been approaching him a few moments ago with a dogged jut to her chin that he suspected meant an update on her contraception lecture.

  He was back in his Santa attire, as ordered by Mrs. Smith when she’d caught him coming back from the store room. Then Mrs. Smith had commenced talking with him, as well, about every blessed thing under the sun. If he ever heard the recipe for Plum Pudding again in this lifetime, it would be too soon.

  He wanted this whole Santa Brigade program to be over so that he could be with Reba again. And it wasn’t talk he had in mind, either.

  Unfinished business was the name of the game.

  Reba, Callie and Dana were seated on high stools in the center of the room, near the giant fir tree, dispensing gaily wrapped presents that had individualized tags on them for all the kids. Maudeen and her computer were responsible for that amazing feat . . . coordinating each kid’s wish with a specific gift. By the time they arrived at the shelters, they had detailed wish lists and gifts that matched or closely approximated the requests.

  He knew Reba wasn’t ignoring him, precisely. But it felt that way nonetheless. After what had just transpired between them, he wanted desperately to recapture the closeness. But how could he do that when everyone kept talking to him? And she kept doing Santa things?

  JD and Stan didn’t seem to be faring any better with the two women who had caught their attention.

  Just then, a new song came on the sound system. It was loud and it was joyful and it was freakin’ “Jingle Bells.”

  “Not a chance in hell!” he said, storming toward the side of the hall where he’d spied the music turntables on a small stage. “If I have my way, that song is banned forever . . . in my hearing.”

  Flicking through the stack of CD’s on the table, he stopped at one in particular. And laughed. “Oh, Reba, you are going to be soooo surprised.”

  “What’s up, Slick?” Stan said, coming up the steps to stand beside him.

  “You were talking to yourself,” JD remarked with a smirk. He had followed after Stan.

  “It’s like this, boys,” he told them with a slow drawl, “I’ve been noticing that you two are batting zero where Callie and Dana are concerned. I think you need a lesson in smooth.”

  “Hey, Slick, I don’t see you chalking up any major carnal points with Reba,” Stan added with an exaggerated sniff of affront.

  Sam ignored their comments and showed them the CD. Both JD and Stan groaned.

  It was the soundtrack from the movie “Top Gun,” which had come out during their senior year in high school. Ironically, the movie took place in a jet pilot training center in Florida, just like the one Sam attended a few years later. JD and Stan were trying to ignore the CD he was waving in their faces. Not only had the three of them watched the movie a zillion times, but they’d become adept at reenacting the famous bar scene in the movie where jet pilot trainees, Tom Cruise, and his buddy, Anthony Edwards, serenaded their superior officer, Kelly Preston. Usually, Reba had been the one that the three of them had practiced their hokey routine on, but now . . .

  “You know what I think?” Sam said, grinning widely at JD and Slick. “I think they’ve lost that lovin’ feelin’.” He put emphasis on they and looked toward the three female Santas sitting appropriately on what could have been bar stools.

  “Oh, no, they d
efinitely have not lost that lovin’ feelin’.” It was JD speaking, and he was shaking his head like a shaggy dog, except that he was a shaggy-haired Santa. They all were.

  “I hate it when she does that . . . loses that lovin’ feelin’, I mean.” Stan had a decided glimmer in his eyes as he stared at Dana, as if he had something special in mind for her. Man, oh, man. If Dana had, in fact, lost that lovin’ feelin’, he could tell that Stan was bound and determined to get it back for her.

  “Hey, Richie,” Sam called out to the little boy, motioning for him to come over. “Can you hit the play button on this CD player once you see us get close to the Christmas tree over there?”

  “Sure.” Richie puffed out his chest with pride that Sam would have entrusted him with an important task. Sam was definitely going to have to do something for this boy . . . and not just a check a month.

  The three of them stepped off the small stage then and ambled toward their three “victims.”

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” they all said simultaneously. Then the three of them grinned and gave high fives to each other.

  The Snowdon version of the Righteous Brothers were officially out of retirement. Reba was almost at the bottom of her Santa sack, and so were Callie and Dana.

  That’s when she noticed three large Santas ambling toward them with the most peculiar twinkles in their eyes. They were up to no good was her guess. Just before they got there, the Sam Santa called out, “Oh, Reebbaa!”

  And the JD Santa followed suit with, “Oh, Caaalllie!”

  Followed by the Stan Santa with, “Oh, Daaannna!”

  “Oh, good grief!” Reba muttered.

  “What’s going on?” Callie asked.

  “You don’t want to know,” Reba answered.

  “I think they look cute,” Dana remarked. The woman was obviously besotted with Stan. Either that or she blushed every time he got near her for some other reason.

  Actually, they did look kind of cute as they walked toward them with a rhythmic spring to their steps and started snapping their fingers and singing, “Boom da boom da boom.” My God, they were about to get “the treatment” from the three hunkiest Santas in the world.