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It’s Christmas Eve and Father Christmas is on the way! I still believe in santa, of course, I want to be on the nice list! Okay, so my belief has adapted over time but even with no tiny children in the house we eagerly await Father Christmas’s visit. I track him with Norad even and I have to watch Santa Claus the Movie or it’s not really Christmas at all. I want to always have that child-like wonder. It makes the season so much brighter.
I believe in Father Christmas and so does Jenny in my story Proving Santa exists.
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“Well, I have to say…” Jonathan smiles as he bites into a warm mince pie, fresh from the oven, “That this tastes a lot better than it sounds.”
I sink my teeth through the soft layers of buttery pastry and through to the sticky, spicy fruit-and-alcohol blend in the middle. The pastry melts away as I chew, and the spices linger on my palate once I have swallowed.
“You can’t beat a good mince pie.” I take another mouthful, the warm, spicy scent they let off as they cooked still lingering in the air.
“I think I might have to agree.” He nods, making a grab for another one. We fall into companionable silence. Gonzo appears on the television screen, and my Christmas Eve film-watching tradition begins. I know it’s a kiddies’ film, but I think Christmas is all about the child in us. I wonder what Jonathan makes of it all, with him not really experiencing Christmas in his formative years.
“I love the Muppets,” he says. “I’ve not seen this one, though.”
“Oh, it’s great, a proper good film. I know it’s for children really—”
“But it’s good to indulge the inner child now and then, right?”
“Yeah, exactly. Especially at this time of year. I mean, for me. I don’t know if you agree.”
“Well, I have some good memories from my youth. I wasn’t abused, I wasn’t bullied. I had some good friends. So yeah, I think it’s good to remember those times. Makes me appreciate what I’ve got and who I really am deep down, you know?”
“I do know.” I smile. “I really do.”
Jonathan is sitting right next to me on my sofa, and it makes me wonder. It makes me wonder how he really feels about me, because he was rubbing up against me at every opportunity in the kitchen: touching my hand to get my attention, leaning in to whisper in my ear when there was no real need to do so. And now, he’s so close that his thigh is pressed hard against my own, and there’s half a sofa of wasted space beside him, and of course there was that kiss. Part of me is still a little unsure. Jonathan certainly doesn’t seem to be a player, but what if I’m just one of a string of women he’s enjoying?
I second-guess myself a lot. In fact, I do it so much that I often miss out on good things because I spend so much time worrying about the options that the opportunity is gone before I get to it. I don’t want to let Jonathan get away from me. I enjoy his company, and he turns my insides to jelly like no other man ever has. I don’t want this to be just a fling. I yearn for it to be something deeper.
“How are you enjoying your Christmas so far?” I ask, the film credits fading into the background.
“It’s been amazing,” Jonathan enthuses as his eyes meet mine, then a serious shadow darkens their flame. “Christmas was never anything special when I was a kid. We never had a tree. The home said it cost too much and it was a fire hazard.”
I tut and shake my head.
“The highlight was the Santa. We knew he wasn’t real, just a man dressed as Santa. He’d bring each of us a toy. I got a little car one year. I still have it.”
“How come you knew it wasn’t the real Father Christmas?”
“Because we knew there was no real Santa. They told us so all the time. They told us not to get our hopes up because Santa didn’t exist and wouldn’t bring us what we wanted on Christmas Eve.”
“What?” I’m outraged. I feel my blood boiling with the harsh cruelty of it. “Santa does exist.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?” He shakes his head, his eyes wide.
“Yes, yes I do.” I nod my head emphatically. “Maybe not in the way a child does, but I heartily believe in the spirit of Father Christmas. I believe in the meaning behind the make-believe. My faith is in the giving, which is the true centre of the festive season—the heart of it all. It’s all about making life better for other people and, through that, enhancing your own life. Santa definitely exists.”
Suddenly, those lips are on mine again, and his arms wrap around me. I feel his cheek against my skin. I feel moisture there: the trail of a tear. I close my eyes and kiss back, giving. I give him the softest, gentlest kiss I can. I want him to feel cherished. My heart throbs in pain at the harshness he’s suffered in his life. I want to smooth over all those rough edges; I want him to see what I mean about Father Christmas existing.
I pull him closer to me. My arms wrap tighter around him, and I stroke his back to offer comfort. Our lips, in contrast, are joined lustfully. With every small move, I feel my heart beat harder and faster. I become dizzy with the speed at which the blood is whizzing around my body, making every inch of me zing with the created friction and heat. His body presses me back against the sofa arm, twisting my own beneath him.
His lips leave mine and kiss a fizzing trail of pleasure down my neck to my collar bone. His hands rise from their position on my hips to slide under my loose-fitting red jumper and up higher to cup my breasts. The shock of his cool hands through the thin, lacy gauze is deliciously arousing. I groan my appreciation as his fingers dig into the cups and ease out the masses of abundant tit-flesh beneath. Pushing the wool of my jumper up with the tops of his wrists, his lips leave the soft flesh at the hollow of my neck.
Ho Ho Ho! Pick up your copy of A Blisse Christmas collection now and read this and 4 other seasonal stories.