Page 74 of A Manny for Christmas

Here’s the thing about Molly and me. We fucked a million different ways over the years, and we always seemed to be on the same page. We’ve been fast and slow and loving and rough and gentle and restrained and abandoned and everything in between.

And it’s always been hot as hell.

Last night was about rediscovery and incredulity and gratitude, with a hefty dose of much-needed, long-overdue releases for both of us. Tonight, I was aiming for intimate and gentle—and quick, given she’s got an early start—but that was before I had her standing in front of me naked, with that hair doing things to my cock that should be illegal. And something about the way she’s looking at me tells me that, right now, she’s not counting down the hours till her alarm goes off.

This woman.

I knew how lucky I was to have her once. I knew because every single friend of mine told me repeatedly the entire time we were together, and I knew because my heart told me every time I saw her. And she’s still a fucking miracle. She’s not some run-of-the-mill pretty blonde. She’s genuinely a once-in-a-lifetime beauty, if you ask me.

No wonder her fuckwit of an ex-husband couldn’t put his damned paintbrush down when she was around.

No wonder this local big shot has been following her around like a stray puppy, begging her to date him.

The jealousy is kindling to my desire, turning it darker, more molten. Layering its bittersweet edge on top of what I’m already feeling.

And yes.

To have her once was lucky.

To have a second chance with her?

To know she’s standing there, wanting me still, despite everything that went down between us?

It makes my breath still in my lungs.

My heart skip.

‘I thought I told you to get over here,’ I say, a giveaway catch in my voice that I’m not expecting.

She closes the gap between us, and I cannot take my fucking eyes off her. I stare at her like a lost, stranded man might stare at the North Star, and she climbs up on the bed and straddles me, her hands going to my jaw as she cups my face.

The expression in my eyes must telegraph every single thing I’m feeling, because she gives the tiniest nod. ‘I know,’ she says.

That’s all it takes. My arm goes around her waist, and I tug her to me so her tits and hair are crushed to my chest. Our faces smash together, my cock pressed agonisingly between us, painting her stomach with moisture already. I claw at the back of her head, filling my clutches with handfuls of hair. ‘You are fucking extraordinary,’ I grit into her mouth.

In answer, she kisses me harder, the hungry dance of her tongue with mine telling me what I already know: this isn’t some convenient, comforting hookup with an ex.

It’s two soulmates putting physical expression to the undeniable, inexplicable connection that still flows between us.

She writhes on top of me, and my hands can’t help themselves. They skim over the silky skein of her hair and the flawless softness of her skin. They count the discs of her spine and grab at the flesh of her arse. Molly lifts herself up and back just enough that she can angle my cock downwards, keeping her blessed hand wrapped loosely around it. So now, instead of jerking against her stomach, it’s pressing against the very core of her, and every nerve ending in my body rejoices as she rubs herself against it, as her slickness brushes my foreskin and her very centre tantalises my crown.

Holy fucking hell.

I wanted to take things slowly, but maybe we need this to be fast and dirty. I hold her shoulders and guide her back slightly so I can get a good look at her face. Her hair. Her breasts. My fingers circle the twin curtains of hair. I wind them around my fists a couple of times, so that most of her hair still hangs down.

With my hands, I play a little game of peekaboo with her nipples, brushing her hair back and forth over them, my eyes flitting ravenously between the sight of those perfect tits appearing and disappearing through her hair, and the sight of that equally perfect face as she watches me, waiting for my next move. I can see the effect I’m having on her is as torturous as that which she’s having on me.

I drag her hair back over her shoulders, baring her breasts. Not because I’m feeling charitable. Not because I don’t fucking adore, with every fibre of my being, that look on her face when I tease the parts of her body over which she has no control. But because I need to fucking see them.

Taste them.

I roll each nipple between my fingers and thumbs and repeat my words from last night, except this time, her face is a couple of inches from mine and I know she’s moments away from taking matters into her own hands and sitting down on my cock.

‘Real enough for you?’ I ask her again, my voice rough and low.

‘Jesus, yes,’ she says on a moan.

That’s good enough for me.

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