Page 77 of The Witness

I did.

He cocked his head and looked at me. Something shining from his eyes that made my heartbeat speed up. A flush of something bigger than attraction and more powerful than lust washed over me.

“I missed you.” The words weren’t exactly what I wanted to say, but blurting out something likeI’m falling for youin the middle of my mom’s holiday party would have been too much.

“I missed you too.” His sincerity and implied sentiment matched mine.

The party ebbed and flowed. Michael escaped from behind the bar when I forced Mr. Kramer to take his place as a punishment for hoarding cocktail shrimp. We mingled with partygoers, the ladies patting Michael’s biceps appreciatively, the men telling me the same stories of their glory days that they’d told me in the past. Katie and he lamented the lackluster performance of the Miami Heat so far this season.

Then it happened. Someone, I’m assuming Mom, played the song:Domnic the Donkey. The world’s most annoying holiday classic, especially when a certain parrot has learned to sign/screech the heehaw refrain.

I grabbed Michael’s arm as soon as the distinctive first bars of the song filled Mom’s apartment. “I’m going to apologize in advance for the vocal styling of the murder chicken.”

“It sings?”

“I wouldn’t call it singing.”

Captain Morgan’s first round of braying was enough to bring the party to a halt. Every eye trained on the bird, and he preened, weaving back and forth as Lou Monte sang about Christmas in Italy. The parrot’s performance was a highlight of the party every year.

“Why?” Michael’s eyes were as big as saucers.

“Mom’s second husband, Vito Colasanti, loved this song and played it fifty times a day in his repair shop until the Captain learned the refrain.”

Michael shook his head. I put an arm around his waist and encouraged him to sway with the music like the rest of the guests. As much as I hated this song, no Christmas Eve would be complete without it.

The bird outdid himself this round, fluffing his feathers out and tipping his head back to give full throat to the heehaws. The guests applauded. Yes, a room full of septuagenarians were clapping for a bird imitating a donkey.

The party guests, now totally swept up in the moment, sang along with the chorus. Captain Morgan loved it. His wings flapped, and he bobbed up and down, a parrot high on the Christmas spirit. People in the lobby of Silver Palms could probably hear his heehaw finale.

Michael was speechless.

“Other people do advent calendars and secret Santa. We do that.” I shrugged, hiding my smile behind my third Cranberry Margarita.

“I’m not sure I can even explain what happened here without triggering myself. Will it happen again next year?”

“It’s a tradition.”

Chapter 34

Michael

Soft early morning light filtered through Sabrina’s bedroom window. I tugged the sheet back to see the slope of her shoulder and the curve of her hip. With the tip of my finger, I traced the bow of her spine, then curved my palm around the bend in her waist. She shifted back, the roundness of her ass tucking perfectly against my growing morning erection. Her body moved like hot wax flowing into the shape of mine.

Best Christmas morning in ages.

Last night, we barely made it inside before we ripped each other’s clothes off. She was a little tipsy, and I was in no mood to slow down her attack. I’d madly, desperately wanted to be inside her all night, all week. The phone calls and text messages we’d exchanged were death by a thousand cuts—torture.

She’d pushed me down on the couch and knelt between my legs, taking me in her mouth. I’d probably ripped holes in the sofa cushions I’d gripped onto in an effort to control myself. My Siren had sucked and stroked me to my breaking point. I had been slicked with sweat and every muscle had been shaking when I gave in and pulled her off her knees. What followed had been a straight up hard, fun fuck. We’d both needed the release.

But this morning, we had time. A luxury I wouldn’t squander.

I slid closer. Naked spooning was how every morning should start.

I reached between her thighs and cupped her core, parting the folds with my index finger. Hot. Slick. And smoother than silk. The tender nub of her clit throbbed under my languid touch.

She came awake slowly. Her breathing changed, faster and shallower. With a roll of her hips and a breathy moan, she unfurled for me, pleasure chasing away sleep. I nuzzled her neck, teasing the sensitive skin with the roughness of my scruffy jawline.

I worked my fingers faster; her hips mimicked my pace, thrusting into my hand. Her ragged breathing filled the room. I focused on her movements and sounds to gauge what she liked best. The thought of bringing her pleasure had my cock pulsing against her backside.

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