Page 6 of Mistletoe Kisses

Finally, I nod. Not like there’s much to move. My luggage is still put together, leaning against my mother’s table full of silicone molds.

With little choice and a lack of will to put up a fight, I slip inside to grab my stuff and do as I’m told.

It doesn’t take him long to pack up his belongings. Like me, he has some clothes and maybe some smaller stuff to drag inside.

“If Delilah asks, I’ll tell her the cot looks far more comfortable.” Teasing me with another one of those smirks, he slips inside the room and closes the door before I can try to put up any sort of argument.

I’m too exhausted to try anyway. Returning to my old room, I quickly realize that they have transformed it into a guest room. The walls are painted a new color, and new curtains are hanging up against the window with a design similar to the new blankets on the bed. Everything appears new, despite a nostalgic sensation hiding beneath it all.

Instead of unpacking now that there is a dresser available, I dig out my sleepwear and change. Crawling onto the bed, all of the strength in my body seems to seep straight out and I collapse.

The room is still as cold as I remember. Every time I’d keep my door shut, none of the heat would ever creep in. I’m glad I own a long-sleeved shirt. There is no way I’m going to be able to sleep with the door open, not with Mylo sleeping in the room right across the hall.

Knowing my luck, he’d catch me drooling in my sleep.

Fighting the urge to shiver, I tuck my way underneath the blanket and try to get warm. As I wiggle about, I take notice of the scent lingering in the air. Pausing, I blink through the darkness.

Rolling onto my stomach, I breathe in deep. Mylo’s scent is soaked into the sheets and the pillow smells like shampoo from a countless amount of showers. Unable to help myself, I bury my face in it.

If someone saw me now, they’d call me crazy. They wouldn’t be wrong.

I can’t even convince myself that I’m not going nuts.

Ever since I stepped back into this house, I have begun to spiral.

Rolling back onto my back, I stare up at the ceiling. My legs shift, rubbing and twitching as I imagine him lying back on this bed. He seems the type to sleep shirtless. Does he still have that trail of hair on his chest that I used to sneak glances at during the summer?

I bet so. The only difference is that I’m sure he has more silver strands sneaking in between the dark ones.

My imagination gets the best of me, and I hardly acknowledge how my hand glides down my stomach and sneaks into my pajama pants as I picture more and more exposed skin.

Unlike my younger self, I can now picture what he’d be hiding beneath his clothes, specifically his jeans.

I’ll be quiet enough that no one has to know. Getting this hunger out of my system has to be the first step in the rightdirection. Maybe tomorrow, I won’t stare at his mouth or get all flustered because he decides to send a little bit of attention in my direction.

Discovering how wet I already am, I realize I’m doomed. Spiraling down the very same path, the same old feelings are resurfacing.

I never stopped loving Mylo. Before he was married and off limits. The chance of anything happening was completely impossible. Now that there’s even a sliver of a chance, my body is jumping right on board like it doesn’t know any better.

Trying not to make a sound, my fingers easily slip between my glistening lips and brush against the sensitive nub between.

Eyeing the door and wondering exactly how thin the walls are, I’m not so sure I can change my mind after discovering my state. Need a release if I’m going to be able to look Mylo in the face again and have a conversation with him.

Picturing him on that cot in a similar state as me, his fist wrapped around his cock, helps make my body burn. Especially when I start drawing small circles against my clit. Breath-catching, I imagine him muttering my name as he pleasures himself.

My toes curl as my imagination does a fine job. His cot would creak each time his hips jerked.

As my knees part, I glide my fingers further down to sink them into the wet heat. Have my fingers always felt this small? Sounfulfilling? I can bet just one of his fingers would be more than enough to get me off. Shivering as I try to rub the right spot, I can’t find it. My fingers aren’t good enough.

Somewhere in my car, I have a toy packed in one of the boxes. Probably somewhere in the trunk. It’s snowing and cold outside. No amount of horniness will give me the strength to go outside. By then, this ache will freeze over and not even a vibrator will be useful to me. I need to seek my release now.

Instead, I return to my clit. Knowing I stand a chance of tiring myself through an orgasm, my toes dig into the sheets as I mutter his name. I imagine it’s his palm pressed against my breast as I squeeze one. Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip to contain a low moan, my thighs twitch and hug my wrist. Closer and closer, I near my limit.

Chasing the pleasure I desperately want to feel, I barely scratch the surface. Imagining it’s his fingers rubbing my clit helps get me off enough to the point where I can almost consider it satisfying. Left panting and twitchy, I stare at the ceiling once more.

I don’t feel better. All this has made me realize how badly I want his touch instead of my own.

What have I done?