Angels landed seven feet from our front door. It must have happened while we napped by the fire this afternoon. I am surprised we did not hear them – the playful flutter of their wings should have stirred us, their contaminated laughter should have funneled into our sleep.
In the twilight, the evidence of their trespass is very real and very fresh.
* * * *
This afternoon, time was ours. We languished in front of the fireplace sipping hot chocolate and reading excerpts to each other from our respective magazines. Celia had her freshly painted toenails stretched toward the fire to dry. The strong scent of the polish fought with the cocoa. My feet idled in her lap hoping for attention.
I rummaged for the Christmas story highlighted in the index of my magazine, knowing Celia would appreciate the sentiment. She often mistook my distaste for the Holiday Season as a flippant dismissal of its forced importance to her. This year, I vowed to make an effort.
I announced the title in triumph when I found it and a warm smile of delight lit up her face. She quickly abandoned her own magazine – humming her excitement and popping a couple more pillows behind her back – before reaching for the candy-striped tube of peppermint foot-rub next to her on the floor.
I smiled and raised my eyebrows. She settled and removed the cap.
She worked the fragrant lotion into my perpetually chilled feet, using slow circular motions and the perfect amount of pressure. This was a rare and special treat. Celia and I share the same mild aversion to giving foot rubs. Of course, we're both fanatical about receiving them.
This had become one of those quiet simple moments – the ones that remind you how good life can be. It eased the marked tension that had built up over the past few weeks. As the Holidays loomed, Celia ached to recapture childhood memories, something of home and family. It happens right around this time of the year, every year. It matters little that the archives in her mind omitted eighty percent of reality and candy-coated the rest. We share a life for which Celia had sacrificed.
Celia closed her eyes and listened as I read. She continued to hum an unrecognizable song to herself. I am grateful for this sweet respite from the heavy fog of Christmas anxiety.
Too soon, the Rockwellesque pictures painted by the little fluff piece I was narrating began to muddy this sweet holiday scene of our own making. I felt Celia tense as the children in the story donned skates next to a frozen pond. I stumbled over words and my voice cracked a few times. Her movements grew restless and her attention wavered.
Her fingers started trailing up my calves. I understood she was ready for a firm change in direction. Celia had a propensity for combating uneasiness with sex. She needed to shift the dark cloud's weight before it sullied our perfect day.
I cannot say it was unwelcome.
Celia plucked the magazine from me with a decisive wink and began to crawl up over me as she removed some of the pillows that were supporting my back. Straddling my hips, she began untying her bathrobe with a playful air. Once again she was humming her tuneless tune of happiness and I was warmed by it.
She held her downy white robe open to let me drink in her nakedness.
She had shaved herself bare – another special holiday treat – and she seemed quite pleased with what she saw in my face in response.
I inhaled deeply. Her skin was angel food cake, wild cherry and almond. My ghost of Christmas present, past and future – all rolled into one. I emitted an audible involuntary "mmmm".
She didn't remove the robe, but let it fall open as she purred and hummed and crawled up over my chest. She slipped a stray cushion beneath my head and spread her legs wide. My early Christmas present opened itself willfully before me. I purred back at her as I brushed my lips back and forth over her softness, letting her moisten them for me.
I opened my mouth a little and exhaled a short breath, knowing it would still be heated from the hot cocoa. Her humming became a sweet moan laced with a soft giggle. She recognized my intension to draw this out. She knows there is nowhere I'd rather be than beneath her like this – I've made no secret of it over the years.
I ran my hands up the front of both her thighs. The soft slip of my hands confirmed the origin of the delicious scent I was enjoying. She must have rubbed almond oil into her skin after the bath. Who needs cakes and pies and cookies for the holidays, when I have this sweet feast for all the senses? With my hands spread open – one on each of her almond-slick upper thighs – I let my thumbs slide up between them until they reached the exquisite softness of her lips.
With the slightest pressure I part smooth velvet to reveal glistening silk and I – my heart, my will, my resolve to take my time – melt away in her wetness.
My mouth waters in expectation, as I place one light kiss right between my thumbs and say goodbye to all hope of lingering over gentle teasing. I slip both my hands up between Celia's legs and let my fingers come to rest on her lovely yielding ass. My thumbs resume their posts and – demonstrating much more authority now – spread her open for my impatient extended tongue.
Celia gasped in surprise as I plunged into her without the usual kitten-lick formalities. I opened my mouth wide to bathe her in my warm breath without withdrawing my tongue. My fingers kneaded her almond-oiled cheeks and drew her downward, as I rocked her against my face.
I filled with the warmth of her pleasure – her silken flesh swelled and liquefied around my meticulous tongue – and I responded with deep hungry sucks that carried sweet new whimpers to my ears.
As I enveloped her clit in my delighted mouth, my envious thumbs merged and thrust up into Celia's moist heat. They were greeted at once by intense hugging tremors. She cried out. Her intoxicating wails rang through the room and echoed back in a melodious concerto of pleasure.
Celia went limp with a loud exhale, as her body fell back and slid from me in a clumsy slump. My used-up angel, a pretty pile of wilted limbs on the floor – beautiful and tragic – the sight filled me with love and sorrow.
I tightened the robe around her and pulled some blankets from the couch. I snuggled in next to Celia and we drifted together into a rare afternoon snooze.
* * * *
A couple of hours later, I awoke to the aroma of fresh brewed coffee. I called out for Celia, but then I realized I could hear the shower running upstairs.
I pulled myself up off the floor with a lazy groan and made my way to the kitchen. While I sipped my coffee, I set my mind to starting dinner. A frozen turkey-pot-pie was the closest thing to a festive holiday meal on-hand. Still, I thought the sentiment would be appreciated.
