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I leaned forward and brushed my lips against his softly. He slid his hands into my hair, holding me prisoner. “I miss you,” I whispered, my nose brushing his, my lips moving against his.
“I’m right here, baby.” He pressed his cold lips against mine, but they warmed up almost instantly, and then, his hot tongue was brushing my bottom lip, seeking entrance.
He tasted like chlorine and salt, and I gently bit his bottom lip, making him groan. I moaned when his hands gripped my hair, giving the strands a soft tug. I let him claim me. I gave him everything until my chest was rising and falling quickly as I struggled to catch my breath.
“I love you,” I whispered breathlessly, our breaths mingling together.
“I love you so much, my sweet girl. You taste like Christmas.” He licked his lips and smiled. “I think I need another taste.”
I brushed my lips against his again and then pulled back with a teasing grin. “Go on and shower. I’ll get dinner ready.” He rolled his big, blue eyes but stood.
“This isn’t finished, Spitfire. I will be coming back for more.” A tingle shot down my back at the desire dripping from his words.
“I’ll be waiting.”
* * *
“Don’t you dare take another cookie, Jeremy!” I shouted at my youngest son who blushed crimson red when I whirled around and caught him with his hand quite literally in the gingerbread cookie jar. I was dishing up dinner and didn’t want him to mess up his appetite.
He snatched his hand back and hid it behind his back with a guilty smile, his hair still wet from his shower.
“What on earth is Santa going to eat if you eat all his cookies?” His smile grew as he walked over to me in his Christmas pajamas. Little gingerbread men covered the set.
“I guess you’ll have to make some more, Momma.” He wrapped his small arms around my leg and squeezed. “They are just so yummy!” He laughed, looking up at me his father’s eyes shining up at me.
God had taken away one of my children and blessed me with five overwhelming bundles of energy instead. Ryan and I couldn’t be more grateful after everything we went through. We finally felt complete.
“You can have one after dinner, baby.” I ruffled his wet hair, and he frowned.
“But, Momma, I’m hungry!” He stomped his foot against the tile.
“Hey, little man, who are you yelling at?” Ryan strode into the kitchen, his eyes on our youngest son who was two seconds away from a tantrum.
“I want a cookie.” He turned to Ryan, eyes going big, his bottom lip trembling to convince his daddy with his best, puppy dog expression.
“After dinner. Your momma has been cooking all afternoon, little man.” Ryan picked him up and tugged the cookie from his firm grasp, putting it on the counter before bringing him over to the table I had set up.
“But Daddy,” he whined.
“Hush now, or Santa won’t come tonight.” Using Santa had been our favorite way of shutting the kids up. It worked every single time.
He settled Jeremy into a chair and came to circle his arms around my waist, his lips brushing against my ear. “Can you help me?” I whispered, sinking into his warm embrace.
“Anything for you.”
A few minutes later, we were sitting around the large table, our hands linked as Ryan started saying grace.
“Dear Lord, thank you for our beautiful family, for a beautiful momma who cooks the food you have graciously provided for us, and thank you for all the presents under the tree. Amen.”
“Amen,” we all said together before digging into the lasagna I had prepped all afternoon.
* * *
The kids went to bed early tonight after they all snuggled up on the couch with eggnog and gingerbread cookies while watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas, our biggest family tradition.
It was nearing midnight, and Ryan and I were still sitting on the couch. I was wrapped in his arms, soft music playing around us, a candle burning in the kitchen as our only light.
We had already set up the Santa Claus gifts, left powdered footprints for the kids to find, and, of course, some evidence from the Santa kit I bought every year. The eggnog had been drunk, and the cookies had been eaten by Ryan and me.
