“Someone’s been a busy little elf.” I shoot him a sassy smile over my shoulder as I stroll around his room. I’m wearing what looks like a velour one-piece swimsuit with ribbons that tie behind my neck. It’s tan with white fur trim, white appliqué spots on the hips, and a surprisingly realistic-looking tail on the butt. Conveniently, the garment has three snaps at the crotch, like a baby onesie, for greater ease when peeing or fucking, I presume.
“I needed to set the stage for our reindeer games,” he says, and I snort-laugh. “Do you like your costume?”
“I do. Although when I wrote this prompt down, I expected some kind of classroom fantasy. Plaid skirt, bending over a desk, that sort of thing.”
His eyes glow with promise. “Next time.”
He comes up behind me, and we grin at our reflections in the mirror. We look so fucking silly. His costume consistsof tan shorts with white fur trim and a tail just like mine. On top, there’s only a red harness with jingle bells dangling from it. We both wear headbands with felt antlers and ears attached.
I strike a pose. “Thisis what we should’ve worn to Dazzler.”
“We would’ve fit right in. Especially with this.”
He holds up a red foam Rudolph nose, which sparks a very lawyerly debate over who will wear it. I put forth the argument that as the bullied one in this scenario, I’ll be more in tune with the character. Gideon asserts that Rudolph is unquestionably a top, and therefore,heshould be the most famous reindeer of all. I really just want to see Gideon wear the nose, so I let him win.
“If you’re Rudolph, then who am I?” I ask, pouting.
Gideon rakes me with a scorching look. “Vixen, obviously.”
We do it “reindeer-style” in front of his bedroom mirror while the snowman looks on. Gideon’s Rudolph nose falls off almost immediately and rolls under the bed. My antlers end up around my neck. The jingling of his harness marks the rhythm of his thrusts, and I don’t think I’ll ever hear sleigh bells again without remembering this moment.
We laugh the entire time, and whenever he calls me “Vixen” in a sultry growl, my knees go weak.
It is, by far, the most fun I’ve ever had during a sexual encounter.
But afterward, once I’ve changed back into my sweater and jeans and Gideon has gone into the kitchen to make us tea, I can’t help but feel that while we might’ve gotten the list back on track, my emotions are still very much speeding in a direction I don’t want them to go.
I’m sitting on his sofa, making room in my shoulder bag for the reindeer antlers, when Gideon sets two mugs on the glass coffee table.
“What’s that?” He reaches into the bag and pulls out the book I’m reading, a psychological thriller that’s currently topping the bestseller lists. “I’ve seen ads for this one. How is it?”
“The main character makes some stupid decisions, but it’s definitely a page-turner.”
“How so?”
“Well ... here. Let me read you this part.”
We sit side by side on the sofa while I flip back a few pages. I read him the scene where the protagonist finally accepts that someone has it out for her, and when I’m done, he asks me to keep going.
Soon, we’re both absorbed in the story—I wasn’t lying, it’s compelling as hell—and Gideon’s stretched out on the sofa with his head in my lap. We’ve finished our tea, and I’m playing with his hair, sliding my fingers through the cool strands as I read aloud in a low voice. It isn’t until he emits a soft snore that I realize he’s fallen asleep.
After all we’ve done together over the past six days—and I can’t believe it’sonlybeen six days—this is the first time I’ve seen him sleeping.
His brow is smooth, not a trace of tension or the grief I sometimes see weighing on him. I recognize it, because it’s something I carry with me, too. But now, his expression is peaceful, the lines of his face sharp and beautiful, his lower lip resplendent in repose. If I had the skill, I’d write sonnets to that mouth.
Or love songs.
My stomach drops like I’m on a roller coaster as emotions that have nothing to do with lists or sex or Christmas spiral through me.
Shit, I’m in so much trouble.
“Wake up, sleepyhead.” I give in to the urge to stroke his cheek, feeling faint stubble.
He leans into the touch, making a purring sound reminiscent of Archie. It’s too fucking endearing. I have to get out of here.
“It’s getting late,” I say, but he doesn’t sit up. Instead, his arms wind around my waist and he nuzzles my stomach.
“But you’re so comfortable.” The words come out petulant and muffled, and his breath warms my skin through the weave of my sweater.
