Page 34 of Touchdowns and Tinsel

New Year’s Eve

Twinkling lights strung around the backyard flicker in the darkness, casting a welcoming light that dances off the high mounds of snow blanketing the frozen ground, making each flake shimmer like tiny specs of glitter. From my bedroom window, I watch as the workers diligently complete the setup for the New Year’s Eve party, our final celebration of the year—a moment to reflect on the good and the bad that has colored our lives these past 365 days.

In the far left corner, a DJ's platform is adorned with neon lights that pulse with festivity, framing a stage ready for dancing. At the heart of the backyard stands a magnificent Christmas tree, over six feet tall, adorned with colorful lights and sparkling glass ornaments, surrounded by neatly arranged tables set up for the guests.

I never wanted to throw a party; my heart hasn’t been in it. But Cole and his teammates deserve to celebrate finishing the football season undefeated, and my work associates are eager for a night out to escape the daily chaos we all know too well, before shit returns to normal tomorrow and we continue living our mundane lives enveloped in the chaos of the real world.

It's been a week since my world shifted again—this time for the better, finally. Yet, home alone, with no one to share the holiday spirit, I find myself sinking into a familiar sadness—the same depression—an ache I've struggled daily to shake off.

Despite the difficulty, I've resisted the urge to log into the app where I first met Q. Each day is a battle against the temptation to reach out, but this is what he wanted: for our lives to return to normal after those twenty-four tantalizing hours spent snowed in in that secluded cabin, where we shut out the world around us. Our delicious secrets linger still, woven into the very sheets we shared, with only the three masked men and the wooden walls bearing witness to the thrill we indulged in on Christmas.

Just the thought of him—or them—sends warmth rushing over me, creating a flush that contradicts the chill of the cracked window as goosebumps prick my skin. Just as I'm about to lose myself in those indulgent memories, a faint ping from my phone snaps me back to reality. My heart races as I quickly withdraw my hand from beneath the band of my thong, fighting the temptation to respond to the images swirling in my mind.

I turn away from the window and snatch my phone off the nightstand, unlocking it only to feel my breath catch in my throat at the sight of a message from Q. Weak in the knees, I sit on the edge of my king-sized bed, trying to steady my rapid breathing before I tap on it to read.

It's time for you to take a shower, Ms. Saint. Now be a good girl and head into the bathroom—there's a surprise waiting for you.

A smile breaks across my face, impossible to contain. I toss my phone onto the bed and leap up with unrestrained excitement, rushing to the bathroom like a child racing down the stairs on Christmas morning, eager to see what Santa brought them.

You’d think the sound of water running and steam filling the air or the silhouette of a tall figure in the shower would frighten me, but instead, it sparks my curiosity and causes the heat between my thighs to grow slick with arousal.

“What the fuck are you waiting for? Get undressed and join me,” Q's deep voice calls over the soothing sound of water splashing against the tiles.

I quickly strip away my clothes, push open the frosted shower door, and step in, the scalding water embracing me, turning my skin a rosy hue. Before I can utter a word, he pulls me against his bare body, my back to his chest, and blindfolds me—his method of keeping his identity a secret for now. But honestly, I don’t fucking care anymore. He turns me to face him, my breasts pressing against his chest as his hands explore my body, eager as if he’s missed me just as much as I’ve missed him.

“Happy New Year, Ms. Saint,” he growls into my ear, guiding his hand up my trembling body until it rests at my throat.

He wraps his fingers around it gently, drawing me closer, stealing my lips in a kiss so heated it leaves me breathless, my knees threatening to give way beneath me. But I kiss him back—oh, fuck do I kiss him back—hungry to taste him again, as he devours my mouth with his thick, pierced tongue sweeping against mine. Taking charge, I reach between our bodies and wrap my hand around his hard cock, stroking it with unspoken confidence.

“Ah, there's my good fucking slut,” he praises, slipping his fingers between our bodies and finding my clit, strumming it as if it were a guitar, and setting fire to my senses and my burning flesh.

My breath hitches again, each flick of his fingers igniting a blaze deep within me. I lose myself in the heat of the moment, squeezing him tighter as his grip on my throat loosens just enough to let me breathe, yet he holds a promise of possession that sends a thrill racing down my spine. My heart thrums in sync with the water's rhythmic cascade, drowning out any lingering doubts.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers, his breath hot against my neck, sending shivers racing across my skin as his fingers increase their tempo, teasing and tantalizing, pushing me further toward the edge.

“I want you,” I gasp, the words spilling from my lips like word vomit with a desperation I can no longer contain.

“Then let me in this fucking pussy.” His laughter resonating like a warm blanket surrounding us is exhilarating, and I nod vigorously, my body shaking with anticipation.

He spins me around, his hands gripping my waist, guiding me under the spray while his lips capture mine again. The taste of him is intoxicating. Somewhere in the background, I can hear the faint sounds of music and laughter filtering in through the open window, but right now, none of that matters—only us.

Breaking the kiss, he navigates his lips down my body, worshipping my curves until he sinks to his knees. I grip the shower railing, my body awash in both heat and anticipation, as he trails kisses along my inner thighs.

“Q,” I moan, each caress sending tremors through me.

“Patience, Ms. Saint,” he teases, his voice low and gravelly, as if the mere act of speaking fuels his desire. “This is your surprise.”

And just like that, he buries his face between my legs, the warmth of his mouth enveloping my swollen core. A gasp escapes me, turning into a moan that echoes off the tiled walls. His tongue dives deep, swirling and teasing, coaxing my body to build and to rise higher and higher with each flick. I can barely form coherent thoughts as he works his magic, the delicious tension coiling tighter within me. The world outside fades again, leaving only this moment, this man, and the ultimate pleasure pulsing between us.

“Please, don’t stop,” I plead, desperation lacing my voice, and I can feel the wicked smile on his lips as he responds, his tongue working even more feverishly as if he relishes every gasp and whimper that escapes me.

I arch my back, lost in the all-consuming bliss, wanting him closer—wanting all of him. My fingers slip through his damp hair, urging him on, needing to soar above the precipice of ecstasy.

“Not yet,” he murmurs against me, teasing an electric shock through my body, before returning to his feasting, fingers now joining his mouth, filling me completely as he pushes me closer to that delicious edge.

I’m on the brink, teetering, ready to fucking break. Just as I inch closer, he suddenly stops, leaving me dangling in a void of desire. In the midst of my disappointment, he rises; I can only assume his face is dripping, eyes heavy with lust.

“What was that about patience?” I manage to say, my voice a mix of playful annoyance and undeniable need.

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