Page 30 of Just for the Holidays

“Hurry up,” he demands.

The front of Teddy’s jeans fill in an instant and the key finds its hole. He twists the knob, grabbing Nichol’s lapel, hauling him inside the dark bakery, slamming the door shut behind them with the kick of his toe and a rattling of jingle bells.

They rush to peel away their coats without breaking the sticky connection fusing their mouths.

Nichol busts free from his peacoat, dropping it to the floor and he rushes Teddy backwards against the shop counter. Their bodies collide with a low whimper escaping Teddy’s throat. He continues to battle with his jacket, that's tangled around his arms, cuffing his elbows behind his back.

Nichol’s lanky fingers pop the button of Teddy’s jeans and his palm slips in, over the pouch of Teddy’s jockstrap, wrapping around the taut fabric stretched over his hard dick.

“Fuck,” Teddy exhales.

Nichol’s mouth covers his as his other hand climbs under Teddy’s shirt, exploring his full furry belly.

Nichol’s lips trail kisses across the edge of Teddy’s, then his cheek nuzzles the side of his beard, continuing on to find his neck.

Nichol steps back, lifting his shirt over his head and dropping it to the floor. His dreamy eyes drink in the sight of Teddy’s body as he pushes his shirt up over his head, tucking it behind his neck and moving back in to press their bare chests together. Nichol’s soft hairless skin contrasts the rough fur coating Teddy. Their lips meet again.

“You are so fucking hot… boss man,” Nichol whispers between kisses.

Teddy’s coat finally releases his arms and drops to puddle around his feet. Static heat rushes through their bodies, soaring the temperature of the bakery to a humid boil, bubbling a flush of goosebumps down his body.

Teddy wrenches Nichol’s tall frame against himself, grips the back of his neck, and smashes their faces together.

Drunken tongues tangle with the bittersweet flavors of rum and cheap draft beer, swirling on the foggy exchange of body heat. Nichol’s nostrils flare with a slick sheen of perspiration coating his forehead and upper lip, dampening the tip of Teddy’s nose and mustache. He halts their kiss and steps back.

Teddy leans forward, eyes still closed, searching for Nichol with pursed lips.

The abrupt shuffling of loafers on tile and the slam of the washroom door alerts Teddy to open his eyes, as the sounds of Nichol retching into the toilet, overtake the room. Hurls and gagging echo behind the door, stealing the moment and cooling the temperature of the shop.

Teddy collapses down on a vinyl-cushioned stool, sighing in sync with his own wallow. “You okay?” he calls out to Nichol.It’s no surprise the catalog-model-crush is sickened by their sloppy encounter.Teddy huffs.

A retch pauses. “Yeah,” his muffled voice responds, then carries on gagging, before adding, “I’m sorry.”

Teddy lifts himself back to his wobbly feet, bracing against every surface within reach as he makes his way back to the sink. Grabbing a glass from the shelf and filling it with cold water. He shuffles to the washroom door, leans against candy-striped wallpaper, and waits.

The washroom door slowly opens and Nichol’s smooth naked chest appears in the moonlight reflecting off snow outside the window. His bloodshot eyes are sleepy and he chews his lip nervously.

Teddy offers him the glass of water, helping to guide it to Nichol’s lips. “Drink,” he commands.

Nichol sips and leans against the doorframe. “Sorry,” he apologizes again.

“Don’t be.” Teddy takes his hand, leading him toward the office. “Come on,” he whispers.

Nichol drops down on the futon, curling up and facing the wall. Teddy covers him with a blanket before lying down, back-to-back, next to him.

The groggy guest’s body rolls and his arm falls around Teddy’s shoulder. “Thank you for dinner,” Nichol whispers.

His warm sour breath floats over Teddy’s neck and wafts past his nostrils, but boozy drowsiness carries them both to sleep before he can be bothered.

Chapter 17

Nichol

Snowed In

Aloud clang rings over hushed stirrings in the kitchen, abruptly waking Nichol, lying on his belly and draped off the edge of the futon. The furry little guinea pig, weaving and nuzzling against his fingertips, squeaks and scurries back into her hut at the corner of the room.

He clasps his throbbing head in both palms, rolling onto his back, and scanning the now familiar asbestos tile ceiling with foggy eyes. “Shit,” he grumbles, under his breath, pullingthe blanket up over his face and burrowing down to hide in shame. Only to be met with the stench of his own putrid breath, bouncing back at his face—twisting his stomach.

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