Page 103 of Backlash

“You’ll have to look.”

He bunches the fabric of my shirt in either hand and pulls me toward him. He peers down at my chest, inspecting my body carefully. “No, not here.”

He drops on one knee, pulls up the loose flannel fabric of my bottoms. “Am I closer?”

“You’re getting warmer.”

His hands run up the backs of my thighs. When they reach my ass, he takes his time, clearly enjoying the inspection process. “It’s not here, either.”

“You know, when I’m really excited for a present, I can’t help ripping the wrapping off.” It’s not exactly true. Most of the Christmas presents I’ve received seem to have been picked off a shelf during a brisk walk through Nieman Marcus. I learned pretty quickly not to get my hopes up.

Sterling rises to his feet and fixes me with a hungry look. My eyes flutter again as I feel his hands grab the fabric around the clasped buttons of my top. A sharp yank separates one side from the other, and I hear the buttons cascade to the floor in every direction.

“What am I going to wear on Christmas?” I gasp, but Sterling distracts me immediately.

With two strong hands below my ribs, he lifts me from the ground. He’s pinned the cuffs of my pant with his feet, and they slide free of my hips as he lifts, pooling beneath me. That’s what I get for suggesting he rip open his gift.

“Found it,” he says triumphantly. His teeth nip my skin as he bites down on the matching bow of my panties. When he gently lowers me to the small bed, his teeth are still clasped on it.

He draws my panties off with the bow between his teeth, and I nearly combust. Sterling smirks as my hips wiggle closer. Sliding his palms down my inner thighs, he coaxes them open before dipping to yoke himself with my knees.

I try to say something, but the feel of his breath there robs me of words.

His warm tongue incapacitates me further, and I hear myself moan in pleasure as if I were outside my own body. He takes his time, moving slowly over a large area, then increases the tempo and pressure until I’m pulsing to his rhythm.

He sucks my clit into his mouth, and it’s as if I can feel every drop of blood in my body go to meet him. I bite my lip, trying to stifle my pleasure. There’s no way these walls can stand up to the pleasure threatening to spill out of me. There’s a swirl and a nip and the first loud moan escapes.

Sterling’s hand covers my mouth. Apparently, he’s worried about traumatizing Francie, too.

His other hand spreads me, and then his tongue dips lower. I whimper against his palm, covering his hand with my own to help smother my noises. He seems to sense that I’m close, and his tongue thrusts into me while his hand clamps down on my cries.

The pleasure is tidal, drawing me out and pushing me back. But something’s missing. The waves fade and I yank his hand away from my mouth. “I need you. Now.”

“That bed is awfully squeaky.” He shakes his head, and a painful throb fills the absence of his mouth.

“Then screw the bed.” I shove him away and drop to the floor. He gets the idea, falling back on his heels, as I reach over to my bag beside the bed and remove a condom. He watches, his eyes narrow and hooded, as I roll it into place.

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?”