I climb onto him, straddling him just over the navel. I place his hands where I want them, one on my mouth, as before, the other on my hip, and then I lower myself until I feel the brief sting of latex followed by the sensation of every inch of him sliding into me. It only seems fair that it’s my turn to control things. Sterling stares at me, his face wearing a look of awe, as I circle around him.
“Fuck,” he groans.
My hips rise and fall in a tempo of their own choosing. When I can’t hold my release another second I grab his hands and throw them onto my ass. He pushes our hips together with all his might. It sends me over the edge, and Sterling crushes his mouth to mine, swallowing my cries, as his own body tenses. We collapse into each other, sweaty and out of breath.
“If I live a hundred years,” he says raggedly, “I’ll never see something that hot again.”
“Challenge accepted,” I say, nuzzling into his chest.
The next morning I wake up to blinding light streaming through the window. My hand reaches behind me and finds nothing but an empty mattress. Hauling myself out of Sterling’s bed, I rub my eyes, clearing the sleep enough to realize the light is so bright because it snowed.
Snow usually comes late to middle Tennessee, arriving after the holiday season. The last white Christmas I remember was five years ago. I dig in my suitcase, pulling on a thick pair of fleece leggings and an oversized Valmont University sweatshirt. Then I bounce down to find Sterling.
Rounding the bottom of the staircase, I pause to check out the house. We’d arrived so late last night that it was already dark out, and then we’d gotten caught in the kitchen with Francie. This is the first time I really get to see it. The living room is cramped, a miss-mash of old furniture from different decades pushed against the wall to make as much space to move as possible. An older television is propped on a cart in the corner—and there are books everywhere. I wonder if they’re Francie’s or Sterling’s. But there’s one thing missing.
A Christmas tree.1
“Sterling,” I call, retracing my way to the kitchen. “Where’s the…” My question fades when I come around the corner. He’s standing at the counter, rifling through a stack of envelopes while a black, plastic coffee machine brews a pot. That’s not what stops me, though. He’s standing there in nothing but boxers. No matter how many times I see him like this, I can’t help stopping to admire him,.
He turns, a smirk twisting across his lips, stubble dusting his jawline. “Forget what you were saying, Lucky?”
I shake my head, trying to clear my brain, which is as blurry as the swirling snowfall outside the window. In the end, I’m forced to close my eyes to regain control of myself.
“Christmas tree,” I say. “Where’s the Christmas tree?”
“In Central Park,” he says.
The spell is broken, and I’m able to look at him again, careful to keep my eyes above shoulder level. “Your Christmas tree?”
“We don’t do that,” he says.
“You… what?”
“Francie almost always works Christmas. No one else wants to,” he says. “What’s the point of putting up a tree for like five minutes?”
My own family always put up a tree despite leaving for vacation on Christmas morning. I can’t understand not having one. “It’s tradition.”
“We can decorate her cactus,” he suggests pointing to the small potted plant on the window.
“Well, I know what we’re doing today,” I say.
“Lucky…”
“Nope.” I cross to him and wrap my arms around my waist. “You’ve been all of my firsts, Sterling Ford. Let me be your first Christmas morning.”
“Do I get to unwrap you?” he asks, his hand sliding around to grope my rear.
“Again?”
“Well, I could have sworn I already did it, but here’s my present all covered up again.”
“Get dressed,” I order him with a swift kiss. “I want to go out in the snow, and then we can get a tree and…”
“Okay, slow down.” He drops the envelopes on the counter, but his eyes linger on them. I see one from Valmont on top.
“Is everything okay?”
“Bills,” he says tightly. “Looks like my scholarship didn’t cover everything.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ll talk with Francie. I just wish she’d told me. I should have been working this semester.”
“You were going to school,” I remind him.
A muscle twitches in his jaw, and his response is so even that I know he’s calibrating it carefully. “Not everyone has the luxury of being a full-time student. It’s not a big deal. I can find something on campus to help out.”
He kisses me and dashes upstairs to get dressed. I stare at the envelope, fighting the urge to open it and see how much he owes. It would be easy for me to pay it off. I could even sweet talk someone in the administration to send me future bills by dropping my last name. Then, he wouldn’t have to worry, and Francie wouldn’t have to take holiday shifts. But if he ever found out…
The bill is still on the counter, untouched, and I’m finishing a cup of coffee when Sterling appears downstairs, fully dressed.
“Okay, show me how this Christmas thing is done, Lucky.”
We head into the snow in search of a Christmas tree lot, but I can’t quit thinking about that bill and wondering what to do about it.
The lot closest to Sterling’s is already closed, and we have to go another block to find one with a few trees left. All of them are scraggly, scrawny pines that look like they’ve lost half their needles.
“I can see why you want one of these,” Sterling says dryly. “Aren’t these a fire hazard?”
I study the tree he’s pointing to and am forced to agree he’s right. It’s clearly dead.
“Let’s keep looking.”
“Your lips are blue,” he says, fixing my scarf for the
