Twas the Night by Bella Chapter 2

Republisher’s Note: This fanfic was originally published as one long piece, but I cut it in half due to length. There is a little bit of graphic description. Otherwise enjoy!

Twas the Night by Bella – Chapter 2

He throws his head back and roars with laughter as I continue to stammer my protests. “You know your revulsion might be a little more believable if you could take your eyes off my cock,” he replies, his voice riddled with biting sarcasm.

“I am…I am repulsed”, I respond feebly, my eyes once again dropping subconsciously to his groin. I grit my teeth and try with all my might to ignore his damp, pulsing cock.

“You like what you see,” he says, announcing it as a fact rather than asking a question.

I lick my lips several times and wait for moisture to return to the roof of my throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I answer in my most coquettish voice.

He laughs again, this time deeper, throatier.

“Really? You look more than a little turned on,” he responds, gesturing towards my chest. “Sweet nipples,” he mutters, adding a lustful groan for emphasis.

“I cover my breasts with both hands,” horrified by my body’s reaction. “It’s…its cold in here,” I answer weakly, exaggerating a shiver.

“Well, as I see it, you have two alternatives,” he continues, talking to me as if I’m a player in some kind of business deal. “Either you turn around and take your bedraggled little self back to wherever or whoever you ran away from or…” he pauses to ensure he has my complete attention. “You stay here, I’m sure I could be persuaded to warm you,” he adds, brushing his hand over my face and through my curls.

“Don’t touch me,!”I scream defensively, walking backwards, tripping over the rugs, to get away from him.

“Who are you?” he asks, paying no heed to my warning.

“Who are you?” I counter dumbly, unable to think of another response.

“Nobody,” he replies flatly, eyes pinned to the floor. “But you, you definitely look like somebody who should’nt be spending Christmas Eve in some cabin out in the middle of nowhere,” he continues, his eyes traveling the length of my body, taking special notice of my detailed evening makeup and upswept hairdo. “You look like you should be out somewhere dancing,” he continues, his voice deepening ever so slightly.

“You- You’re TRESSPASSING I screech, trying desperately to change the subject. “This is MY property. I’ll have you…you…” I stammer again. He’s coming at me again and the closer he gets the harder it is to breathe.

“You’ll have me what? Arrested?” he asks, his voice showing no hint of fear. He shakes his head dismissively as he stands over me, completely, maddeningly still.

His mouth is just inches from mine but he is making no moves. His hot breath bathes my face and neck but he doesn’t lay a hand one me. “How do I know the place belongs to you, you could be anybody….” he trails off just as his thumb makes contact with my chin, while his right hand begins a tentative exploration of my cheek. For some inexplicable reason my eyes close and when I find the strength to open them again his lips are nearly touching mine. Our faces brush for a moment and I find myself wondering why his skin is so soft.

His eyes lower and catch for a moment, and I know hes watching my breasts move beneath the afghan. The pulsing vein in his neck beats out of control every time my breasts rise and fall. A winter storm is fast turning into a blizzard just outside the door, but I am deaf to the distinctive whistle of the angry north wind. All I can hear, the only thing my mind is able to take in, is the odd rhythmic pattern of this strangers pounding heart and my own breath coming in spurts and gasps.

His hand is in my hair, pulling me even closer, so close that I feel as if I’m sharing oxygen with him, as if he’s breathing into my lungs.

And then I can’t stand it anymore.

My hand hits his cheek with surprising speed and with more violence than I think I have ever employed in my life. His head turns and drops slightly for a second, as he silently absorbs the impact.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter automatically, staring down at the offending hand, “I didn’t mean…” I mumble as I rub my hands together trying to stop the strange tingling there.

“You’re sorry?” he repeats incredulously, “You’re sorry my tongue’s not in your mouth right now, you really regret that you’re not coming so hard you feel like you’re dying,” he announces, his voice tinged with frustration as well as smug male pride. “You want me right here,” he continues, slowly gliding his fingers over my clitoris and then in circles around my inner lips.

“Do you really think I would let some…some thug touch me?” I blurt, breaking the tension the only way I could think of. It does the trick, hes on the other side of the room before I can even try to apologize.

He actually looks pained and I immediately regret my words. He looks like a little boy all of a sudden as he paces the other side of the room, running his hands through his curls. His chest heaves and falls as if he’s taking heavy gulps of breath.

I know I should take this opportunity to run, to lock myself in one of the bedrooms.

After several interminable seconds he finally speaks, his voice a low whisper now. “What’s your name?” he asks simply. I can tell he’s having trouble holding his composure and I want to know why.

“Michelle,” I answer immediately, taken aback by my own quick response, “Michelle Bauer.”

“Michelle Bauer, Springfield’s next Junior Miss, thinks I’m a thug,” he announces to no one in particular, “I have to wonder what she would say if she knew the truth, I wonder how terrified and repulsed she would be.” He continues his monologue. “I bet her face would turn white and she would shrink away from me, cover her body in fear of what I might do to her. He finishes.

“You obviously want to tell me so why don’t you just say it, whatever it is,” I blurt. My head’s spinning so fast and I don’t think I can stand another second of this speech of his.

“Come here”, he orders, gesturing at me with two authoritative fingers. For some reason I obey him and the next thing I know his hands are bracketing my face and he’s talking so softly I have to strain to hear.

“What I’m about to tell you never leaves this room,” he begins, “I’m about to tell you things that could literally cost me my life, it’s important for you to know that you’re holding my future in your hands.” He continues. “Now, I want something from you,” he adds, softly stroking my face.

“Don’t…don’t,” I begin, not even sure of what I’m objecting to.

“I want you to look me in the eye, I want you to stay right here with me,” he continues, pointing at his impossibly dark eyes. “Don’t you dare look down, or tune me out, don’t start thinking about your next trip to the mall. If you’re repulsed you better not cringe and I don’t want to see even a hint of pity cross your face. Most importantly you better remember you wanted to hear this.” He finishes, his voice shaking and cracking as he runs out of breath.

I have no idea how to respond so I say nothing. I stare into his eyes, nothing in the world could take my eyes off him now, and wait for him to tell his story.

He looks down once and then up at the ceiling. I do’nt think he knows where to start and now he looks absolutely terrified. My hand finds his forearm and squeeze for a moment, trying to reassure him in some way.

It works, his face loosens for a moment and his eyes seem somehow warmer. He takes my hand, very gingerly, and I let him squeezing his fingers again. He kisses my hand for moment, and then he leads me to the fireplace.

My afghan’s on the floor there and he wraps it carefully around my shoulders before he tends to the fire.

I shamelessly enjoy the sinew of his back, the contraction of his muscles as he works to heat my house. This is my third opportunity, at least, to escape this man, but I’m still here sitting on the floor waiting for him to sit next to me.

Then his back turns and his eyes are burning far more than the fire is, his hands are shaking slightly and I would give anything in the world to know exactly what he’s thinking when he looks at me like that.

“You must be cold”, he says, carefully scanning the room for something else to warm me. Finally, he pulls the feather stuffed mattress off the roll away bed and places it on the floor, carefully resting the upper part against Meta’s mahogany coffee table, creating a reclining cushion for both of us.

I snuggle in and reach for him, he hesitates for just a moment and then takes his seat, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

“Are you sure you want to hear this?” he asks again, giving me one more chance to back out.

Not trusting my voice, I just nod my head and look him straight in the eyes, remembering his request.

“My name is Danny Santos first of all,” he begins, reaching to shake my hand as if we were strangers. We’re not strangers anymore and when he extends his hand I hold onto it.

He stares at my fingers as he continues his story, “My father’s name is Miguel…Miguel Santos, my mothers name is Carmen,” he pauses, waiting for me to react to those names.

“I was supposed to kill someone tonight,” he blurts, “A sweet little old man named Hector Silva and his wife Juanita, they own a little bakery down by the docks and, uh, Hector fell down the basement stairs last month and so they couldn’t pay their bill and my mother…my mother called me into her office yesterday afternoon and told me they had to die before Mass tomorrow. She said I had to do it neatly just like my father used to.” He breaks off to catch a breath.

“So tonight I showed up at their store just after closing, before they could lock up because that’s how my father trained me and I, uh, I pointed my gun at his wife, told him I was giving him one more chance to pay his bill in full. He beg…begged me to give him a few more days, his grandson’s in the hospital…” he breaks off, choking back tears and squeezing my hand so tight it’s nearly numb. “I couldn’t do it. I barked some kind of warning at him and got the hell out of there so fast. I threw up in the alley outside his store and spent the rest of the night walking around trying to figure out what the hell to do next.” He finishes.

“How did you get here?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I…uh…got lost actually…I couldn’t go home so I drove as far as I could in the other direction, I took some kind of wrong turn and ended up here. The key was sitting on the door frame.” He continues. “I swear I didn’t take anything, it’s all…it’s all still here.” He continues, staring down at the floor shamefully.

“Did you …did you decorate the tree?” I question shyly, my eyes still entangled with his.

He nods remorsefully. “I don’t know why I did it,” he explains, “The boxes were there and the tree and I just…I’m sorry,” he finishes.

“Shhh!” I calm him, stopping his lips with my fingers. “It’s beautiful, it’s so beautiful,” I repeat.

“It’s not done,” he interrupts, “I didn’t know if I should put the star or the angel at the top of the tree,” he continues, pulling me to me feet.

He leads me to the tree and quickly produces Meta’s antique star and the angel Maureen made when I was five.

“The angel goes on the top of the tree,” I tell him. “We used to….my father used to pick me up and I would put my Mom’s angel at the top of the tree. I used to start asking to put the tree up the day after Thanksgiving….” I break off, as sobs replace my words. There hasn’t been a Christmas tree in the cabin since the Christmas before Maureen’s death and I had nearly forgotten how wonderful this place looked during the holidays.

His arms are around me in immediately and I lean in to his heat, soaking him in tears as I clutch my mother’s angel. He waits for my tears to subside for moment and then he lifts me in his arms. My head rests against his chest and I realize I have never felt this safe. I can’t fathom how I got to this moment with this man but I have never been more grateful for anything in my life.

He lowers both us to the feather bed and rubs my arms for several minutes, patiently waiting for me to bare my soul. His hands begin a slow steady massage of my neck and shoulders and before long I am telling him everything.

I tell him about my Father and Lillian, about Maureen’s death and Bill’s marriage proposal. I tell him about Rick and Meta and every Christmas we spent up here as a family enjoying Maureen’s Christmas goose and my father’s traditional retelling of the Christmas story.

As I finish telling the story of the Christmas when Rick tried to beak the news that Dad was Santa Claus, I notice the clock in the kitchen reads 11:48 p.m.

The afghan that now covers both of us has fallen just below my right breast. His eyes are there and I can see his fingers struggling to resist joining them.

“Thank you,” he whispers with a strangled breath, “You never looked away from me, not even once.” He mutters incredulously.

“Thank you…thank you for filling this place with my moth…my mother’s spirit,” I respond, reaching out to stroke his face.

He leans in so close our noses and brush and poses a silent question, his lips are on mine before I can nod my acquiescence. His kisses are so soft and slow, his tongue stroking mine deliberately, reverently, all I can do is kiss him back again and again until were both feverish and breathless. I suddenly know without a shadow of a doubt why I couldn’t speak when Bill proposed, why I could never explain why I slept with him.

I watch the firelight dancing in Danny’s eyes as we sink into the feather bed. He rids of me the afghan and replaces it with his hands, his eyes hood and he rumbles something I can barely decipher as he touches me. I feel sacred, the way he moves his hands over my angles, stopping at every juncture to plant soft kisses, it’s as if Im being worshipped. I sigh as he finds his way to my nipples, suckling and pulling until I cant bear it any longer. I answer his ministrations with a ravenous kiss, hoping to persuade him to move things along, but he refuses, chuckling slightly.

I begin to laugh myself until I feel his hand between my legs, exploring the wetness there. His fingers move insistently inside me and my head feels as if it’s disconnected from the rest of my body. My body rocks against him and I can’t wait another second.

The clock is about to strike midnight and I know how I want to spend Christmas morning making love to this man.

Somehow he reads my mind. “Merry Christmas,” he whispers into my collarbone, as his body penetrates mine.

“Merry Christmas,” I’m barely able to echo, as he moves harder and faster inside me.

The fullness and pressure is almost too much to bear and I can feel myself breaking, his strokes forcing moans and then screams. My legs are starting to shake and I know I can’t take much more. His breathing is ragged and his moans are getting louder and louder, I know he’s about to let himself come.

Finally, his lips brush mine, our eyes lock and he pushes himself farther inside of me than I ever thought possible. He holds me so tightly against him as his heat forces me over the brink, a few seconds later he reaches his own climax, moaning my name over and over again.

I rest my head on his chest, and his hand splays over my belly as our bodies recover, trembling and shuddering together in perfect rhythm.

We made love over and over again that night. Two hours later, I was awakened by Danny’s talented fingers teasing my clitoris to attention. By 5 a.m. our limbs were entangled in the tub. I gave Danny a very special sponge bath and he returned the favor lustily, the bathroom floor was nearly flooded.

As dawn turned to morning we made love one more time beside our fire and we gave each other an unexpected gift.

*****8 years later *******

“Twas the night before Christmas,” Danny begins, using his most crowd pleasing storytelling voice.

“When Mommy and Daddy met,” I join him by the fire, placing our ten week old son on his bare chest. “He’s ready for bed,” I whisper, knowing how much my husband loves rocking our son to sleep. He wraps a protective arm around the tiny baby and blows a kiss at me in response.

“Keep going!” our feisty little Gracie insists, tugging on her father’s shoulder. “Hurry up, Mommy!” she yells impatiently as she settles in next to her five year old brother, the child we tried to name after Danny but who insisted on naming himself Tiger.

“Hang on,” I laugh, as my youngest daughter and I maneuver a clean pull-up over her chubby little knees. “Okay, Sophie Maureen,” I address my daughter, “After the new year you and I are going to have a talk about big girl panties,” I inform her.

She only giggles in response before diving underneath the blankets.

“You were talking about panties, my love,” Danny teases me, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“Yes, the kind with Sesame Street characters,” I answer, as I take my place beside him on the feather bed.

Danny and I have spent every Christmas since that night eight years ago on the floor in front of the fire. We have never been alone. Gracie Isabella was born nearly exactly 9 months from Christmas Day and she spent her Christmas wrapped in the afghan her father unwrapped from my body before she was conceived. Daniel John “Tiger” Santos arrived 2 years later and crawled for the first time on Christmas Eve. Sophie Maureen followed her brother’s example and took her first steps just after midnight last Christmas. And now, Frederick Edward “Teddy” Santos, another unexpected surprise, will hear the story of the Bauer/Santos Fireside Christmas and help us put his grandmother’s angel on the tree for the very first time.

“Ready Mommy?” Danny asks, waving a hand in front of my face to make sure I;m ready to play my role.

“Yes .Twas the Night before Christmas and Daddy was lost,” I begin, waiting for my husband to pick up the second line.

“And Mommy was running away in the snow,” he continues, never missing a beat.

“And Daddy was taking a bath,” our son pipes in.

“And Mommy was very cold,” Gracie adds

“Hey, who’s telling this story?” Danny chides them playfully. “Where was I? Mommy barged into the bathroom,” he continues.

“And Daddy was trying to spend Christmas alone,” I add, squeezing Danny’s hand.

“And Mommy didn’t think she was going to have a Christmas at all,” he adds, as he kisses his son’s downy dark curls.

“Mommy sad,” Sophie chimes in, snuggling into my arms.

“But Daddy found the angel,” Tiger adds triumphantly.

“Daddy found the angel all right,” Danny whispers, softly kissing my cheek. “And that night Mommy and Daddy found out that if they didn’t have to be sad anymore if they just held onto each other,” Danny continues, his voice breaking with emotion, as it does every year.

A single tear, of indescribable joy, falls down my cheek as I thank God one more time for sending me this unbelievable man and blessing us with this beautiful family. “And the night before Christmas Mommy and Daddy loved each other so much they made a family by the fireside light.”

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