Pining for Perfect

by Ki Brightly

  I nod, fighting down some disappointment. “I get it.”

  “Thanks for being so understanding,” he whispers, and I know he’s talking about more than just helping him pick up Alicia’s things.

  “Be good,” I whisper as I bend down to brush my lips against his cheek. He turns into it, pressing his cheek tight to my lips. It’s too much. My heart melts. “Or Santa won’t bring your present.”

  His eyes fly wide. “You don’t have to,” he breathes.

  I study him for a second. The excitement is unmistakable. He bleeds himself dry for this holiday, trying to make it good for kids he’s never met. Shoveling like crazy to fill a hole that won’t ever get full. Who makes him happy?

  I shake my head, and Alicia groans loudly behind us from her spot on Asher’s couch. “Please. I’m sorry, but I can’t handle you two being lovey-dovey right now.”

  Asher laughs and gently shoves me toward the door. “No more dove stuff from us! I’m your agony aunt tonight, sweetie.”

  I let him manhandle me playfully outside and stand there for a minute after the door shuts, an indescribable warmth rooting me to the spot.

  What kind of a gift could I ever get that would mean something? All he ever seems to do is put himself out there for others. I gently touch the door as I turn away, and a happy sort of panic builds in me. I haven’t bought a Christmas gift since I was small.

  Cold dots hit my face, and I glance up. White fluffy flakes drift through the yellow streetlights, glittery magical diamonds. My laugh is snatched away by a cold gust of wind as I set out to walk quickly home.

  Chapter 9

  Asher Banks

  IT’S BEEN about a week—a long, hellish week of promoting, charity events, and waking up at three o’clock to be at work by four. I scheduled myself into the ground like I do every year during the holidays. So when I stumbled into the living room of my apartment this morning and Alicia sternly told me she handed off a couple of things to other people at the studio, I gratefully went back to bed for an hour. And now I have a free evening.

  The only thing I want to do with it is see Stokely.

  We’ve talked a few times on the phone, and texted, and waved through the glass as he went to work, but we haven’t had a chance to see each other. To touch. I close my eyes to the memory of his kiss, and my pulse speeds up, hammering in my ears with a loud whoosh.

  I sit at the control panel, headphones clamped on, humming along to “Rudolph.” Then it happens. Stokely walks by, clearly looking for me. His breath puffs like cotton candy, and the morning light glimmers, turning him a burnished gold. I grin and wave at him, and he smiles back, careful. His teeth flash brilliant. For a second I swear I feel a little like I might fall off my chair, and then he’s gone. I whip out my phone.

  Meet me at my apartment after work.

  I delete that. Too desperate.

  Can I open my present before X-mas? Your pants are the present. ;)

  I sigh. No. Too slutty. But do I care?

  Before I can think of anything good, more subtle, my phone lights up.

  May I make you dinner this evening?

  I shake my head. “Classy. Good one.”

  Tapping my foot, my cheeks hurting from the size of my grin, I text back a quick yes and get on with my day. I cue up about twelve more Mariah Carey songs because they remind me of Stokely now, and sit back in my seat. Alicia walks in, her schedule book in hand, and she uses it to whack me on the head when she checks out the list. I close my eyes, smiling, and conjure up everything that might happen tonight.

  My pants get tight, so I bite the inside of my cheek and try to stop imagining but can’t. It’s going to be a long, hard day. I fight back a snicker, cracking an eye open.

  Alicia shoots me a questioning look.

  “Nothing,” I hiccup.

  BY THE time I’m standing in front of the door to Stokely’s apartment, I’m a wreck. He has the left side of a classy old Victorian stuck on the end of one of the streets that butts against State Street, a remnant of a bygone era beautifully restored. It’s miles above the newer, economical place I have. I have trouble making myself knock on the door because now that I’m here, there’s this weight of expectation on everything. I have his gift under my arm, but I hate it. I literally couldn’t think of anything he might like, so all I have is a lame gift card to Starbucks because I know he drinks coffee, and a little Christmas wine topper from one of the downtown glass boutiques, but I’m not even sure he drinks wine. I clutch the box wrapped with silver paper and a sparkly red bow tighter.

  What if he hates it?

  My heart thunders in my ears. What if he ends up hating me?

  I wanted to be here so bad, but now I can barely stand it.

  The door swings open just as I’m working myself up to maybe running back to my car and driving away. The second Stokely smiles, some of my panic melts. We stand there for a few seconds, neither of us really sure how to greet each other.

  “Oh, fuck it,” I say with a laugh, then step in and press myself close. He does what I hoped for and closes his arms around me so I can snuggle in tight.

  “Missed you too,” he says into my ear. I grin against his warm neck. He steps back, walking me inside, and the door slams shut behind me. He lets go long enough to lean around me and lock it before he goes back to holding me.

  I inhale his scent, fresh musk, something tropical and herbal. “A week is too long,” I grumble.

  “With the holiday madness, I thought perhaps I wouldn’t see you till it was finished.”

  I shake my head. “Alicia saw I was getting ready to crack, I think. She’s a sweetheart with a shark’s pen—slashed apart my schedule for the next few days.”

  He leans back to smile at me. “Good.”

  I hold my breath when Stokely tips my chin between his thumb and forefinger, but then his lips are on mine, and all the tension in me melts away. He steadies me when my knees feel shaky. I open up, invite him in. He takes advantage with a small groan from deep in his chest that wakes up every nerve in my body. His tongue sparks liquid desire low in my abdomen.

  A timer sounds in the kitchen. Irritation and panic zip through me. I nip at his bottom lip and suck on it to try to keep him here, with me, doing this while we still can, while I still have him. I fight off the very real urge to cling like a lamprey when he gently pulls his lips from mine, using his grip on my chin to keep me from leaning back in.

  His eyes shine with a happy lust, and I’m certain he wants me as much as I want him, but he only smiles. “Food’s almost ready.”

  I dig my fingers into his biceps. “This is better than food.”

  Stokely slides a quick gaze down my body, his eyelids heavy. “You should eat.”

  “Well, hell, I’m not that skinny,” I grump, but he only smiles and leans in to press his lips to my cheek. That roots me to the spot. It’s so fucking good. Not sexual, exactly, but…. I shiver with it.

  “No one said you were, but if you’re working hard enough that Alicia made you take a night off, then you need to eat.”

  I scowl, but he rushes off to stop the irritating beeping coming from a room hidden off to the left. There’s a spot for shoes by the door, so I kick mine off. The living room is chilled like he doesn’t keep the heat at much more than livable. Shivering, I gawk at everything. The room is nice. Decent fluffy couch that probably cost a pretty penny, with the prerequisite matching chairs and coffee table. Everything in the room matches and is beautiful. The television isn’t obnoxious but is big, a sound system nestled below it on a shelf. I look around, interested. Surround speakers were hidden in the corners of the room by someone with half a clue. The curtains match. The entire room could have been dropped out of a catalog.

  “Oh, you went the other way with it all,” I mumble to myself and feel like a part of Stokely slides into place for me. Everything in this living room is just the way it should be, down to a few photos of his college graduation scattered along the mantelpiece,
including Stokely with a group of other kids in the traditional black robes.

  The sounds of metal scraping and an oven whumping open and closed filter into the living room, so I wander in the direction of the sounds, tossing my coat onto one of the chairs as I go. The kitchen is more of the same—perfectly clean granite counters, perfectly shined stainless steel fridge and stove, with Stokely moving efficiently in front of it to put food onto plates. The eat-in table at the far end of the room is a deep, rich cherrywood with a high-gloss shine, set precisely—clearly he knows where all the forks and knives go—a pie parked in the middle.

  “Let’s eat the dessert first.” I beeline for the table and drop my present for him into one of the seats. His chuckle sends tingles down my spine. My cock plumps up, cascading want out through the rest of me. My stomach clenches with it.

  But we don’t. He puts the plates on the table for us, all very polite. Before he sits, he moves his present to the side. I sit too, and for a few seconds, everything is too formal for me, too… adult. Too put together. But then Stokely smiles, and this isn’t so weird.

  I pick up my fork from its precise location to the left of my plate. As I lean forward, garlic and basil and something else that smells rich and fatty wafts up to me. My mouth waters as contentment warms me up inside. The scallops lying just so over the pasta are swoonworthy.

  “Thanks. I usually end up eating dinner over the kitchen sink.”

  He visibly winces, his eyebrows dipping low. “You don’t cook?”

  I shrug. “I can cook. I just don’t usually take the time.”

  He nods as if that makes some sort of sense, but not the right kind because I get a skeptical perusal that leaves my face scalding.

  I take my first bite and moan my way through a few more, getting tight chuckles out of him. “Noreally’sgood,” I mumble around my food, and he covers his eyes and winces.

  “Thank you.”

  Our dinner conversation never becomes deeply intelligent or earth-shattering.

  “How was work?”

  “Same as yesterday. You?”

  “Same.”

  But it’s so much better doing this check face-to-face instead of a few fast texts sent in between running place to place for work. His foot brushes against mine under the table, and I leave mine there, a promise of the full-body tackle I want to give him as soon as our food is gone. My stomach gives a grade-school flip. Footsie under the table.

  Stokely smiles at me. “How’s Alicia?”

  “Good. She blocked his number,” I mumble behind my hand around another bite. I gulp my drink, and a wry little smile tilts his lips. His gaze burns into me. My thighs tense. Everything below my belt gets warm, stiff with a pleasurable ache. This is only dinner. My heartbeat flutters in the front of my throat near my Adam’s apple.

  Our plates are cleared, and our pie—pecan—is nothing but crumbs when that sense of urgent expectation settles in again. He smiles, glancing around at the mess in the kitchen, opening and closing his hands on the edge of the table.

  “We’ve texted so much, but I don’t know what to say right now. Can’t think,” he whispers.

  I burst out laughing, a crazed sort of joy bubbling in my belly, and shove back my chair. Doing what I wanted to do for half the meal, I slide my way under. “It’s really clean down here,” I murmur, distracted, as I poke at the shiny bottom of the table before I crawl forward.

  “What the?”

  I pop my head up between his legs, and he laughs, scooting back to give me room to wiggle in between him and the table and plop myself on his lap, facing him. His thighs are solid, his chest wide and warm when I lean against it to grip the back of his chair tight. The sizzle of excitement that comes right before I’m live in front of a large crowd pelts along my skin. My arms shake.

  “Do me next to the tree so I can look up at the lights.” I shift on his lap to press myself against his stomach, sending a needy burn tingling through my body.

  He gasps, hands flying to my hips with a grimace. “No tree, but I have a bed.”

  “That’ll do it,” I sigh happily as he jerks his hips up, rubbing his hardness against my ass. I try to move, to help, but he tightens his grip, and I’m the one going for a ride, his long body arching to buck against me. I fumble my grip from the chair to his shoulders, ducking my head for a kiss.

  Wonder and joy. That’s what explodes between us as our mouths touch. It’s like he was waiting for the right time to let loose, after a nice meal, after a date, because he devours my lips, sliding his tongue in to slip against mine. I do all I can to keep up, but after a minute, I am merely holding on to his shoulders tight, letting him lead the way. I shift urgently, rubbing my needy groin against his abdomen, the pleasure a deep, heavy ache in my shaft, not quite enough.

  I rip my mouth from his. “Let’s do it here. In the chair. Let’s just fuck now.” Kiss. “Please.” Suck on lip. “On the table. On my knees. Now.”

  He dances his fingers up my spine to knead at the back of my neck, holding me still for a long, thorough perusal with his tongue. We seem to be set to two different speeds. I’m bumping along to techno, and he’s on something smooth and classic, with a low bass line. I whimper and wiggle, but he only sucks on my tongue, taking his time, cranking my volume till my speakers might fizzle.

  “Bedroom.”

  The way he says it, like I can’t argue and have no choice, should piss me off, irritate me, but in a way, it’s nice. A comfort. He knows what the hell we should be doing, or thinks so, and that sends a current of need all the way down to clench my hole.

  I nod, running short on breath, not able to speak.

  He moves the table back with a slow grate of wood across the tile, then slides his hands down to my legs, kneading them, gradually putting pressure there until I stand. I’m not ready to be vertical. I tremble all over, trapped in the pleasure current, ready to ooze to the floor in a puddle.

  “Haven’t… in a while. I’ve… I mean, I work a lot and… and….” I suck in a deep breath.

  He cups my cheek and presses his lips to my forehead. “And someone bruised you up bad last time.”

  Melting. Everything inside me is melting, and this can’t be bad, he’s not going to drop me because I’m a fucked-up kid from the system or work too hard or… or please let this not be a mistake.

  I nod stiltedly. “Just here,” I say, tapping my chest. “Nothing terrible.”

  “That’s still painful,” he murmurs. His hand on mine is sure but gentle as he leads me out of the kitchen, through the living room, then down a hall I hadn’t noticed in the back corner of the room beside the entertainment center.

  When he pushes open the bedroom door and flips on the light, it reveals another room that fell out of some catalog somewhere. He messes around with a dimmer switch, setting the light low, just so. Classic dark woods with masculine deep blues everywhere—curtains, quilts, carpeting. Dresser, side table, bed set all match. Hell, even the garbage can nestled between the nightstand and the bed is the same blue as the rest of the room.

  Stokely glances at me, his mouth tight and eyes narrow.

  “It’s nice,” I grunt out. “Very nice. Are we allowed to touch the bed? Because I really want to get in it.”

  His shoulders shake, and after a few seconds, he’s snickering quietly. “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  He slips his hand up from mine to my elbow, and suddenly all the bravado flies away from me and I have trouble looking at him. The ache tenting my pants pulses, but I struggle inside.

  “I really like you,” I choke out.

  He pulls my right arm close until I hug it around his middle and then does the same with the other. For a few minutes, we stand there. My cock flexes on its own, wanting, pressed against his thigh. Occasionally he rocks his against my abdomen, but we hold each other. Breathe together.

  I tilt my chin up to rest it against his chest. He’s so fucking handsome with his cut jaw. I rub the tip of my nose alo
ng it.

  Stokely smiles at me. “No one’s been here before.”

  I bury my face in his chest. “You like me too?”

  He laughs, turning me around with gentle hands on my shoulders. I feel a little like everything inside me is jumbled together and he’s about to pull it all apart. He caresses strong fingers carefully down my back, and I’m in the odd position of letting him do what he wants. Usually I’m bumping and grinding along by now, not being strung out by a waltz. He slides his fingers up my back, pressure points sparking vivid in my mind. My shirt goes. He leans around me to unbuckle my belt. I help him shove down my pants next, then step out of them. I’m a little self-conscious in my candy-cane boxers, the only one on display, but he’s so obviously entranced by what he sees, with his arms around me, playing his fingers along my abs, his lips on my shoulder, winding me up.

  “You,” I whisper, reaching back to tug on his shirt. He scrapes his teeth against my skin. Something squeezes tight near the root of my cock. “Love bites are transcendental.”

  With a laugh and frantic burst of movement, he steps back, stripping off his shirt. I turn to help with his pants, but he leans forward to capture my mouth with his, and next thing I know, I’m on my back on the bed, with his long, warm body pressing me down into soft blankets.

  Time stalls and twists for a while, the slow base line of trance music, meaningless in and of itself but somehow synchronized to our heartbeats.

  “Music,” I gasp around his mouth.

  He sits up, dazed as I scramble out from under him, dual needs warring in me, but I know this won’t be what I need without something playing. I drop off the bed with a thump and dive for my pants. As fast as I can—which is pretty fast, actually—I have my phone out and a holiday techno playlist up and blaring. I toss the phone onto the nightstand.

  Shoving at him, I get him to move to his side, then insert myself into the same exact position I was in before. “Continue.”

  He hangs his head, snickering at me. “Can’t do it to this.” His eyes are happy, though, so at least he’s not pissed at me. I crawl over to grab my phone and find something more low-key, more sensual, a little R & B.