Chapter 25
The days leading up to Christmas have been jam-packed. Not only have I been busy with school and work, but I’ve been trying to help Greyston with the preparations for our shared Christmas with our parents. He’s being pretty secretive, though, and I’m not sure what to make of it. I’m fairly certain it has something to do with whatever he’s getting me for Christmas, which just adds a lot of pressure on me to make sure I find the perfect gift for him.
Did I mention I don’t work well under pressure? No? Well, I don’t.
The Sunday before Christmas, Greyston and I pick out our first Christmas tree as a couple. Yet another milestone I didn’t realize would excite me this much, but it does.
We wander the lot together, my hand tucked in the crook of his elbow as I lean into his side. It’s surprisingly warm out for December, but the smell of fresh pine needles sets the mood just fine. When Greyston first told me that it had been a year since he decorated his home, I could see how much he was looking forward to our joint celebration. Apparently he was travelling a lot at this time last year, coming home long enough to celebrate with his folks, and then he was off again.
Both of us are a little surprised when we find the perfect tree so soon into our search. I couldn’t contain my excitement when we came across the seven-foot-tall Douglas fir. I imagined it in our living room, right in front of the large window that looked out onto the street.
Greyston tells the salesperson we’ll take it and arranges for it to be delivered the next day. I’m off on winter break now, so Greyston and I will be able to decorate it together.
Cue another wave of excitement.
On our way home, Greyston suggests we stop to buy an obscene amount of Christmas décor. And I mean obscene. Apparently, even when he did decorate for Christmas, he did as much as most bachelors would. Which isn’t much, statistically.
When we arrive home, I get start decorating the inside of the house, rearranging the living room so the tree will fit in the spot I envision it in. I hang the green garland and sprigs of holly on the mantle and place red and green candles atop it. Just outside the window, I see Greyston on the ladder, hanging the outdoor lights.
I move into the foyer, decorating the banister and doorframe with more garland, indoor lights, and holly, and I hang a beautiful full wreath on the outside of the door. The finishing touch, much to my delight, is a sprig of mistletoe in the center of the doorway between the foyer and living room. I hope to take advantage of it. A lot.
Pleased with my work so far, I carry the theme over into the kitchen, hanging more garland around the island, placing more candles, and even adding holly between and around them to make a festive centerpiece.
By sunset, the house is done, save for the missing tree. We settle in on the couch, a fire burning in the fireplace despite the warmer than average weather outside, and sipping on a glass or two of wine. Greyston is sitting with his back to the arm of the couch, and I’ve placed myself between his legs, my back to his chest as I run my free hand up and down his leg. We sit like this for a few hours after dinner, just talking about our day and trying to get gift ideas from one another. I continually get the feeling that Greyston is plotting something, but it only motivates me to find the perfect gift for him, too.
The rest of the week looks like this for us, except now our tree is set up, looking lush and glorious in its designated spot. It completes the room, and makes me deliriously excited for the impending holiday celebration.
The morning sun shines through the balcony window, stretching across the floor and bathing Greyston’s room in light. Greyston is pressed against my back, kissing my shoulder and wrapping an arm around me to pull my body closer to his. All I can do is groan, not wanting to get up just yet.
“Baby.” Greyston’s voice is soft, the low tenor tickling my ear. “Sweetheart, it’s time to wake up.”
I groan, rolling over to find him smiling down at me, looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed—whatever that actually means; I’m still too tired to try and figure it out. “Hi.” He kisses the tip of my nose and runs his hand back and forth across my stomach as I stretch. “Merry Christmas, beautiful.”
“Merry Christmas to you,” I respond in my scratchy morning voice. The feel of his hard body pressed against me gives me an idea, so I check the time, groaning when I realize just how late it is and knowing we’ll have to wait. “So much for asking for an early present,” I pout, pushing my bottom lip out for effect.
“What did you have in mind?” he asks. I turn my body to him completely, slipping my hand beneath the sheet and running my fingers along his hard-on. He stops me, grabbing me around the wrist before I can show him my intentions. He looks conflicted, but he manages to stay strong. It’s admirable—annoying, but admirable.