Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

I’m sitting cross-legged in my little apartment, a mess of ripped paper surrounding me, boxes of Chinese takeout scattered throughout it.

Damien Martinez, family law lawyer extraordinaire, is sitting across from me.

He hasn’t left my presence in nearly three days, other than to use the bathroom and to call his mom, making sure he had her flight information correct after saying Merry Christmas.

It’s been magical.

“This should be our tradition,” I say without much thought to my words. “Holiday party, my sister’s for Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, then back to the city for Chinese and presents and alone time.” I’ve already opened a few gifts from Damien, which shouldn’t shock me, but it did. Getting gifts from this man that I know he picked out himself—not some kind of personal shopper or an assistant—makes me swoon.

So far, I’ve opened two—light-pink sweatpants and sweatshirt (“Leave those at my place, yeah? So you have something to wear”) and a travel case for my makeup (“Since you’ll be going back and forth”), all perfectly my size and color.

Damien has opened a set of cut crystal whiskey glasses, a new bottle of his cologne, and a bottle of that whiskey he loves. All were bought before the party, my conscience telling me I could just leave it at his place if he refused to see me ever again.

But as he tosses me a third gift wrapped messily in red paper (yes, the man wrapped his gifts, believe it or not), the goofy smile on his face clues me into my mishap, making yearly plans when we’ve been dating for less than two months.

Jesus, Abbie, play it cool!

“I didn’t mean—it’s too early, I just—

“It’s a great tradition, naranja,” he says, smiling. “I like it.”

And then, because I can never keep a hold on my words, I speak again.

“You know, Kat told me what that means,” I say, smiling. “You’ve been calling me that for weeks.”

“Orange?” he says with a smile, but his eyes tell me he knows what I mean. I ball up a chunk of ripped paper, tossing it at his head. “Naranja means orange. Media naranja means half orange.”

“So she told me,” I say, slowly easing a finger under the tape of the gift in my lap.

“My dad calls my mom that. Says she’s his other half, despite how different they are.” My finger stops moving, pausing, freezing at his honesty. “Now it means that no matter how much they fight, how many mistakes they make, they always fit. She’s always going to be his other half.” I lick my lips, and his eyes watch before he keeps talking. “I guess I knew then. That first morning after with you.”

I don’t have words.

I don’t have a way to respond or tell him what that means to me without the fear of fully and completely scaring him off.

“Open it, baby,” he says, tipping his chin to the gift in my lap. “You’ve got one more after that.”

Opening a gift is the easier option on my overloaded emotions, so I do as he says, tearing off the wrapping paper and revealing . . .

A blanket.

“A blanket?” I ask, a small laugh in my voice. It’s a dark blue, utilitarian and basic, but soft and seemingly warm.

“They didn’t have pink or I would have gotten that,” he says, smiling as I start to unfold it. “It’s heated.”

“Heated?” I ask, confused.

“You said your bedroom gets cold. Your feet were cold.” I drop the material on my lap, seeing the cord that raises and lowers the temperature. “It’ll be good for warming it up in the winter before you get in. You can’t sleep with it on—that’s not safe—but it should take the edge off.” My mind is reeling.

“You got me a heated blanket because I told you my bedroom is always cold.” My face is soft, confused by this simple action. “I told you that one time.” He moves closer to me, placing the containers on the coffee table until our knees are touching.

“I remember everything you tell me, Abigail,” he says, pushing hair behind my shoulder. He said that once before, and I thought it was a line . . . but here we are. “You’ll get used to it, me taking care of you,” he says, pressing his lips softly to mine.

I still don’t quite know what to say.

“Come on, one more,” he says, placing a small box on my lap. This one he did not wrap, the box the size of a book wrapped perfectly with a big red ribbon. My fingers grab the end, pulling before I tear off the paper, revealing the plain white box. Taking off the top, I unfold the tissue paper and see a hot pink string bikini. Lifting it, I look up at him with an extremely skeptical raised eyebrow.

“You’ll have to wear it, with what I have planned.”

“What you have planned?”

“Keep looking,” he says, and his face is split with the biggest, most boyish grin I’ve ever seen. The man can’t contain himself with the excitement rolling through him. I move aside the tissue paper to see an envelope with my name written in black, utilitarian man’s writing.

As I open the envelope, my brows furrow once again before looking up at him.

“What is this?” He just smiles, leaning forward to press the space between my brows. I keep looking. “Bora Bora?”

“In March. Me and you.”

“We’re going to Bora Bora?” I ask, and his smile falls just a tiny bit.

“Yeah. Kat said you always wanted to go.”

“Kat?!” The smile returns.

“Yeah.”

“You talked to Kat about this?”

“Yeah, why?” God, that smile is infectious, and I can’t help but return it.

“She knew about . . . the party! The plan! She didn’t mention it!” My mind goes to her agreeing that I need to tell him the truth, and I wonder if she knew then.

“Yeah, well. Maybe she had more faith than you did.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, moving pamphlets and plane tickets around. “I’ve never been out of the country.”

“That’s why it’s for March. Kat said that would be an easier takeoff, anyway. You’ll have time to get a passport.”

“You want to go on vacation with me?” I say, staring at him, now completely blown away.

Each moment since that party, I’ve come to understand just how much things have changed since our agreement for things to be just fun. Damien’s hands move, taking the pile of papers and moving them aside before holding my face on either side, forcing me to look at him. My heart is racing, the pulse definitely able to be felt in his hands.

“Abigail, I want to go anywhere with you. You said you wanted to be the cool aunt and travel and . . . be consumed.”

My heart stops with his words, but he keeps talking. “You consume me. I don’t know how you did it, but I have fallen madly, deeply, in love with you. Every moment of every day is consumed by thoughts of you, planning the future, dying to be with you.”

“Damien, I—” I don’t know what I’m about to say, but it doesn’t matter. He cuts me off.

“Day by day, baby. We’re taking this day by day. But day by day, with an eye to the future. And right now, that future looks like you in a hot pink bikini on the beach in Bora Bora. Okay?”

I smile because what else am I supposed to do?

“Okay,” I say.

And then he’s kissing me, and I don’t have any headspace to think about anything but his lips on mine.

He seems to agree, hands sliding up my hips and under the oversized Christmas sweater I’m wearing, tugging it over my head. Instantly, his hands go to my clasp, undoing my bra and tossing that aside too. His fingers move to the waistband of my leggings, pulling and snapping it against my skin.

“These, off,” he says and I stand, frantically taking them off while watching him remove his own clothes.

God, this man is in-fucking-credible. Hard in the right places, harder in the best ones, that happy trail leading to my favorite place of all . . .

He’s sitting on my area rug, a pile of paper around him, and I decide I need them. He’s watching me intently as I unhook my foot from the leggings, throwing them aside before moving down to the floor and crawling his way.

“Jesus, rubia, fuck yeah, that’s hot,” he says in a low, panted breath, and I just smile, crawling until I’m right between his legs. “What are you—” My hand moves to his hard cock, pumping it slowly while I keep my eyes on him, licking my lips. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he says under his breath.

I dip forward, putting the head in my mouth and sucking, laving the pre-cum already dripping from him.

“You want that? Want my cock, baby?” The words are almost sweet, and his hand moves to my head, grabbing the silky scrunchie and tossing it to the side, my hair tumbling over my shoulder.

I move farther, pressing my tongue to the underside and moaning gently at the taste of him. I concentrate on his hands in my hair, on his heavy breathing, on the hard floor on my knees, biting in an erotic way as I ease him into my mouth until he taps the back of my throat.

“That’s it, baby, fuck yeah,” he says, and when I look up, he’s staring down at me, his hand holding the hair he released in one hand. “Suck my cock like a good girl.” I moan at his words, and he groans as the vibrations travel through him. The noise alone has me clenching, has me feeling empty, needing my own form of release. I move a hand down, gently parting myself and feeling how wet I am. As my head bobs down, taking him as deep as I can, I circle my clit, moaning as the head of his cock hits the back of my throat.

“Fuck, that’s it, baby. You finger that pussy while you suck me off. God, I can hear how wet you are.” I moan, again looking up at him, and the way his eyes are locked to me has me moaning again.

“Actually, fuck that,” he says, bending forward so I have to release his cock. His hands go under my armpits, and he lifts me, pulling me along his body until I’m straddling him. “You’re going to ride my cock until you make me come.”

My body goes into panic mode.

Hot? Yes.

Am I terrified I won’t have half of the skill Damien does? Absolutely.

“Damien, I—”

“Stop it. Nothing sounds hotter than this right now.” His hand moves to my hips, helping me lift, and the other hand moves to line his cock up with my entrance. “Now, baby, sink down.” Slowly I move, filling myself with him, and god, I’m so full. “That’s it, take all of me.” Once I’m at the bottom, sitting and full, I circle my hips, groaning at the feel.

“Oh god, fuck, Damien. You’re so deep like this.” I moan, lifting and dropping gently, trying to get used to the angle, the size. As always, he’s consuming my every thought.

“Easy, baby, get used to this. God, you’re fucking beautiful,” he says, hands on my hips holding me down, a terrible, wonderful torture to be full and unable to move. “Stay here until I tell you to move.”

As always, my body listens to him.

Traitorous body.

His hands move up from my hips, grazing my waist, continuing up until he has a breast in each hand. A thumb grazes oversensitive flesh, and I moan, low and loud. “That’s it, baby.” He leans forward, letting one hand pinch and roll and taking the other nipple into his mouth. I buck on him, the sensation diving straight to my pussy where I clamp down, and he groans against my nipple before releasing it.

“Uh uh, Abigail. You stay fucking still.” His eyes bore into mine, but I can feel him twitching inside of me, dying for more the same way I am.

I smile, clamping down on him, moaning softly.

“Jesus Christ,” he says under his breath, like an actual prayer.

I just smile, repeating the move, moaning again. This time, his fingers roll my nipple harshly in response.

“Okay, you win,” he says, and I smile again.

“I think I like it up here,” I say.

“Even when you’re on top, rubia, remember that I’m in control. Now fuck your man’s cock.”

I want to argue.

I want to tease him.

But right now, I’m full of Damien, and my clit is throbbing, so I move, grinding my clit on his pelvic bone as I move on top of him.

“Lean back,” he orders, and I listen, leaning back and moving my legs amidst the sea of wrapping paper as I do.

“Oh, god,” I moan, unable to control myself. The slight angle change has him brushing against my G-spot in the most unbearable way. “Fuck, Damien!” I move my hands back to support myself, resting on his thighs as I slowly move up and then back down. “Shit!”

“That’s it, baby. Fuck me. Ride my cock like a good girl.”

“Damien, shit, god!”

“Keep going,” he says, moving hair behind my back then moving his hand to my neck, holding me there gently. “You’re doing so fucking well, Abigail. Taking all of me, riding me.”

“Damien, I can’t—” The pressure is unbearable, the feeling overpowering. I’m going insane, the pleasure taking over my entire body but in an untamed way that has my emotions on a roller coaster.

“You can. Look at me, baby. Harder. Fuck me harder.” I do as he demands, lifting and dropping down firmer, and another moan falls from my lips, my eyes closing to try and focus. “No. Fucking look in my eyes when you take me.” I open them, moving up then down, his hand tightening on my throat, the only thing keeping me grounded.

“You are mine. You don’t question that, not ever. Mine, Abigail, you understand me? Whatever you want, you ask and it’s yours.” A small moan leaves my lips, but I keep staring, keep moving. “God, I’m so fucking proud of you, taking me like this. Holding it together. So fucking pretty, Abigail.”

“Damien,” I whine, the need to come creeping in.

“What do you need, baby? Anything, I’ll give it to you.”

“You. I need you. I need to come. Oh, god, Damien. It’s too much.”

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, and then the hand not on my throat leaves my hip, sliding inward. His fingers move between us, mimicking the move I did that first time, feeling where his cock disappears inside of me. “God, this is so fucking pretty, watching you take all of me.” He licks his lips, eyes fixated, sending another wave of heat and need through me as I clamp on him. “Should I let you come?” I’m still moving, more frantically now, with no rhythm or pattern.

“Yes, please, god!”

“Okay, baby, I’ve got you,” he says, then his hand moves, thumb rubbing my clit and giving me the last stimulation I need to shatter, screaming his name. The hand on my neck presses as I try to collapse on him as I come, keeping me tipped back as I continue to move my hips, fucking him.

“That’s it, take me with you,” he says, and I move, fucking him as I keep coming and coming, the world turning black and my mind getting hazy. And just when I think I’m going to lose it, pass out or start crying or fall apart, he groans, an arm wrapping my back and pulling me down onto him as he thrusts up, filling me deeply and coming inside of me.

We lie there for long minutes, both of us sweaty and panting on my living room floor.

“So what about that kind of cardio? Are we against that too?” he says, and I lift my head to see a boyish smile on his lips.

“Shut up, Damien,” I say, collapsing again but kissing his neck. His hand moves my hair to the side, kissing the skin he reveals.

“Merry Christmas, Abigail. I love you,” he says, his voice now genuine and sweet. I try to move, to look at him, but his arm locks me down, pressing my body to his.

So with the comfort of not having his eyes on me, I reply.

“I love you too, Damien. Thanks for an amazing Christmas.”