Whatever it was, she wasn’t refusing him. The warmth in her eyes as she looked at him was clear. She lifted on tiptoe, pressed a kiss to his mouth, then took him by the hand. In passing, she picked up two candles, a box of matches, and her coat. He helped her on with the coat and she led him to the door.
Outside, the night had turned clear as glass and icy cold. There was no cloud cover and, so far from any light pollution, the stars were thick and bright overhead, the Milky Way a creamy rope across the sky. They stood on the porch under the star-bright night sky. Still and fresh, it was like the first night of a new life, where the new world would be bright and clean.
He held Suzanne, as fresh and beautiful as the night, tightly by his side. The match flared and Suzanne lit a candle, placing the other in his hand.
They watched the candle burn for a moment, the flame rising bright and straight in the still air. “In my family, we have a tradition,” Suzanne said quietly. “We all gather on Christmas Eve for a late supper. When I was small, there was my mom and dad and me, plus aunts and uncles and both sets of grandparents. After dinner, we’d listen to music or play charades until midnight. Then we’d all troop outdoors holding a candle. My father would make a little speech about how blessed we were to be with our loved ones and what he hoped for the world in the coming year. He would always end by saying ‘peace’. He’d light his candle, and light my mother’s candle with his. She’d light mine. The light was passed from person to person and we’d all say ‘peace’. It was like we were summoning peace from the spirit of Christmas.” She looked up at him and he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. She lowered her candle to his, her flame igniting his. It flared, and then settled to burn steadily. “Peace, John,” she whispered.
Peace.
He hadn’t had much of it in his lifetime, hadn’t missed it, and hadn’t even looked for it. But peace moved through him in a powerful surge, warming him. He now recognized that was what he’d felt like a punch to the heart on opening the door to his shack this afternoon to a little wonderland of beauty and grace. Peace. And a sense that he’d come home.
Peace and homecoming, for a man who was a warrior and who’d never had a home. In the space of a few days, this remarkable woman had created two homes for him and filled them with peace.
“Peace, Suzanne.” He gave her promise back to her and bent down.
They kissed, lightly, holding their candles in the chill night air, under a million stars. John moved his mouth on hers, keeping it gentle because that’s what he felt in his heart. The long, slow glide of lips and tongue, the sigh of breath meeting breath, heartbeat to heartbeat, that was peace.
John set the candles on the railing, where they burned brightly, side by side. He watched them a moment, then bent to gently blow them out. He turned back to Suzanne. Their lips met again and he bent to lift her in his arms, holding her high against his heart, kissing her as he carried her inside. Music from the radio provided a counterpoint to the drumbeat in his head. He considered briefly turning it off, but it seemed appropriate to lay Suzanne across his bed to the strains of “Joy to the World”.
Joy. John couldn’t help but smile down at her in joy. With no sense of hurry, he stripped, his gaze locked with hers. He was naked in seconds and she could clearly see what she did to him. Part of him—the old John—wanted to jump on top of her and enter her fast. She was ripe and ready, sighing, legs moving restlessly. Rip pants and panties off her and put it in.
That was the old John. The new one wanted to savor each step, each slow unveiling. This John bent to take her shoes and socks off, slowly. Right foot, left foot. He held her foot for a moment, admiring the elegant arch, the subtle play of tendon and muscle. He wanted to see more, see those long, slender legs gleam in the shadowy darkness. The rasp of the zipper, the hiss of material as he pulled pants and panties down and off and there she was. Naked from the waist down, covered only by a soft cherry-red sweater. He picked her right foot up again and lifted it to his mouth.
It exposed her. Enough light filtered in from the living room to show the folds of her sex, open and already glistening. His dick came away from his stomach in a surge and lengthened.
“John. Look at me. I’m ready.” Suzanne lifted her other leg then let it fall to the side. She was completely open to him. “Come to me now,” she whispered.
He didn’t answer, couldn’t. Words choked in his throat. All he could do was to bend and kiss her foot, nibbling, listening to the catch of her breath as he suckled her toes, one by one. He kneeled on the bed, watching her eyes. Everything he did to her tonight had to be pure liquid pleasure for her, joy heaped on joy. Her eyes would tell him what worked and what didn’t.
Light nips along the arch of her foot, a fingertip running from ankle to thigh worked. Her sighs rose in the room. He meant for there to be moans and then screams before he was done.
Lips, then fingers, trailed up her legs. That worked, too. He placed his hands on the inside of her knees and pressed them open, gently. Her sex unfolded like petals of roses, wet with dew.
His thoughts surprised him, even shocked him. He’d never had these images in his head before, ever. Sex was sex, period. Getting your rocks off was fun while it lasted, but not part of the important business of life. This…this was different. And important as hell.
“John.” Her voice was a languid sigh and it raised the hairs along his forearms. The red sweater, molded to her firm breasts, rose and fell. She was breathing rapidly, almost panting. And he lost it.
He knew—he knew—what he should do next. He should pull that sweater off her slowly, get rid of the bra and lick and suck her breasts. She had small nipples that grew even smaller and rock hard when she was turned on. She liked it when he sucked hard and even when he bit lightly. She’d bucked the first time he did that, as if no one had ever bit her nipple before. He loved the thought that he was doing things to her no man had ever done before.
His hand would move down and he’d enter her with one finger, then when she softened up a bit, he’d put in a second. He’d spread his fingers slowly, getting her ready for him. She’d come fast this way and her sheath would pull at his fingers. He knew how to keep it going for a while, make her cry with her orgasm.
When she stilled, he’d slide down her, kissing her stomach along the way, and finally taste her, something he hadn't got around to yet. Going down on women wasn’t something he did often, only when he got tired of having his dick in the woman and by that time he was usually bored enough to call it off.
He knew Suzanne would be somehow different. Spicy and warm and exciting. So yeah, he’d bury his tongue in her until she came again. Whenever she came for the second time, she pulled harder and it lasted longer. While she was coming, he’d move up her body and bury himself in her, thrusting in time with her contractions, keeping it up until she went into meltdown.
Yeah, that’s what he should have done.
What he actually did was climb on top of her, open her with his fingers and thrust in, hard. She gasped and squirmed under him. He could feel her, frantically trying to adjust to him, to his size and length.
He’d skipped the extensive foreplay; the least he could do was stay still while she adjusted. Though he wanted to start moving—hard—he lay still on top of her, face buried in her neck. His back was tense and his ass tight as he held himself deep inside her. She was softening slowly, by degrees. Her legs opened wider and she hooked them around his, sleek and slim and strong. When Suzanne pushed her pelvis up against him, rocking gently, he let out his breath. Oh yeah. She was ready.