Twenty-Three Days of Advent - 1. Story

The first gift appears in my desk drawer on the first of December. I come in to work at nine AM as usual, and open the drawer to take out my pen and stack of sticky notes to take down Lance’s messages on, and there it is, a small, square parcel wrapped in shiny gold paper with a red bow. There’s no card.

Shannon from human resources chooses this precise moment to come in from the lift. ‘Morning, Keenan.’ She looks down at the parcel. ‘Who’s that from, then?’

‘No idea,’ I tell her, and it’s almost the truth. ‘No card.’

‘Is there an office Secret Santa going on that no one’s told HR about or something?’

I shrug one shoulder. ‘If there is they’ve neglected to tell me about it too.’

‘Huh.’ She chews her lip thoughtfully. ‘Anyway, is Mr. Grahame in yet?’

I smile. ‘You’re on the ball early, aren’t you? He’s not in until ten today, I’m afraid.’

Shannon nods curtly. ‘Guess I’ll come back then. See you later.’

When she’s gone I carefully undo the bow and remove the wrapping paper. The truth is, I do have a slight suspicion of who this might be from. Actually, I can only think of one person who’d leave a gift in my desk drawer, even if he’s never done anything of the sort before.

Inside is a small, plain cardboard box. I shake it carefully. It weighs hardly anything and gives off only a faint rattle. I guess if I want to know what’s inside I’ll have to open it, so I do, and I find a small scrap of paper, folded once. Taking it out, I unfold it.

Written on the paper, in delicate red ink calligraphy, are the words, Cool hand on the nape of your neck.

I frown, feeling slightly underwhelmed. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this certainly wasn’t it. I read the words again, and find myself smiling. Whatever it is he’s doing, I will play. I always do.

#

Lance comes in at five minutes to ten. His black coat has a light dusting of already melting snow on its shoulders. I stand and help remove it from his broad shoulders. He’s wearing one of his many bespoke tailored suits underneath, a black pinstriped one with a grey shirt and a blue tie that matches his eyes perfectly. He wore that tie to my job interview.

‘Good morning, Keenan,’ he says softly, his tone professional.

‘Morning, sir,’ I reply in my usual fashion, earning a nod. I brush the snow from the coat and hang it with care while he enters his office. I pick up a stack of papers from my desk and follow.

He sits in his high backed black leather chair and boots up his computer.

‘Damon Wells’s people called, and your lunch has been moved to one PM,’ I inform him. ‘The first reviews are in on his latest novel. I have excerpts here if you’d like to read them. Roberts is coming in for a meeting at half past three, and Shannon from HR wanted to speak to you and should be here in a couple of minutes.’

‘Thank you, Keenan.’

‘Can I get you a coffee?’

Lance shakes his head. ‘No thank you, I had some on the way.’

I nod curtly, setting down the stack of papers I’m holding on his desk, and return to my station.

I don’t mention the parcel or the note inside. I ask no questions. It’s not how we do things, Lance and I. When he wants to tell me what this is all about he will. Until then I will be patient, because that is how we do things.

It was rule number one when we started this. Well, no, rule number one was that I do exactly what he says, within the confines of the agreed upon terms, subject to change by mutual consent. Rule number two, however, was that at work, we are boss and personal assistant, and we leave our personal life outside when we come in every morning, aside from when it interferes with rule number one, of course. Which it has, many times. I try not to think about all the times he has locked the door, pulled down the blinds and proceeded to bend me over his desk. I fail, and blush scarlet, grateful that nobody’s here to see it.

There are plenty of risks involved when you’re shagging your boss. We went over each and every one of them when we began, Lance detailing exactly what would or would not happen if we were to break it off, if I were to change my mind or not want to do something. My job is safe. He can’t punish me professionally for something done personally (although the opposite is permitted; it has only happened once, and it was incredible).

I spend the day answering his phones, updating his calendar, and very occasionally giving opinions when asked. Other than that, I do mostly paperwork. When the day is over I head home to my tiny flat in Islington. Lance is busy tonight, so it’s just me, an instant meal and television. I get a call from a friend from the army who’s on leave in London for the week and wants to meet up if I have time. I tell him I’ll see what I can do, but that my boss keeps me pretty busy. It’s the truth.

#

The next day I arrive at work to find a golden envelope with a red wax seal, like something from a hundred years ago, wedged under my keyboard. I open it to find a single piece of paper inside, with the same fine calligraphy handwriting.

Hot breath in your ear as I whisper, ‘Mine!’

It’s silly. It’s corny and stupid, and I’m so into it. I blush as I imagine just that, Lance’s husky baritone dripping with sex, whispering possessively in my ear while he—

I shake my head. This really is neither the time nor the place, and I force myself to think of other things, ignoring how uncomfortably tight my trousers have suddenly become. I do so so successfully that by the time Lance arrives and I stand to greet him, I am no longer visibly aroused and can help him off with his coat without making an ass of myself.

Every morning I arrive to find another gift somewhere on my desk. Usually it contains a scrap of paper with writing on it. Some days there’s an item. A red silk ribbon one day, a small silver bell another. I’m curious, so ridiculously curious as to what this is all about, what Lance has planned for me, but I hold my tongue. Then, one day about half way through December, I find a note in an envelope on my desk that says, 1300 hours, Mangiamo.

So I go to Mangiamo. It’s a small Italian restaurant, hidden away in a maze of alleys and side streets. I have been there before, with Lance, once. I’m five minutes early, afraid to be late. I wait outside until 1 o’clock on the dot when I step inside. Of course he’s already there. We left the office at almost exactly the same time, but we took different routes.

The waiter seats me opposite Lance, folds my napkin in my lap for me and presents me with a menu before walking away.

‘Glad you could make it,’ Lance murmurs. His voice has a visceral effect on me, makes various parts of my anatomy tense or relax, and always makes me listen.

‘Of course,’ I reply, trying to read the menu but failing to take any of it in. I know what I’m having, anyway. The Spaghetti Carbonara here is amazing.

The waiter returns to take our orders. Lance orders us a glass of wine each without asking. We are neither of us small men, a glass won’t affect our ability to perform our jobs. When the waiter leaves again, Lance fixes his impossibly blue eyes on mine.

‘So, I take it you’ve been receiving my gifts.’

I nod.

‘You’ve been working hard lately, Keenan. I wanted to treat you to lunch. Show you how much I . . . appreciate the work you do.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

He smiles. It’s not his business smile, but the private one that he reserves for me when we’re alone and I call him ‘sir’ anyway. It’s not part of the rules, I can call him Lance if I want, but he likes it.

‘I also wanted to give you the opportunity to ask questions about the gifts. If you wish, that is.’

I hesitate. Part of me is dying to know what he’s thinking, what the gifts are for, what he has in store for me. But another part enjoys not knowing. There’s a sort of thrill in the curiosity, and besides, I trust Lance implicitly.

So I say, ‘I’d rather just wait and see if it’s all the same to you, sir.’

His smile widens, and something warm pulses in my chest at the sight of it. Lance lifts his water glass, inclines his head in a way that tells me very clearly that he’s pleased with me, and takes a drink. The water leaves his lips moist. I want to kiss them, but I don’t. I don’t have his permission to.

He catches the path my eyes take, though, and quirks an eyebrow gently. Under the table his leg brushes mine. He’s always so discreet. I drop my gaze to my plate, adjust the placement of my fork. Lance makes me feel like a teenager, utterly inexperienced and green. He makes me blush like a virgin and beg like a whore. And I love every second of it.

I’m taller than he is. Larger in general, and stronger, though he spends more time at the gym than I do. And yet, Lance is always in charge, and under his touch and his gaze I am meek as a kitten. I would do anything for him. Anything at all.

#

It’s the only time we talk about the gifts. When we return from lunch, we both act as we always do, and the next time we see each other privately (his place; it involves a riding crop and hot wax and I love every second of it) the subject never comes up.

As December continues to tick by, the days become more hectic at Red Ink Publishing. Book reviews, sales numbers and bestseller lists pass over my desk every day on their way to Lance’s office, and he gets enough calls daily that he sometimes has to stay two hours late to call back everyone he missed. The gifts keep coming, though.

Our last day before Christmas is the twenty-third of December, and the Red Ink Christmas Party is held that evening. It’s to be a grand event, full of writers and editors eating fine food and getting pissed on good wine. The night before, I sit at my kitchen table, all of Lance’s gifts before me. There’s the red silk ribbon and the small silver bell, a pair of very proper handcuffs, a stainless steel anal plug, and a very skimpy pair of underpants in red silk. And then there’s the notes.

I spread them out on the table, sorting them chronologically, bar the invitation to Mangiamo, and read them.

Cool hand on the nape of your neck.

Hot breath in your ear as I whisper, ‘Mine!’

I bring you to your knees.

Make you taste me, and you love it.

I tear you apart and put you back together again.

Hold you down until you’re begging, pleading.

Because you belong to me, and you know it too.

And with every touch I affirm it.

With every breath as I whisper your name.

I grip you tight and fuck you until you scream.

It reads almost like a poem. I think, not for the first time, that I should find this corny. It seems like our interactions belong in a trashy romance novel, or worse. A lot of it is silly, and some of it downright ridiculous at times. But then, all sex is a bit ridiculous, isn’t it? And being in love makes you stupid.

And that’s what I am, I realise with a jolt. The thought makes me blush, even though I’m alone. I am in love with this man, who sends me cheesy gifts and erotic poetry, who teaches me about sexual practices I’ve never even heard of, who hurts me when I need him to and is kind and gentle to me after. I’ve been in love with far worse people before.

#

The next morning I wake up to find thick snow falling outside my window. Perhaps it is to be a white Christmas after all. Predictably enough, traffic is a mess and there are delays on the tube, but I left home early. I arrive at work on time, to find another golden envelope on my desk. Inside is a single piece of paper with the words, Tonight, bring your gifts. Use your imagination.

So he does have a plan, then. I smile, and it’s all I can do to make my expression neutral when Lance steps out of the lift a few minutes later.

‘Morning, sir,’ I say softly as I help him take off his coat. Underneath it he is wearing an immaculate charcoal suit. Tailored to him, it looks almost like it’s a part of him, a second skin.

‘Good morning,’ he replies, his voice like dark velvet. ‘Could you be so kind as to bring me the updated guest list for tonight, please?’

‘Of course, sir.’ I hang the coat with care before picking up the stack of papers on my desk, which already contains the guest list for the party, and following Lance into his office. I fish the guest list to the top and lay the stack down on his desk for his perusal. ‘Here you go.’

‘Thank you, Keenan.’

‘Can I get you a coffee?’

‘Yes, please. And then get Damon Wells’s people on the line for me, if you would.’

‘Right away, sir.’ I turn to leave.

‘Oh, and Keenan?’

I glance back at him over my shoulder. He’s sitting at his desk, regarding me over the tops of his hands folded in front of his face. His hands are in the way of his mouth, but I can tell by the crinkle in the corner of his eye that he’s smiling. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Nothing,’ he tells me softly. ‘I like watching you leave.’

I allow myself to smile. ‘I see.’ If I swing my hips a little extra as I leave his office and head back to my desk, I’m sure it’s simply a coincidence.

The day passes quicker than I expected, all the things I have to do blurring together. We close at three, and I head home to my tiny flat in Islington to get ready for the party, which starts at seven.

I remove my suit from my closet and lay it out on the bed. It’s the only suit I own, but it is a very nice one. Three piece, black, gently pinstriped. Lance took me to his tailor to have it made. I wouldn’t let him pay for it, I have too much pride for that, and it easily cost half a month’s wages. But, as Lance said, a good suit is an investment, and this one fits me as well as all Lance’s suits fit him. I did let him buy me a silver tie to go with it as a birthday present, though.

I look at my suit, all laid out and ready, and then I look at the five items next to my pillow—a red silk ribbon, a silver bell, an anal plug, a set of handcuffs, and skimpy red silk pants. I let out a long breath. This should be fun.

#

This is my first Christmas at Red Ink Publishing. I’ve been told that the Christmas party is a posh affair, but I had no way of imagining exactly how posh until I’m there. It’s being held in one of London’s swankier hotels. All guests who aren’t local are housed there over night, and the company has rented the dining room and ballroom. The ballroom is all white marble and mirrors and a golden chandelier that could comfortably seat six of me. There is a live string quartet, champagne, canapés, and more designer dresses and bespoke tailored suits than I’ve ever seen in one place.

I walk inside, acutely aware of the ribbon around my neck, hidden beneath my shirt, not to mention the butt plug. There’s something obscene about walking into a place like this, in a suit this fine, with stainless steel lodged in my arse. No doubt, that was Lance’s intention. I’m wearing all my gifts, save for the handcuffs which I couldn’t think of any way to wear discreetly, and which are therefore safely tucked away in the inside pocket of my jacket.

Adjusting my pocket square (silver, to match my tie), I look around the room, searching for Lance. I spot him near a group of leather arm chairs next to a roaring fire, speaking to one of our more famous authors and her husband. Lance is also wearing a black suit, but he has a burgundy waistcoat and bowtie. The cut is slimmer than mine, too, him not being quite as buff as I am (not that he isn’t ripped as fuck all the same). In short, he looks absolutely stunning. More than ever I wonder what he has in store for me this evening, but I shake the thought from my mind. A suit is not a good garment for hiding a hard-on, though the tight silk underwear should help some.

I run into a couple of editors I’m reasonably well acquainted with, and spend some time sipping champagne and chatting with them.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever been to a party this fancy,’ I admit. ‘And hotels like this one are normally a bit out of my price range.’

Tonya, a redhead in her mid-thirties, shakes her head. ‘I honestly don’t know how the company can even afford this every year. I mean, I know we’re doing all right, but we’re not exactly Bloomsbury.’

‘Maybe Grahame pays for it out of his own pocket,’ John suggests. He’s younger than Tonya, but a good bit older than me.

‘He’s a retired Royal Marine, not a millionaire,’ says Tonya dismissively. ‘As if he could afford something like that!’

‘It’s company funds, all right,’ I confirm. ‘I wouldn’t believe that we could afford it either, but I’ve seen the numbers. They add up.’

‘Is there anything you don’t do for him?’ asks John incredulously. ‘I mean, does Mr. Grahame do any of his own work at all?’

I laugh. ‘I just organise things for him. Trust me, he does all the real work.’

‘Well, he’s lucky to have you,’ says Tonya, clinking her glass against mine.

‘Aren’t I just?’ says a deep voice to my left, and we all look up to see Lance standing there.

‘You really know how to sneak up on people, don’t you?’ says John, shaking his head.

Lance chuckles. ‘Only people who don’t pay much attention to their surroundings,’ he says. ‘Everything going all right?’

‘Free champagne, famous people and live music? Can’t complain,’ says Tonya. John nods his agreement.

‘How about you, Keenan?’ Lance purrs. He’s standing a bit closer than necessary, and I can feel his hand on the small of my back. Not for the first time, I marvel at how so simple a touch can make me feel so much.

I smile. ‘Bit grander than I’m used to, sir.’

Lance nods. ‘And it shall become grander still.’ He lifts his hand and claps me cheerfully on the shoulder. ‘Dinner should be served in a few minutes. I’d move towards the dining room if I were you, if you want to beat the rush.’

‘Ooh, good thinking!’ Tonya drains her glass and sets it down on a nearby spindly table.

‘Enjoy your evening,’ says Lance, before moving on.

‘You’re always so formal with him,’ John says to me, as we take Lance’s advice. ‘Can’t remember Jennifer ever calling him “sir”.’

I shrug. ‘Force of habit, I suppose. Commanding officer, boss . . . Same thing, really.’

‘Wait, you’re an ex-Marine too?’

‘Army,’ I correct him. ‘But yes. This is my first job since leaving.’

‘Huh.’ Tonya looks me up and down. ‘No wonder you’re so fit.’

I laugh. ‘I’m not getting nearly as much exercise as I used to. Almost starting to feel out of shape, if I’m honest. But thanks.’

Dinner is a grand affair indeed. Five courses, and one of the mains is Christmas goose cooked to perfection and served with all the trimmings. There’s a different wine for every course, and dessert is a treacle tart the likes of which has surely never been tasted by mortal man.

I’m seated opposite Lance, and am very occasionally called upon to help answer a question or two as he discusses the daily workings of the company with the people seated near him, but other than that he appears to ignore me. Appears to, except that under the table his foot keeps brushing against mine, and as I converse animatedly with the handsome young man seated next to me (a monthly contributor to our magazine, The Red Ink Review), he occasionally throws me a proprietary look when no one else is watching.

After dinner we return to the ballroom for more mingling and champagne, the canapés having been replaced with Christmas cakes, biscuits and petit fours of various description. I busy myself chatting with anyone I recognise while Lance wanders through the crowd, from one important person to the next.

He manages to corner me coming out of the bathroom just before eleven. ‘I’m bored,’ he declares, clapping a hand on my shoulder. ‘There are other things I’d rather be doing. Come rescue me, Keenan.’ He smiles brightly before vanishing into the crowd again.

I wait for a minute or two, and then I go to look for him. I find him laughing heartily at a joke Damon Wells’s agent has just told (Wells himself stands off to the side looking sullen, as is his MO as far as I’ve been able to gather). I step up to the group and wait politely for one of the others to finish what she’s saying before clearing my throat.

‘Mr. Grahame?’

Lance turns to me as though he’s only just noticed I’m here. ‘Yes, Keenan?’

‘There’s an urgent matter that requires your attention.’ I hope it’s not too vague. I’ve never been a good liar.

Lance makes a show of sighing exasperatedly. ‘Can’t you deal with it on your own?’ He waves his hand in a dismissive gesture.

I make an apologetic face. ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

He smiles wanly at the people around him. ‘Please excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. My assistant is not prone to interruptions unless they’re really necessary.’ He shakes a couple of hands, and then follows me out of the ballroom.

Once we’re out in the foyer he turns towards the lifts. I don’t ask any questions, but follow him in silence. We don’t speak as the lift ascends to the hotel’s top floor, nor as we disembark and walk down the corridor. He stops at a door and pulls a key card from his pocket, letting us inside.

It’s a large suite with french windows overlooking the Thames. The rooms are tastefully decorated in creamy whites and dark woods, and outside snow is still falling. I barely have time to take any of it in, though, before Lance turns to me and smiles.

‘Well, then,’ he says softly. ‘I believe I gave you a task.’ He looks me up and down, then goes to sit on the bed. ‘Strip,’ he instructs.

I’ve always been good at taking instructions and following orders. It’s how I ended up in the army. It’s why this arrangement is so perfect. I begin to take off my clothes, starting with my jacket and tie. As I unbutton my shirt, the red ribbon and the small silver bell are revealed, and Lance hums approvingly. Shirt gone, I remove my trousers to reveal the red silk underpants. I leave them on, and stand before him for a moment, hugging myself against the chill.

Lance’s eyes travel up and down my body, pausing on my pants. ‘They look good on you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I take it the plug has been . . . put to its proper use?’

I nod. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good boy. But where are the handcuffs?’

I reach for my jacket and pull them out of the pocket. ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t think of a discreet way to wear them.’

Lance purses his lips for a moment. ‘I admit I’m a bit disappointed. I myself can think of at least four creative things you could have done with them, but I appreciate the difficulty of the task. Come here and accept your punishment, and we’ll forget all about it.’

I walk over to stand in front of him. He takes the cuffs from me and lays them down on the pillow. Then he gestures to his lap, and I know what my punishment will be.

I lie facedown over his lap, and he pulls my pants down enough to reveal my arse. He tugs gently at the ribbon around my neck. ‘All wrapped up with a bow,’ he murmurs. ‘What a lovely Christmas gift you are.’ He gives me a few strokes over my back and arse. Then he pulls my cheeks apart and gives another hum of approval when he sees the base of the stainless steel butt plug.

He uses the flat of his hand. The first strike makes my cock twitch and I bite my lip. With the second I draw in a sharp breath of air, and with the third I whimper quietly. On the fourth I hold my tongue, but on the fifth I cry out. They’re not gentle slaps either. That isn’t how we do things, Lance and I.

‘Oh, Keenan,’ he says, squeezing my arsecheeks, making them sting, ‘seeing you like this . . . Your arse in the air, and you’ve been wearing the butt plug all evening like a good lad. Makes me want to fuck you.’

‘Then do,’ I whisper hoarsely. ‘Please, fuck me!’

Another, lighter slap lands on my arse and I suck in another sharp breath. ‘I didn’t ask your opinion, love.’ Lance chuckles. ‘You see, I have a plan. And tonight, fucking you isn’t part of my plan. Well, not that way, anyway.’

‘Sir?’

‘Get up.’

I do as I’m told. He stands as well, and gestures for me to sit on the bed while he begins to remove his own clothes. He painstakingly folds every item and lays them gently on a chair. I watch as he gives his half hard cock a few strokes.

‘Lie on your back,’ he says softly, and I obey. He kneels on the bed next to me and gestures for me to hold my hands above my head. Then he picks up the handcuffs and cuffs my hands to the headboard.

Lance straddles my chest and presses his cock to my lips. I open my mouth to admit him, tasting the musky, salty bittersweetness of him on my tongue. I close my eyes, savouring it, and let out a small moan around his cock. He makes a deep, appreciative noise in return, the barest sigh of pleasure. I open my eyes again and meet his blue gaze. I see movement out of the corner of my eye and, breaking eye contact, watch as he reaches over to the nightstand, opening the drawer and removing from it a small tube.

‘It’s Christmas,’ he says softly, spreading a daube of thick, viscous liquid onto his fingers, ‘so I wanted to give you a present. Do something different.’ He reaches back, and I can’t see what he’s doing, but I can feel his dick twitch in my mouth, and I see the muscles in his arm working. His mouth is open, lips moist and eyes half lidded, and then he lets out a groan.

I mimmic the sound he makes, because watching Lance fingering himself as I suck his cock is the single most erotic experience of my life, this in spite of all the highly erotic things we have done over the past few months since I came to work at Red Ink Publishing.

‘Do you want to fuck me, Keenan?’ he asks breathlessly. ‘Would you like to be inside me?’

I nod vigorously. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then say it.’

‘I . . . I want to fuck you, sir. I want to be inside you. Please! Please, let me . . .’ I bite my lip.

‘Your wish is my command.’

After a few moments he pulls his cock out of my mouth and, sliding back a bit, leans down to kiss me. He slides down my body, kissing and licking his way down my collarbone, chest and stomach, and taking my cock into his mouth. Then, when he’s gotten me well and truly hard, he positions himself above me.

‘Merry Christmas, Keenan,’ he whispers, and then he lowers himself onto my length, throwing back his head with a gasp.

I swear loudly. He’s so unbelievably tight. He’s prepped himself well, though, and I slide in without difficulty, until the warmth of him envelops me like a soft, wet sheath. It’s like being surrounded by heavy velvet, and I let out another moan as he lowers himself all the way, until I’m as far inside him as I go.

‘God, you feel so good!’ Lance murmurs. He rocks his hips, causing delicious friction. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve allowed anyone inside me. I hope you appreciate your good fortune.’

‘Y-yes, sir,’ I manage weakly, and he smiles.

Lance places one hand on my chest, and the other on his own cock, giving it a few loose strokes. ’You’re so beautiful.’

His words cause warmth to spread through my chest and stomach. I want to tell him that he’s the one who’s beautiful. I want to tell him that being inside him feels like I’ve died and gone to heaven. I want to tell him a million things, and I can’t put any of them into words, so instead I whimper when he begins to ride me.

I want to reach for him, touch him, but my hands are cuffed to the headboard, so that’s off the table. Soon my hips buck up to meet him, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I try to control my breathing, control my heart rate, try not to come, because he hasn’t given me permission to yet, but as the minutes go by and he rides me relentlessly, it becomes harder to control.

‘Lance!’ I gasp. ‘Please, I . . . I don’t know how long I can hold on . . .’

He slows down a bit, his movements becoming more shallow, and leans forward, bringing his face close to mine. ‘You hold on for as long or as short as you like. This is for you, Keenan. Not that,’ he licks his lips and a small shudder goes through his body, ‘not that this isn’t good for me, too. Fuck . . . Your cock is perfect for this. We may have to do it again.’ He pulls in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment and then looking at me again. ‘What are you thinking? Speak freely.’

I hesitate, but he did say to speak freely. ‘I wish I could touch you,’ I murmur. ‘You’re so hot . . . I want to touch you and . . . and hold onto you.’

Lance smiles. ‘Maybe next time.’

He picks up the pace again, and I dissolve into ragged pants as I once again try to keep control. I’m teetering on the edge, my body longing for release after the evening I’ve spent in anticipation. I’m still plugged, and it shifts when he rides down on me, prodding at my prostate like my cock prods at his. And all the wine I’ve had isn’t helping either, making everything hot and hazy.

Lance cups my cheek in his hand, and his touch is gentle. ‘You’re close.’ It’s a statement, not a question. ‘You can come if you like. I’m . . .’ He licks his lips again. ‘I’m close, too.’

It’s what I need, hearing those words, and I just about manage to say, ‘I’m gonna come!’ before I do, shooting my load into him, my hips bucking erratically. A moment later he gasps and comes as well. He rides me through both our orgasms, before collapsing on top of me and finding my lips, kissing me fiercely.

After a few minutes, once our collective heart rates have normalised somewhat, Lance gets off me. He cleans himself up with wet wipes and paper towels, and then cleans me as well before removing the handcuffs.

‘You did so well, Keenan,’ he purrs. ‘Did you enjoy your present?’

I nod, not quite trusting myself to speak.

Lance looks at his watch. ‘I should get back down there. Say goodbye to people, tie up some loose ends. You stay here, and rest.’ He lays a hand gently on my forehead and smooths back my hair.

I close my eyes, revelling in the warmth of his hand. Then the hand is gone, and I open my eyes a fraction, watching him get dressed.

‘I’ll be back soon,’ he says, lacing his shoes. When he’s finished he kisses my forehead. ‘Merry Christmas.’

‘Merry Christmas, sir,’ I murmur sleepily. I almost say, ‘I love you,’ but I still have enough control of my faculties to keep that particular tidbit to myself. One day, we will have that conversation.

I don’t notice when he leaves, or when he comes back, but the next morning I wake up in his arms. Tonight, I’ll be going out to my parents and staying until Boxing Day. I imagine Lance has family to celebrate with as well. But for right now, I hope this moment—Lance sleeping next to me with his arms around me, his warm breath against my neck—will last forever.