"I don't celebrate Christmas," he'd said any time she brought up the holidays, and every time he had backed it up with a slew of reasons: it was tacky, it was complete commercialization, it was too religious and the date for what it was celebrating was totally wrong, it was an attempt to usurp the day of celebration for a completely different religion, it encouraged people to overdo themselves on food and gifts and decoration, and seriously what was the deal with that song about the donkey?
So it was with no small amount of surprise that she got home on Christmas Eve to find him unexpectedly waiting on her doorstep, eyeing disdainfully her neighbor's door across the hall, which was edged with ribbon and covered with wrapping paper to look like a giant present. Before she got a word out, he brought a hand out of his pocket, holding two small glass jars between his thumb and forefinger, one red and one green.
"Merry Christmas," he greeted her with smile, stepping aside so she could fit her key in the door. "I brought you a little something."
"I thought you didn't celebrate Christmas," she said over the jangle of her keys, letting them both in, and shrugging out of her coat, taking his.
"I don't," he said, and held out the two jars, one in each palm. "Pick one."
Eyeing him with a smile, albeit a suspicious one, she looked them over. They each had a little rubber stopper, but neither had any sort of label. There was nothing to tell them apart except the color of the glass. She could see some liquid inside through the red and green.
"The red one," she decided. "What is it?"
"I'll show you." He dropped the green bottle onto the catalog-cluttered table beside her couch, and pulled her in with an arm around her waist. Knowing this dance well enough, her body arched a little to press to his as their mouths met, tongues teasing and twining in the midst of suckles and nibbles. He tasted barely of himself, clean and just a hint of mint, as if he'd brushed before coming over.
He relieved her of her pants, and she pulled out of the kiss to rid herself of her shirt, her bra; she wanted to feel his skin on hers. By the time they were discarded, and his shirt with it, he had the rubber stopper out of the little red bottle and was tilting some of the liquid into his own mouth.
"Hey — I thought you said that was for me!"
"Oh, it is," he grinned, his voice grating a little over the words as he tipped a little of the liquid onto the pads of his thumbs, and stepped back in. She had barely time to register the sweet, spicy scent that wafted with him before his mouth sealed hungrily onto her own, with a burst of heady cinnamon warmth spilling across her tongue from his own. The bite of spice was so sharp it almost hurt, and she squealed into his mouth when his palms cupped her breasts and his moistened thumbs dragged across nipples that were still peaked from the cold of the winter night.
His hands were cool, and the oil was cool — but the spice in it was not, the chill of air upon the liquid giving way to a slow heat, tingling into her nipples. His thumbs pressed them, rubbing gently to massage the oil into her flesh.
Only when it was approaching unbearable did she step back, sucking in cool air that further inflamed her mouth, and she stared at him, asking with a small cough, "cinnamon?"
"Bingo." He scooped up the little green jar and popped the stopper, offering it to her. "And wintergreen."
She could smell it even before she got it under her nose, that familiar scent so often found sweetened in the middle of breath fresheners. As she brought it to her lips and darted her tongue out to catch a bit of the moistness on the rim, he shucked the remainder of his clothes so eagerly his cock wobbled before him.
"This is for me too?" she lifted the little jar, quirking an eyebrow, and he nodded. Stepping in, he rubbed her hips and hooked his thumbs into the edge of her panties. "Yup. Although I've got to be honest, they're a little bit for me, too."
He went to his knees as he slid her panties down, holding them for her to step out of. Then, looking up to meet her eyes, he tilted most of what was left in the red bottle into his mouth, swirling it quite obviously around and then swallowing, barking out a laughing cough as he tried to catch his breath. The warm, sweet scent of it wafted up to her, twining with the wintergreen — and she grinned wickedly at the challenge in his gaze.
Her feet spread, and he bent his head, back arching to push between her thighs and burrow upward, tongue thrusting into the soft cleft of her sex. She had a moment to feel very simply him, the push of his stiffened tongue shoving across her clit and up into the narrows of her passage, the press of his lips. Then the cinnamon oil caught hold in a burst of heat, her skin tingling and aching with it, the sudden rush of blood bringing with it a rush of her own wet. She cried out as one of his fingers delved up inside her. From the magma heat it drilled up into her he'd gotten quite a bit of oil on it, too.
Then he rocked back on his heels, lips flush with the spice, and her own lips throbbed almost numb with the prickling heat of it. She was panting, flushed with the chase of blood beneath her skin — a dribble of the wintergreen oil had spilled, was trickling across the knuckle of her thumb.
Watching him watching her, trying to keep from simply pressing her legs together and grinding out a hot fast one, she laved the droplet up. The wintergreen ran through the center of the cinnamon heat in her mouth like a rush of winter wind through a door left ajar, and she gasped to feel how it left its own tingle in its wake.
Licking his lips, he leaned back and pulled himself onto her couch, his penis positively quivering as he waited. Swallowing hard (and feeling the heat from the cinnamon creeping down her throat), she lifted the little green jar and followed suit, tilting a good measure into her mouth and swishing it around, even as she moved to straddle his head.
By the time her mouth engulfed the head of his cock, the spark-heat of his cinnamon-tainted mouth was fixed upon her pussy, and her mouth felt like she'd been blowing Jack Frost. It was deliciously satisfying to feel how his hips lurched, how he was squirming as much as she while the bitingly cold tingle of the mint seeped into his cock flesh.
It was hard to catch her breath with any one of these things going on — the mint, the cinnamon, him feasting between her thighs, his shaft filling her mouth — and only a few minutes of all of them combined had her heart pounding and her breath stuttering between her lips. She pulled off him with an exhalation that made him groan into her, squirming as her warm breath skittered down his saliva-and-wintergreen painted cock.
Without a word she got up on shaky legs, just long enough to turn about and straddle his hips. He shifted, she adjusted, and the head of his shaft nestled into her nether lips. She sank, he thrust, and a shaft of tingling cold drove up into the unbearable burning heat that he'd awakened at the crux of her thighs. She shrieked and rocked hard, fast and hungry for the sweet clench and explosion of her orgasm. She rode through it as he rose and fell feverishly under her, and it wasn't until after he had tugged her off to spend against the cleft of her buttocks that she finally lay down across him, shivering her way into afterglow while her groin both cooled and burned.
"Thought you didn't celebrate Christmas…" she murmured again, teasing accusation in her otherwise satisfied tone.
"No," he whispered, wrapping his arms around her middle and idly tracing oil-damp fingers down her spine. "But you do."
A Christmas to Remember by Nan Allen
Ben couldn’t believe he was only minutes away from seeing his wife Margo. It was the first time they were going to be in the same state, much less the same room, since she deployed to Florida a little more than six months ago. She had been sent there to help with the detainment of Cubans trying to come into U.S.