CoF - Jypzrose - Christmas Wishes and Yuletide Dreams

AUTHOR: Jypzrose
EMAIL: jypzrose@aol.com
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: Tara/Spike
SPOILERS: None. AU all human
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, when I started this, I intended it to be one part. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your view point, it will be three. Enjoy.
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It’s a slow night. She knew before coming in that it would be. Tara McClay has already wiped off the counter and all the tables as well as swept and mopped the floor. She’s not sure why she hasn’t just told Warren that they are closing early. Good Eats was a diner without diners this evening. Most people were home with their families, preparing for Santa Clause to come or getting some well-needed rest before traveling the next day. Some people were traveling now. Still others were at Christmas parties, drinking and laughing with other people that they usually hate in the light of day.

But not her. Not that she likes Warren or anything. And they aren’t even talking to each other, much less laughing. But, she guesses spending Christmas Eve here with him is better than spending it alone. She supposes he probably feels the same way. Even though she can here the TV in the office blaring some repeat of Star Trek or one of those other shows he insists on gushing about when he’s actually doing his job.

You’re being uncharitable her conscience tells her. A voice which sounds a lot like her mother. Well, mother, I feel uncharitable. It’s Christmas and usually she loves the lights, the colors, the cheer that just seems to come with the season. But, not this year. This year has been pretty bad even by bad standards. So, wasn’t much to be cheery about.

She does feel edgy being in the restaurant alone, this late at night. With Warren. But, as long as he stays in the office watching TV, she should be alright. She glances at the clock. 10:37. Do you know where you’re children are? She has no children, will probably never have any children. Just goes to show how bored she is to be thinking such stupid stuff. She should just close. Not like she’ll get paid more for keeping it open. The owner might have made her manager, but the bulk of her income still came from tips. And you don’t get tips from empty tables. At least not in her experience.

The bell above the door dings, jerking her out of her thoughts. She has to lean forward a bit to see past the three foot Christmas tree situated at the end of the counter to see the door. She gasps when she sees the man standing there. He’s about average height, his lean frame draped in a rumpled designer suit-she would have bet a months wages that it was Armani-with a leather duster over top of that. A gold watch glints at his wrist as he flicks the cap of the silver lighter in his hand. Open, close, open close. Over and over as he looks around the diner, but not seeming to really see it. He shuffles his Italian leather adorned feet unconsciously. He was dressed much better than most people that came in here. The diner usually got the junkies that had managed to wrestle a few dollars out of a kind citizen or the drunks that stumbled in after a night at the Bronze a block up and over. Lunch hour brought in most of the businessmen, but this man was nothing like them.

Maybe it was the white, spiky short hair that was the tip off, more than the expensive clothes. Or his almost model looks. Sharp cheekbones, full mouth, strong jaw and nose. Two, almost black brows slanted over eyes that were as blue as the Christmas lights winking in the windows. A scar trisected through the left one, giving him a roguish air.

How pretty, she thinks, her face immediately flaming almost as soon as it flits through her head. She drops back from her toes and stares at the counter for a second until she’s sure she can speak and not make a fool of herself stuttering. She hates to stutter. She always does it when she’s nervous. And for some inexplicable reason, this man is making her nervous.

“It’s seat yourself. I’ll be with you in a minute,” She peaks back around the tree in time to see him start at her words. Its almost like he’s just remembered where he is. He fixes those eyes on her, and a little squeak gets caught in her throat at how haunted they look. There’s something about them that pulls at her. He’s in pain, she thinks before she can stop herself. She flushes again, reminding herself that she’s not particularly intuitive and to mind her own business.

“Sure, thanks. Take you’re time.” He flips the lighter one last time, closing it with a sharp snap. Then, he walks across the floor and chooses a booth right across from where she’s standing. Probably to make sure she doesn’t forget about him. That’s not likely, she thinks, watching him settle on the red, vinyl of the bench. He goes back to toying with the lighter once he’s seated and she watches his fingers-strong, masculine fingers-slide over the smooth casing of the Zippo. An involuntary shiver rolls over her and she shakes it off, unnerved. Then, she goes back to looking at the receipts from their rare and brief busy dinner hour.

After a few minutes, and more than a few stolen looks, she gives up. She shoves them into the cash register and shuts the drawer. With pad and pencil in hand, she walks around the counter and over to his table, plastering a smile onto her face. She feels her heart speed the closer she gets to him and she has to remember to breathe evenly. She’s worked here seven years, and in that time she’s had exactly two panic attacks. She sincerely hopes that this isn’t the start of a third.

“What can I get you?” She says when she stops, her voice sounding unusually high to her own ears. Again, he seems not to notice her, even after she speaks. She notices a large, orange envelope on the table and vaguely wonders where it came from. She doesn’t remembers seeing it when he came in. It’s not your business, she reminds herself, even as her eyes scan over the surface. William Giles, she reads silently. She steals another glance at him to make sure she’s not being caught spying. Wolfram and Hart, Attorneys at Law, reads the return address. Deciding she’s spied enough, she clears her throat. “Uhm, sir?”

“Do you want an honest answer?” she says before she can stop herself. She flushes again and drops her eyes. “I-I mean, everything.” she finishes softly, feeling like an idiot. She hears his chuckle and wishes the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

“S’alright, luv. Wasn’t exactly expecting a gourmet meal when I walked in,” He’s from England, her mind registers almost dreamily. She stares at his mouth for a few seconds, fascinated by the sound of the voice falling from it, hoping he’ll speak again. Then, she realizes what she’s doing and starts wishing for the floor swallowing again.

“Th-the m-meatloaf is good,” she finally manages, feeling the hot prick of tears start behind her eyes. She hates feeling like this, acting like this. Somehow, she can’t seem to stop. She doesn’t dare look up at him and meet his eyes, she just knows she’ll die from embarrassment at the mocking she’s sure to see there. He chuckles again and she knows she’s going to die.

“S-sure. Be right back with your coffee,” she flees then, without looking up at him, her heart hammering behind like thunder in her ears.

Will watches her go with mild interest. He feels the smile that was tugging his lips fade almost as soon as she disappears behind the counter though. Somewhere in the back of his turbulent mind, he registers that she doesn’t look like the waitresses you see on TV, with their hair teased then miles high and make-up spackled on as they take your order while snapping gum. This girl is young, he’d say no more than 25. For some reason, it makes his 32 years seem old. He could detect no make-up on her peaches and cream skin other than a light dab of gloss across her lush mouth. She’s full and womanly under her ugly, light blue waitress uniform. Her dark blonde hair is pulled away from her round face, letting him see the smoky blue of her eyes with ease. He realizes, quite unconsciously, that she’s pretty. And shy, if the way she was avoiding his gaze means anything.

Nothing like Dru, he thinks, glaring down at the envelope on the table. Anger, red hot and searing scorches through him as he eyeballs his name. His wife-ex-wife-was all dark hair and porcelain skin. Her beauty was delicate, like a china doll’s. Her eyes a clear, crystal blue. She gives off an air of being childlike, helpless. But, behind those beguiling eyes was a very cunning mind. A fact made abundantly clear today. Oh sure, he knew that their marriage was over. Had been for over a year now. But this, this made if final. And on Christmas Eve.

Dru always had a taste for the ironic, he thought, unconsciously reaching for a cigarette. Of course, he at least had some satisfaction in knowing that she wasn’t getting anything more from him than he had given her during their marriage. The fault in their break-up was hers, he damn sure wasn’t going to pay for it.

“I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no smoking in here.” the waitress’s apologetic voice cut through his bitter thoughts in time to keep him from touching the flame of his lighter to the tip of his cigarette.

“Oh yeah. Sorry about that. Distracted.” he offers with a shrug. She offers him a smile and actually meets his eyes this time. He finds himself caught for a second, in the way the artificial light sparkles in them. Then, she drops her gaze from his and the second is lost. He glances down and watches as she pours his coffee, the rich, fragrant brew wafting up to tickle his nose. “Fresh?” he asks, half grateful, half surprised.

“Y-yeah. I have a thing about old coffee,” she answers, her voice low. Another shy smile is flashed and he is charmed by the way her skin pinks up under his scrutiny. “I’m always throwing out old and brewing fresh.” She’s babbling. She knows she is. She just can’t seem to stop herself. Not when he’s looking at her so intently, as if making up for practically ignoring her when he first walked in.

“Well, cheers to you then. I detest old coffee m’self.” He lifts his cup in a mock toast before taking a sip of the hot brew. His sigh of satisfaction has a flower of pleasure blooming in her chest.

“You’re from England.” she states nervously, berating herself the second it falls from her lips. Well, duh, Tara. She winces at her stupidity and turns to leave. But, a warm, firm grasp on her wrist stops her. She jerks a bit at the unfamiliar touch and her eyes go a little wide. He immediately lets go, bringing the hand up, palm out, to show her he meant no harm.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, flashing her a grin. She swears her heart skips a beat.

“N-no. I’m sorry. I-I’m a little jumpy.” She feels foolish, and she’s pretty sure she looks foolish too.

“I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.” he counters. He watches her smile again, her nervousness around him palpable. He surprises himself with what he says next. “Would you. . .would you join me?” She blinks, not sure if she heard him right. She looks so sweet right then, with her eyes that seem to go on forever and her lips parted a little in surprise.

“Oh sure, and I can see you are very busy right now.” he says dryly with a quirk of his scarred brow. There’s amusement in his eyes and she wonders if he’s making fun of her. But, she can detect no malice in his sparkling eyes.

“No, I guess we aren’t.” she concedes with a little laugh. She can hear Warren moving around in the kitchen its so quiet.

“Foods up!” Warren calls, sliding the plate up to the warming area. She’s sure he’s headed back to the office to finish watching his show.

“I’ll get your food.” The man nods, his eyes dropping back to the envelope as she moves away. Once behind the counter, she puts the coffee carafe back on the burner and reaches for his plate. Then, without asking herself why, she pauses to pour herself a cup of coffee and returns to the table. “Do you still want me to...” she places the plate in front of him, and stands, holding her coffee until he waves her into the seat across from him.

“Yes, please.” She likes listening to him talk. His voice is rich and smooth and the accent seems almost sensual without actually meaning to be. She settles across from him and reaches for the sugar dispenser just as he’s reaching for the salt. Their fingers brush and Tara jerks from the electric current that sings up her arm from the contact. She steals a glance at him to see if he felt it too, but he’s not looking at her. He’s seasoning his food and looking like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Calling herself stupid and reminding herself that she left behind just foolishly romantic notions a long time ago, she reaches for the sugar once more. “So, what’s a young girl like you doing toiling your time away in a diner on Christmas Eve? Shouldn’t you be out with your boyfriend or something? Going to parties?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” she says quietly, stirring the sweetener in her coffee. He’s surprised at this, but doesn’t say anything. A pretty thing like her should have two or three boyfriends begging for her attention.

“Are the men in this town blind?” he hears himself say as he stabs a piece of meatloaf and brings it to his lips. She gives a nervous laugh at that and shakes her head.

“Oh, so their stupid then?” She blushes at this, and he can’t help but think it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. Very different than Dru, he thinks again.

“Nothing. I don’t go anymore.” It’s a touchy subject, he can tell by the way she’s toying with her spoon in her coffee. It’s none of his business. All he had wanted was a little company to get his mind off of what was in the envelope. He didn’t want to play shrink to a twenty-something college drop out. But, something about the sadness that clouds her face has him asking,

“Why?” Her eyes dart to his, surprise that he would care evident in their gray-blue depths. They are quite lovely eyes, he realizes looking into them. Multi-faceted and deep like the ocean. And in them, he can see and inert kindness and basic innocence that seems to be long gone from most of the people on the planet. He wants to get lost in them, to have some of that rub off on him so he can remember what it feels like to be human again. To be cleansed.

But of course, that’s silly. So, he shrugs it off and just looks at her with cool interest and continues to eat. He doesn’t really taste the food. Just mechanically cuts and eats, chewing instinctively. If he thinks about it, he’d realize that he hasn’t really enjoyed anything, not even a simple meal in almost a year. But, he doesn’t think about it.

“Family,” she answers simply, still stirring that spoon around in her cup, the metal tapping the sides with little clinks. She’s used to answering this question. Her customers often ask why she’s here, in this place, when she should be out somewhere, having a life. She’s settled on this answer a long time ago. Its close enough to the truth that its not a lie, but vague enough not to tell them anything too personal. She glances up at him to see that eyebrow raised high again, and instinctively knows he’s not the type to let that cryptic statement suffice.

“Family? I can understand that, I s’ppose. There’s no way in hell I’d be an antiques dealer otherwise.” She’s a little surprised that he didn’t pursue her past further, but she’s relieved.

“Antiques? You sell old furniture?” She blushes at his chuckle, thinking she’d made herself sound stupid again. She asks herself once more why did she sit down with him?

“Yeah, basically. Though m’ father’s knickers would probably twist if he heard me talkin’ about it like that.”

“Oh,” is all she says. She finally stops stirring her coffee and lifts it to take a sip. “Do you like selling antiques?” He stops eating and a quizzical look passes over his sharp features. She wonders if she’s said something wrong. Then, he starts to laugh, a real, full laugh. She’s stares at him, wide eyed, wondering if Warren had put one of his ‘experiments’ in the food again.

“You know,” he says after he’s calmed down. “I think you’re the first person who has ever asked me that.”

“Really?” She can’t imagine that. Her mother, rest her soul, always asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. There was never any pressure to be one thing or the other. She could have the world if she so desired, at least as far as mama was concerned.

“Yes, really. It was always ‘expected’ for me to.” He sneers when he says this, the act lifting his lip in ways that Elvis could have only dreamed of. “But then, family has a way of making you do things you don’t really want to.” he finishes, dropping his utensils on his now empty plate.

“Yeah, I guess they do,” She takes a sip of her coffee as he reaches for his. He looks up at her, caught by the wistful sound of her voice. He’s surprised to see the longing in her eyes as she stares unseeing at the envelope on the table. He somehow doubts it’s the chipped Formica its laying on that she wants so badly.

“You alright, pet?” he asks, jarring her from her thoughts. Another blush creeps over her skin, the pink somehow making the smokiness of her eyes more vivid. She’s really quite lovely, he thinks, then he feels something inside of his stir. Something he thought long dead.

“Y-y-yes, I-I’m fine,” she sets her cup back down to quickly. As soon as her fingers release it, it tips over onto its side, spilling the dark brew across the table in a small river. It slides silkily across the table, heading straight for the envelope. “Oh no!” she cries, as they scramble into action. Will snatches the envelope out of harms way and throws it onto the bench next to him, then grabs a handful of napkins to help her staunch the flow. “I-I-I’m s-sorry.” She stammers, soaking up as much as she can.

“I’m so stupid! Just a clumsy cow,” Will’s eyes shoot up to her as this flows out of her mouth. His eyes are wide with surprise that she would say something like that. But, once his gaze settles on her, he realizes that its not really her talking. The way her mouth was working with no sound coming out other than tiny whimpers and the glazed, panicked look in her eyes told him that she was repeating something someone had said to her. A lot.

An irrational rage on her behalf sprung up in him, making his eyes flash and his jaw clench so tight it almost popped under the stress. He wanted to kill whoever had said that to her, had made her feel as if a tiny, inconsequential accident was enough to hate herself for. By the time he felt calm enough to speak again, to tell her...what, he didn’t know, she was already fleeing from the table, the cup, his plate and the sodden napkins clutched close to her chest.

“Hey!” he said as she disappeared around the counter, her entrance into the kitchen guarded by the sad looking Christmas tree situated on the end. He stared at the top edge of the doors as they swung in and back out, indicating that she was gone. He had no choice but to stand, staring at tree as it blinked merrily with reds, greens and blues. Bugger.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, her mind chants, the voice that is echoing in her head sounding suspiciously like her father. Cold, emotionless, full of contempt. The dishes in her hand slide into the sink as she leans against it, the sound of her heart throbbing in her ears so loud, she doesn’t know whether or not they broke when they landed.

Deep breaths, count to ten. He can’t hurt you anymore, she reminds herself, the image of Frank McClay rising up in her head like a Phoenix from the flame. A average, unassuming looking man, he had been proud as a peacock when her brother Donny had been born. But, then came her, a girl, utterly useless in his eyes. Except to pick up the slack when mama had gotten sick. And to use as a whipping girl whenever his mood had turned sour. She squeezes her eyes shut against it, squeezing them so tight that the lights behind her lids swirl in crazy patterns, making her dizzy. But, it swipes the picture of her father away, clearing it from her mind so she can breathe again.

“Tara?” Warren came out of the office, his eyes narrowed as he looks at her shaking shoulders. He wonders if she’s having some sort of fit and feels mildly annoyed that he has to deal with this. They don’t pay him enough for it.

She jerks when she hears his voice, embarrassment that Warren is seeing her like this flaring bright in her chest. If there was ever a person not to show weakness too, it was him. And that was just because he would use it against you later to get something he wanted. Jerk, she thinks as she breathes deep to calm her racing heart.

“I’m fine,” she tells him, managing to keep the tremor out of her voice by sheer will. Deep breaths, deep breaths.

“Yeah, sure,” Warren rolls his eyes and starts to go back into the office. He pauses just inside the room and looks back over to her. “Can we close soon? Don’t know about you, but I have a life.” Tara lets out a bitter laugh and casts a glance in his direction. She feels a bit calmer now, steadier.

“Start to clean up. I’ll cash him out, then we can leave.” She’s always amazed at how confident she sounds when talking to Warren. She wishes it could spill over into other aspects of her life. Warren goes back into the office, muttering something under his breath. She’s sure its nothing pleasant, but doesn’t really care. As long as he does what he’s told, that’s all that matters to her. She glances down into the sink and is mildly surprised that nothing had broken. Thank God for small favors, she thinks before turning away from it.

Her heart tries to speed up again as she walks over to the doors leading back to the dining room. She had humiliated herself in front of a customer, and she wishes that she could just blink her eyes and take it all away. But, that sort of stuff only happens on TV, so there was no rescue from embarrassment for her. With a deep, bolstering breath, she straightened her apron and walked through the doors. . .

“Oh no,” she gasps, as she rounds the counter to see that her platinum haired Englishman is gone. Maybe he just went to the bathroom, logic tells her. Unfortunately, logic didn’t account for people that skipped out on their check. That sick feeling settles even further in her stomach when she reaches the table to find the duster gone, as well as the envelope. There’s no doubt in her mind he’s gone, and a deep sense of disappointment washes over her. Telling herself its because she now has to pay for his meal, she shrugs it off and starts wiping down the table. Colorful curses, the kind that she would never say out loud, strung through her mind like Christmas lights. They came to a dead halt when she moved the metal rack holding the salt, pepper and menus. There, tucked between that and the napkin dispenser, was a carefully folded napkin, with just the hint of green sticking out of the top.

Feeling extremely foolish for thinking him a crook, she reached out and plucked it up, smiling at the sloping ‘Merry Christmas’ written across the front. Her heart skipped in her chest as her eyes landed on the two, crisp, fifty dollar bills staring up at her.

Her eyes immediately jump to the door, as if she expected him to be standing there, watching. Of course, he wasn’t, having decided to leave his gift and not remain present for her to try to give it back. Her eyes drop to the money again, her brows knitted together in confusion. His bill would have come to barely six dollars. This was a ninety four dollar tip. Why?

With little choice other than to either give it to Warren, or keep it for herself, she tucks one fifty into the pocket of her apron and takes the other around the counter to the register to ring out his ticket. Then, with $93.21 weighing down her apron, she walked over to the door and locked it, her eyes searching down the empty street for her benefactor. She has no idea why he felt he needed to give her that money. But, she sends a silent thank you out to him before turning away to go turn off the Open sign.

“Want me to walk you home?” Warren asks twenty minutes later as she locks the door for the night. She pockets her keys and turns to look at him. She knows that he’s not really interested in walking her home. The way he’s dancing on the balls of his feet, his eyes darting down he opposite direction of the street tells her this. And really, Warren is the last person she wants to be with right now, so, she shakes her head and waves him on.

“No, thanks. Merry. . .” she starts as Warren practically bolts away. “Christmas,” she finishes, the word barely a whisper. She watches him trot down the sidewalk for a second, then draws her jacket a little tighter around her before starting off in the other direction.

As she walks, she takes in the shiny tinsel bells and stockings that hang merrily from the lampposts, their golds, reds and greens glinting in the soft light. Silver snowflakes hang from store awnings, spinning in the breeze. It’s the closest this part of California will ever get to snow. Not that she really minds, though. Snow reminds her of home, of listening to her father fit and rage over the piles of white stuff that accumulated each year. And each year, she would be the one outside shoveling it. Donny couldn’t be bothered with such a menial task. He was too busy basking in his place as male heir. Of course, what exactly he was supposed to inherit, Tara was never sure of. A broken down farm that saw more hard times that good? Wasn’t much to be happy about as far as she was concerned.

If it weren’t for her mother, she would have probably still been back there in that town, waiting on her father and the heir apparent. But, mama had put her foot down this one time and Tara had been able to go to college. Her grades had earned her a partial scholarship to anywhere she wanted to go. So, off to California she had gone. It was as far away from snow and her father as she could get. And here she stayed, even though her college days were long over.

Pushing all thoughts of unhappier times away, Tara stops in front of the giant tree situated in the town square. Her apartment is just a block over, which gives her the excuse to stop here on her way home. It’s huge, seeming to stretch forever up to the sky. It’s lit even now, the lights and colors draping its rich, green branches like a beacon in the night.

Merry Christmas, Mama, she says to herself, sending a little smile up to the heavens. Her heart aches a little as she thinks of the woman she lost just this year. It still hurts, to think that she wasn’t there to talk to anymore. Like tonight. Tara could have gone home, picked up the phone and called her mother, to tell her all about the handsome stranger that had left her the huge tip. They could have giggled and laughed like schoolgirls, as they tried to decipher just why he would have done it.

But, unfortunately, that wasn’t to be anymore. Tara is left to ponder this by herself. And it saddens her even more on this night that’s supposed to be joyous.

With a sigh and one last glance at the massive tree, she starts walking again. In an effort to lift her mood, she thinks about the man. She had made a massive fool out of herself, she knew. But still, he had left her that gift. And really, it was a gift. No one tipped like that. Ever. The most she had ever gotten was ten dollars. And she’s still convinced that was because the woman had been in such a hurry she didn’t notice she had grabbed a ten instead of a one.

She wonders about him. Wonders what might have happened had she not made such a supreme ass of herself and if he hadn’t had that sad, haunted look in his eyes. It would have been nice if she’d been able to relax with him. To laugh and flirt and act like the girls she used to envy back in school. The ones that made talking to a man look as easy as getting dressed. Or undressed, as the case may be.

Who knows, she thinks as she walks up to her ground floor apartment. If she had been able to be that type of girl, maybe she would have gotten more in her Christmas stocking than wishes and dreams and a whole pile of ‘what ifs’.

“Oh well. Looks like we’re celebrating Christmas alone this year, Miss. Kitty,” she says as she walks inside, swinging the door shut behind her. The cat in question looks up from her perch on the couch, blinks once, then lays her head back down. “Hello to you, too.” Tara says with a laugh. She shrugs out of her jacket and hangs it on the hook by the door. She kicks off her shoes as well and leaves them next to the door before starting towards her bedroom. Its dark, but she doesn’t feel much of a need for light. Her apartment’s not that big, for one. For two, she’s been living here for three years, since she moved out of the dorms. If she didn’t know her way around the small space by now, she never would.

She strips out of her uniform when she gets into her bedroom, finally turning on the small lamp on her nightstand. The room is small, barely big enough for the double bed, dresser and nightstand she has in there. But, she still has room enough to move. The bed is simple, with a bookshelf headboard that she rescued from a yard sale about the same time she moved in. A patchwork quilt that had belonged to her mother was draped across it, the soft blues, yellows and pinks soothing. The dresser and nightstand were simple, stock pieces that could be found anywhere. She prettied them up with some seashell stencils and colorful scarves across the top.

After emptying the pockets, she drops her uniform in the laundry basket sitting by the bedroom door and sifts through the dresser for her comfy clothes. A pair of pink and blue flannel pj bottoms, a pair of plain white panties and a big, oversize T-shirt are carried into the bathroom. She quickly showers off the day, taking her time washing her hair. The smell of strawberries and honey surrounds her, relaxing her.

She remembers the man again; the heat of his amazingly blue eyes, the sensuality of his smile. She imagines that he would smell like tobacco and leather and maybe something spicy. Her mind takes it to another level, and suggests what he might taste like. Wild and fierce and overwhelming. She’s not sure why she thinks this, but looking back, he seemed to have a passion just singing along his skin, almost desperate to break out.

With a deep, satisfied sigh, she tilts her head back and lets the shampoo run from her hair. The warm water coasts over her, tantalizing her nerves and invoking thoughts of gentle fingers caressing her skin. A soft moan escapes her lips as she imagines just whose fingers they were. A soft throb has started at the apex of her thighs, sending out little tremors over her body. Without thought, her hands slide over her skin, taking away the stress of the evening and fueling the fantasy playing out in her mind.

She imagines running her hands through platinum curls and over sharp cheeks and jaw. As her fingers close around a stiff nipple, she pretends that they are full, soft lips and gentle teeth teasing the bud. Her other hand has slid down her stomach, following the path of the water to her center. It doesn’t take long for her fingers to find and tease the sensitive bundle of nerves there.

It doesn’t really take long for her orgasm to slide over her. “William,” she gasps as her knees tremble and her body throbs. She leans back against the white tile of the shower stall and relaxed into the climax, sighing as it took away all her tension. A little giggle escapes her lips as her nerves stop twitching and relaxation starts to seep into her bones.

“Thanks for the tip and the great orgasm,” she says, laughing again. She quickly rinses off, the steps out, drying and dressing just as quickly. Her hair is wrapped in a thick, peach colored towel as she walks back into the living room, plans to make popcorn and to watch It’s a Wonderful life prominent in her mind. She almost trips over her own feet, however, when a knock sounds on the door. She eyes said door suspiciously for a few seconds, a thread of fear working its way through her short-lived ease.

“Who on Earth is that?” she asks the cat, who seems like she could care less who’s outside their door at midnight on Christmas Eve. “Somehow I doubt it’s Santa Clause,” Another knock and she finally starts forward, her steps slow. She makes sure the chain is on before opening it, and when she does, she’s sure her eyes are as wide as saucers with shock. “You,”

Christmas Wishes and Yuletide Dreams/Part 2

“Sorry for, uh, interuptin’ your shower,” he says with a wave of his hand. She just stares at him a second longer, her brain frozen against comprehension. She’s shocked that he’s here, on her doorstep, looking at her as if he belonged there.

“Wh-what?” she manages after she’s realizes he’s looking at her expectantly.

“Your shower? Didn’t mean to interrupt.” her face suddenly flames when what she was doing in the shower-and who she was thinking about-jumps happily into her mind. Hastily, she reaches up and drags the towel from her hair, hiding her face behind a long, wet curtain.

“H-h-how d-did you find me?” she glances up through the damp tendrils at him. Now its his turn to look extremely embarrassed and he scrubs a hand over his platinum curls before smiling sheepishly at her. She was struck by how cute he looked, how boyish and sweet.

“You what?” Okay, so maybe he wasn’t cute after all. Maybe he was scary and stalkery and....oh God. Should she scream?

He watches her as all this plays across his face. She’s very easy to read he notices, her eyes wide and just a little scared behind her dark honey hair. He wants to reach out and push it away from her face, so he can really look at her and hopefully instill some confidence that he’s not there to kill or her. Or worse.

“I saw you, over at the big tree in the square. You looked. . .very sad,” he explains, lifting a finger to scratch a point behind his ear and a boyish grin tugs his lips. He reminds her very much of a little boy getting caught doing something he shouldn’t right then. “I. . .” he trails off, his face suddenly unsure and he feels more than a little foolish.. “I just wanted to spend some time with you.” he admits. Her eyes widen with surprise at that.

“Why?” slips out of her mouth before she can catch it, her tone disbelieving and just a little awed. Why would someone like him want to spend time with *her*? He can see the question written clearly in her eyes. He wonders again why this girl underestimates herself so much.

“Because,” he starts, struggling to explain something he’s not even sure he can explain. After he left the diner, he’d wandered around the quiet streets of the town, the envelope weighing heavily in his pocket. He didn’t want to go back to his depressingly solitary hotel room, his only company a bottle of Jack Daniels and his divorce papers. So, when he found himself on the edge of the square, his eyes locked on the waitress as she stared up at the tree, her entire stance mirroring his own feelings. . .it had seemed natural to follow her. Of course, once they were outside her apartment, common sense returned and he realized that his behavior was bordering on criminal. But, he couldn’t make himself turn away from her closed door. It had taken him twenty minutes-and at least three cigarettes-before he finally decided to go knock.

He had left the diner to save her the embarrassment of having to face him after her. . .whatever it was. And now, here he was, on her doorstep, looking into suspicious eyes the color of a warm sea, her hair hanging in a damp curtain around her face. All he can think about is kissing her. What the bloody hell was wrong with him?

“Because, I don’t want to be alone,” he states simply, a heavy sigh punctuating the loneliness of that statement. “And I don’t think you do either,” They stare at each other for a few long seconds after that, her eyes wide and obviously distrustful. Finally, after she has made no move to deny or accept what he’s said, he scrubs a hand through his hair, calls himself a fool and offers her a brittle smile. “Look, ‘m sorry. You don’t want to be bothered by some stranger on Christmas Eve. Thanks for hearing me out. G’night.” he turns to leave; his shoulders slumped in the heavy leather of his duster, his hands shoved in the pockets.

“Wait,” Tara calls before she can even think to stop herself. He turns back to look at her, the blue of his eyes catching the light from the street lamps. It makes them glow like fire and she is suddenly flushed and too warm. What she is about to do is potentially dangerous, but she pushes that thought away. He’s right, she realizes. She doesn’t want to be alone. She’s tired of it. For once, she wants to take something for herself. So. . .”Come in,”

He just looks at her for a long, hard minute as if measuring her. She closes the door far enough so she can release the chain, then swings it open wide, opening her home-and herself-to him. He tilts his head and a dark, scarred brow shoots up. Then, he’s walking towards her-stalking, really-his stride slow and predatory. He pauses in front of her, their bodies so close they can feel each other’s heat. His eyes are so bright, so intense, that it’s a struggle for her to meet them.

“Will Giles, at your service,” his words are so formal, but his voice is smooth, like liquid silk. It slides over her in a warm wave of softness.

“T-Tara McClay,” she replies, her own voice whispery shy. She gives him a little smile, and looks up at him through her lashes. On any other woman, he would have thought the look calculated. Perfectly executed to make his body harden and his protective urge to kick in. But, not on her.

“Well, now that we’re all nice and introduced,” his gaze drops to her lips, which part on a gasp at his boldness. He can just see the tip of her tongue and the hint of straight, white teeth. “I s’pose I won’t get slapped for this,”

She knows he ‘s going to kiss her. She’s not sure if she wants him to or not, but she seems to have lost her ability to move. He brings his hands up and rests them on her shoulders then slides them up the gentle curve of her throat until they are tangling with her hair and his palms are cradling her jaw. His warm, dry fingers coasting over that little bit of skin makes her shiver. His eyes are dark, swirling pools of want and pain, pulling her into the fierce current and leaving her gasping for breath. His fingers are gently massaging her scalp; his thumbs are playing along her jaw line in a feather-light touch. No one has ever looked at the way he is right now. No one has ever elicited this much feeling from her with just a whisper of a touch. Her body is aching from its want to touch his. Her heart is hammering with anticipation and feels like she’s on fire.

The seconds tick by as they just stand there, staring. He’s so close she can smell him. She’s delighted to find that she was right. He does smell like leather and tobacco and something else that’s almost primal. Wild. Male. She can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. Can hear the ragged breaths he’s taking. She thinks she might scream if he doesn’t kiss her soon.

Then, almost as if he can read her mind, he is kissing her. His mouth is surprisingly soft against hers, barely applying any pressure. But she can feel the raw power he’s holding back, the wild passion that she can taste in his kiss. She whimpers, the sound drifting between them to be swallowed by the night. He pulls back, his eyes searching for hers again. She’s breathing like she’s just run a marathon and so is he. It frightens her a little to know that this man-this stranger-can affect her so badly.

Then, his lips are on hers again and there’s no time to worry about. He seems to have committed himself to this, because now his kiss is hard, demanding. Hungry. She parts her lips without thought and he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue inside.

She sags against him with the invasion, swept up in the sea of desire that has burst free between them. Her tongue seeks out his to tangle ravenously with it. Somehow, her fingers have found their way into his hair and they are restlessly sliding through it, the silky locks making her skin tingle. She vaguely feels his arms band around her waist to crush her against him. When her feet leave the ground, she clings to him, switching the angle of the kiss to capture his bottom lip between her teeth. The slamming of the front door is a distant echo, drowning out the hiss of breath he sucks in when she sucks lightly on his lip.

She can feel his rock-hard length pressing intimately into her and she rubs herself against it in a vain attempt to ease the ache building in her loins. A delicious sound spills from in his response. It’s a cross between a growl and a groan and it inflames her senses even further. The second she’s back on her feet again, her hands are pushing at the duster, sliding it off his shoulders to pool on the floor, forgotten. The suit coat follows quickly, then, her trembling fingers set to work on the buttons of his shirt. His own hands are not idle during this. They are under her shirt, pushing it up, taking the time to cup her heavy breasts and slide his thumbs over the peaks. She whimpers into his mouth and her fingers stumble over the buttons she’s working on.

They only break their kiss long enough for the shirts to come off, but no sooner are the scraps of cloth liberated than they are back each other’s arms. They moan together when their bare torso’s meet, the softness of her breasts yielding to the hard, lean plains of his chest. Their mouths fuse together as hands roam over warm, sleek skin. Possessing.

Will is sure he’s died and gone to heaven. Or at least he had been granted a reprieve from hell. She tastes so sweet, her scent of strawberries and honey accentuating it and driving him crazy. Her skin is so smooth under his hands, so warm and supple. She’s responding to him like they’ve been lovers for months, opposed to strangers who have just met. He’s never felt anything as good as her, tasted anything as delicious. And still, he wants more. He needs to be inside of her, thrusting in to her clenching heat and watching her eyes as she flows liquidly over the edge.

She easily goes to the floor as he lowers them, her thighs spreading to accept him between. She pulls away from the kiss when she feels his erection rubbing into her cleft through her flannel pants, the action sending little darts of white hot pleasure burning through her. His lips move to her throat, nipping and licking down the soft flesh to suck hard on her pulse point. Her hips thrust against him, finding her heat against his hardness.

“Jesus, luv. Fuck,” his words fill the air, raw and husky. She almost laughs in triumph, a surge of power heightening her arousal and making her dizzy. But then, her hands that hand been memorizing the muscle of his back and shoulders are suddenly empty and the exquisite hardness against her is gone. She turns her head to look for him, afraid she’s done something wrong. But, just as her eyes meet his, she feels his fingers sliding into the waist of her pants. His eyes are branding her as he pulls them and her panties down her legs; his kiss on her calves and thighs as he frees first one, then the second limb has her gasping.

Her legs fall open again as soon as the soft cotton is free, exposing herself completely and fully for his hungry gaze to feast upon. Amazingly, she doesn’t get self-conscious under the scrutiny. If anything, the longer he looks, the more desperate she is to feel him sliding against her, into her, filling her.

“You are exquisite,” he tells her, his face full of raw desire. For her. She thinks she might climax from his words alone. He reaches for his fly, yanking the belt open and quickly working the button and zipper down. He rises up to his knees to slide them over his hips. She’s only mildly surprised to see that the only thing between him and the designer material was air. She takes in the beauty of his body with an awed wonder that would have embarrassed him under different circumstances. But here, now, he holds himself proudly before her, the appreciation in her eyes a balm for his ragged soul.

He is an artist’s creation come to life, she decides. All lean muscle and hard lines. The sun-kissed skin, the dark thatch of hair at the base of his shaft and finally, the shaft itself. Not too long but thick as the circle of her thumb and forefinger and she was practically salivating with want. A whimper slides from her and she receives a quick, cat-like grin in response. He leans forward until his hands are flat on the floor. His eyes never leaves her as he crawls up her body, pausing here and there to taste her skin with his tongue.

Her back arches towards his mouth, offering him more. She’s panting for air by the time he reaches her breasts. He laves his tongue over the fleshy mound, inching closer and closer to her erect nipple. She writhes beneath him, eager for his lips to wrap around the hard nub. Her hips are thrusting, searching for his erection, needing it to fill her. The tip rubs enticingly against her slit, causing a strangled cry to rip from her throat.

“Sh, pet.” he whispers against her skin, his lips gently vibrating against her breast. “Tell me what you want, baby. Anythin’ and it’s yours.” Tara looks down at him, her smoky blue eyes glazed with passion.

“You, please. I just want you,” she manages to gasp out, her hands coming up to cup his cheeks and dragging him the rest of the way up her body. Her tongue stabs into his mouth as she slides one hand between them, gripping his throbbing shaft to bring it to her opening.

“Luv, wait. Tara!” Will manages to pull away from her delectable lips and resists her urging to drive himself into her. “I don’t have any condoms,” he says it quickly, cursing his stupidity and thinking he might die if he can’t get inside of her soon. She nips gently at his lip, a quiet sadness filling her eyes as she looks at him.

“It’s alright. I-I can’t have children,” it’s said so quietly, he’s not quite sure he’s heard her right. But the sheer, stark pain that floods through her arousal assures him that he did. An overwhelming sense of unfairness swells in his chest, making him silently curse God for allowing this beautiful creature to be barren when his cheating ex-wife had no such problems.

“‘M so sorry, baby,” he tells her, capturing her lips in a sweet, soft kiss that belies the throbbing need coiling inside of him. “There are other things to consider besides that, though,” he reminds her.

“I know,” she says simply. Her hand tugs gently on his cock, urging it forward. With a groan he can no longer deny either of them. The risk they are taking is great, they both know. But, as he parts her folds and pushes into the soft, wet heat of her core, they both decide that the gain far outweighs the risk. “Oh God,” she breathes, her eyes closing with each inch he fills her. Slowly, he enters, breathing shallow to keep his control in check. She’s so tight, so warm, he thinks there’s no way he’ll last. She’s already trying to thrust up to him, to take him fully inside and complete their joining. It’s driving him mad.

Sweet jesus, he thinks when he finally pushes all the way home. She fits him perfectly, contouring to him like a glove. She’s mewling, her arms and legs coming to wrap around him and hold him close, her hips gyrating to try to take him in even further. One of his hands settles on her hip, and the other braces against the floor as he starts to thrust. Long, deep, powerful strokes, angled to drive ever deeper inside of her. Sweat makes their friction slick, softly spoken words make it frenzied. Each plunge drives them further, closer, over. She screams when she cums, her entire body going rigid for a brief second before collapsing. Her channel is clamping tight around him, pulling him, milking him for what he has. With a groan, he can hold on no more and he thrusts hard inside of her twice more.

He shudders as he cums inside of her, his breath ragged and harsh in her ears. She’s still shaking herself when he recovers some and lifts himself off of her to settle on the floor. He pulls her close, his lips brushing across her temple. She curls into his embrace, breathing deep his scent and pressing a kiss on his chest. His left leg threads through hers and his hand is sliding along the expanse of her rib cage. He can feel her breathing calm and her heart start to beat at its usual rhythm as reality returns. His euphoria is marred by the memory of her sad confession and the agony he had seen in her eyes. His heart breaks for her and he holds her even closer. Its unfair to him, that she shouldn’t be able to be a mother. He has a feeling, that if anybody in this world deserved children, it was Tara McClay.

She snuggles against him, feeling safe and warm in his powerful arms. Her satiated mind is somewhat amazed at this phenomenon. She can’t ever remember feeling save in a man’s arms. Not even her father’s. Of course, she’s never been in this position with a man that actually seemed to care about her, even if only for this short time.

The kindness of strangers, she thinks, her tired mind playing it around like a tape recorder on a continuous loop.

“I really am sorry,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to her hair. She shifts a bit and looks up at him, her brows drawn together in confusion.

“About the babies,” he answers. A sad smile pulls at her lips in response to the very real empathy she sees in his eyes.

“It’s ok. I’ve came to terms with it years ago.” he knows she’s lying. Can see it plainly in her eyes before she looks away. Instead of calling her on it, however, he just holds her closer and nuzzles her hair.

“You smell wonderful,” he whispers as his hand resumes its earlier wanderings. She gasps when it closes possessively around her breast, his rough palm grazing her nipple and making it throb.

“Thanks,”she says on a breath. “I-I wanted you to know. . .I don’t do this normally,” She has to fight to concentrate against what his gentle touch is doing to her brain. But she feels the need to get this out.

“What?” he sounds distracted, and she supposes he is if the hardness growing steadily against her thigh is any indication.

“This,” she can feel her face flaming as she raises a hand to flutter it between them. A soft chuckle echoes in the ear he’s started nibbling on. Warmth spreads through her to settle in her abdomen, a gentle pulse that surprises her. She’s never really liked sex all that much before. Never saw the big deal. But, something inside of her must have melted to make it possible for her to respond so freely to the most barest of touches from him. She goes easily when she rolls onto his back, pulling her until she’s sprawled across his chest and his erection is bumping against her entrance once more.

“Can’t say ‘m disappointed by that,” he responds, rubbing his cock against her sizzling heat. Tara’s hips thrust in turn and a whimper slips from her throat. Before she has a chance to realize his intent, he grips her hip with one hand, urging her to raise up a bit so the other can snake between them. Her eyes go wide when she feels the tip of his shaft part her folds. “Sit up, luv.” his voice is a strained growl, his eyes a deep quagmire of arousal. With unsteady hands and desire filled eyes she does as she asks, nearly crying out with how full she feels.

It takes her a few seconds to figure out this new position in a mind so clouded with pleasure, she wasn’t even sure she knew her own name. Finally, the feel of him stretching her, the wonderful way he felt inside of her, she just gave up thinking and let her body take over. One hand settled on his stomach for balance and his hand on her hip helped keep her steady as he started to pump up into her. Her head is thrown back with the waves of bliss each trust crashes over her. Will watches her, his own pleasure heightened by how damn erotic she looks. A woman awakening to her body, learning what feels good and coming alive under his touch. He wants to take her, again and again, just to see that look of pure, blissful abandon on her face.

Her mouth is slack and her eyes closed. Sweat has broken out on her skin, making her seem to glow in the dim light from her Christmas tree. He groans in lusty appreciation of the golden goddess riding him hard, her inner walls clenching tight as she starts to fall over the edge. Her breasts are bouncing seductively with her movements, ripe and heavy and pink tipped. He can’t resist surging up and closing his mouth around one of the hard nubbins.

“Oh God!” she cries with the angle change and she nearly collapses forward. Her hands are grasping desperately at his shoulders as her movements speed up. Her clit is throbbing with each thrust, threatening to explode any second. She looks down and watches as his tongue and lips tease her nipple. His hands tighten on her hips, guiding her to move harder. Their pelvises are slamming together with erratic force, their breaths coming out in incoherent moans.

Suddenly, Tara shrieks as her climax slams into her, her fingers digging hard into his shoulders and raising blood. Will is right behind her, his final, hard thrust making her collapse against him. She can feel him, pulsing deep inside of her, filing her womb with his seed that would never take root. This saddens her more then she thinks it should and she buries her face in his neck to hide her tears.

He feels them, however, hot and wet against his skin. He slowly lowers them back to the floor and holds her trembling form close. His hands slide over her back, trying to soothe her as they both calm.

“I’m sorry,” she says after a minute, her voice muffled and thick. “I’m s-sorry.”

“For what, luv? You have nothin’ to be sorry for,” he says, his voice tender. She’s still quietly crying, but her trembling from her climax and her emotion is starting to ease. His hands feel good on her back, molding away the tension in long, smooth strokes. Her breathing starts to even out and she raises up a little to meet his eyes.

“You’re a nice man,” she tells him, giggling through her sadness at the way his eyes bug.

“Not sure that’s the thing a man wants to hear after he’s just had one of the best shags of his life,” he says, his cerulean eyes twinkling. She laughs again, then sniffles. Then, she rests her forehead against his and sighs.

“If you say so. Don’t know too many people that would agree though,” he gives a wry grin and tilts his head to kiss her.

“Are you hungry?” the question is so sudden, he blinks at her dumbly for a second. “I’m suddenly very, very hungry,” she continues.

“Guess I could eat.” he says with a smile. She flashes him a real smile now and starts to climb off of him, both of them groaning as he slips out of her body. He rolls easily to his feet, and stretches, the movement reminding her of a cat. She grabs her shirt off the floor and pulls it over her head, then turns to see him watching her.

“What?” she feels a bit self-conscious, strange considering what they’ve been doing. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear then realizes she must look a mess. She slides her hands through the dark gold mass and groans when she can’t seem to get it to lie straight.

“You’re stunning, you know that?” she blushes, the compliment warming her even as she thinks he’s just being nice.

“You think ‘m sayin’ it to be nice?” she hears the edge of steel that has come into his voice and her eyes dart away from trying to find her pants up to him. She can see the anger clenching his jaw and her eyes widen.

“W-why else w-w-would you s-say it? I know I’m not pretty,” she stammers, recoiling a little from the flash of heat in his eyes.

“You don’t know much, then. I’d love to meet whoever stuck these crazy ideas in your head. Cause I would break his soddin’ neck,” the violence in his words is very real. She finds herself taking a moment to see him doing just that to her father, but guilt quickly rears its head.

“Stop it, just. . .stop. As long as I am in this house you will not speak about yourself like that,” her eyes widen even further with how formal and angry he sounds. She blinks once, trying to process this before nodding.

“O-okay,” is all she can think of to say. He stares at her for a long minute then gives a short nod.

“Good. D’you mind if I smoke?” he’s already reaching for his duster, rifling through the pockets to find his pack. Something gold and round falls out and lands with a soft thump on the carpet and Miss Kitty-who has decided to make her presence known-pounces. “Hey, now. Go on,” Will bats at the cat and pushes her away from the object.

“What’s that?” Tara asks, forgetting about putting any more clothes on walks over to him. He sighs and holds it out, the warm, smooth gold of the ring shining in the dim light.

“My wedding ring,” he says, letting her take it before getting a cigarette. She hasn’t said no, so he just goes ahead and lights up as she stares at the ring.

“You’re married?” it’s quiet, and almost inaudible, but he hears it over the snap-hiss of his lighter. He takes a drag and mentally kicks himself for not explaining better.

“No. ‘M not. Officially divorced as of today. At least when I sign the papers I will be. Course, it’s all just formality now.” She looks up at him curiously, her smoky blue eyes seeming to stare straight into his brain. “We’ve been separated for a long time,” he says on an exhale of smoke. She nods and hands him the ring back.

“I dunno,” he replies with a shrug. He looks down at the simple band, twisting it in his fingers to see it catch the light. “Maybe to remind me marriage wasn’t the problem. It was the girl.” He palms the ring and slide it back into his coat, then drops the leather onto the back of her sofa. “So, you were saying something about food?”

“Yeah. This way,” she offers him a smile then moves around him to head toward the kitchen. She doesn’t’ say anything about his sudden subject change. She understands it. What she doesn’t understand is how he can walk around so casually not wearing a stitch of clothing.

“Ms. McClay?” They’ve rooted through her refrigerator and came up with some pasta salad, some left over KFC chicken and each had a soda. They found that they were both hungrier than they thought and the food was quickly made short work of . Tara had just sat down from taking their dishes and empty food containers to the sink, while Will perused the fridge one last time for dessert, when his overly formal use of her name drew her attention. She turned and looked at him, a hard, sharp pang of excitement bolting through her when her eyes land on him. As naked as the day he was born, his hair a tousled mess on his head and a smirk planted firmly on his mouth, he was probably the most delicious thing she’d ever seen.

“Y-yes?” Her eyes widened when she see the can of whipped cream he is holding. All sorts of naughty images burst into her mind, and she suddenly feels as if the thin cotton o her shirt is stifling her.

“Please remove your shirt, then turn in your chair.” He sounds like a director, telling her where to stand under the lights. But the heat in his eyes is scorching. Without further direction, she pulls the shirt over her head and watches as he advances, steadily shaking the can. “Good girl. Now, rest your back against the wall.” He waits while she adjusts herself, her stormy eyes darkening with anticipation. “Good, good.” he kneels down and rests a hand on her knee, his eyes staring into hers with so much intensity it steals her breath. With his next words, a flood of wetness rushes to her core and her abdomen spasms with desire.

“Now,” he begins, his voice a husky growl that makes her shiver. “Spread yourself out for me, luv.” Eagerly, her knees fall apart and her back arches, her eyes heavily lidded as she looks down at him. He takes a moment to gaze hungrily at her pink, glistening center, the long silkiness of her legs, the soft lushness of her stomach and the heavy ripeness of her breasts. She is a wonderful feast for a man that’s been starving until today.

She gasps when the cool, frothy dessert topping lands on the overheated skin of her breast. The cream starts to melt almost immediately, its delicate texture no match for her aroused flesh. He takes his time, carefully working the nozzle around one nipple, then to the other. She giggles when he shoots a mound of the white stuff into her belly button, then moans when the nozzle slides inside her cleft, dispensing the whipped cream into the very center of her. The feel of it on her clit is cool and feather like, teasing her with what was to come.

“I think it’s time for dessert,” he growls before her starts to lick his handy work away from her skin. Her tongue works his way over her torso, the pressure both firm and soft, rough and gentle. She’s heaving in great gulps of air and she has to clutch the chair in an effort to keep from sliding to the floor in a puddle of goo at his feet. Her moans become louder the lower he goes, the tingles intensify to waves as he works his way slowly towards his goal. She’s gives a giggle filled gasp when his tongue delves into her navel, licking it clean.

He pauses once he reaches her cream filled center and she manages to bring her gaze to his in confusion of what’s taking so long. His eyes never leave hers as he dips his head and stabs his tongue inside her channel, gathering the cream before swiping up the slit to suck gently on her clit.

“Oooohhhhh,” her hips thrust against his mouth, seeking the pleasure he’s offering. He licks her clean, alternating between fucking her with his tongue and sucking on her clit. Then, he pulls back to apply more cream, sliding the slim nozzle into her body for a few thrusts before bringing his tongue back to her sensitive flesh. She can’t sit still under his ministrations. It feels to good, she wants it too bad. In the back of her mind she knows she’ll never be able to look at a can of Redi-whip the same again. Or her kitchen for that matter. But she didn’t care right then. Not when his tongue was there, doing that.

Will decides he could do this for hours. The sweet topping mixes with her natural salty-sweetness, making her more delicious then any confection he’s ever tasted before. She’s so responsive to his touch, so eager for it. It’s the most arousing thing he’s ever experienced.

He stops several times, bringing her just to the edge before stopping to apply more whipped cream. She’s trembling from the denied release and the exertion of holding onto the chair. Sweat has broken out again, dampening her hair and skin and making it almost impossible to stay in the chair. His name fell from her lips over and over on little pants of air. She’s half delirious with pleasure by the time he finally takes pity on her. He slides two fingers into her clenching heat and wraps his lips around her throbbing clit, sucking hard.

“Oh, oh, oh YES!” she explodes in a crashing wave of colors and sounds, her grip on the chair finally lost. The only thing keeping her in the seat is Will’s hand on her thigh, urging her thighs apart even wider so he can lap up her juices as she comes.

It takes several moments for her to come back to herself. When she opens her eyes again, she’s surprised to see him still poised between her legs, his eyes watching her intently, his mouth and chin still glistening from her orgasm. She leans forward, rather shakily, grasps his face in her hands and pulls him to her. Her mouth closes over his and she an taste herself and the cream on his tongue. She wants to return the pleasure he’s just given her more than anything in that moment.

With a gentle tug, her rises to his feet, their lips parting with wet suction. He watches as she studies his jutting erection like a painter his subject. She takes the can from his hand, gives it a quick shake. His hands curl into loose fists when her fingers close around him, the feel of her warm hand on his thick, hard flesh torture. But, he keeps himself from thrusting into her grip. This is her show and he hands himself over to her mercy.

He hisses in a breath at the feel of her hand exploring his cock. He groans when her thumb rubs over the head, then presses experimentally on the base of it.

“Jesus,” he reaches out blindly for something to hold onto and leans gratefully on the wall when he finds it. Tara sprays a dollop of the whipped cream around the head of his cock then down the shaft to the root. She inspects her work while he struggles to stay standing. He’s throbbing painfully with need, desperate for her to wrap those full, sweet lips around his dick. “God, Tara. Please,” her eyes shoot to his, surprise that he’s begging evident on her features. Then, a purely feminine smile curls her lips.

Her tongue snakes out to swipe through the cream crowning the head, making him groan in frustration at the ghostly contact. “Minx,” he breathes, unable to resist the urge to tangle his fingers in her hair. His hand tenses and his knees nearly buckle when she opens her mouth and slides him inside the hot, wet cavern. She takes him in until he bumps the back of her throat, then lets him slide almost free from her lips before repeating. She’s not entirely sure what she’s doing, but the way he’s grunting and groaning and gasping her name, she figures she’s doing alright.

If Will could read her thoughts, he would have told her she was doing bloody amazing. As she pumped him into her mouth, her tongue was in constant motion over his flesh, her teeth occasionally scraping lightly to add a sense of danger to the pleasure. She palmed his balls with one hand, massaging and caressing them with her nimble fingers. It’s not long before he his control snaps. He reaches down and seizes her shoulder, pulling her up to her feet with one swift move. She doesn’t quite realize what’s going on until she sees the predatory gleam in his eyes. With a swipe of his arm, anything that had been on the table scatters to the floor and she finds herself bent over it, her cheek pressing against the cool wood as he drives into from behind. As amazing as her mouth had felt on him, he wants to be inside her when he comes. To watch his cock as it slides in and out of her body, glistening with her juices.

It only takes a few, hard thrusts before he is roaring with his release. All Tara can do is hold on as she cums and cums, her satisfaction not coming from an orgasm this time. Instead, it comes from her apparent ability to make him crazy with want. It’s a heady feeling.

He collapses against her back and she can feel his heart stampede in his chest and his breath is a ragged pant in her ear. When he’s calm enough to move, he presses a kiss between her shoulder blades then peels himself off of her. She lets out a laugh as he helps her stand.

“I’m sticky,” she says, after experiencing her flesh resisting letting go of the table.

“Time for a bath then, eh?” he lets out a chuckle, then spies the stuff on the floor. Luckily, it was just a napkin holder and a salt- and peppershaker and nothing broke. “Then, I’ll uh, help you clean this up.”

“Uhm, yeah. Heh.” She lets out a squeal when she finds herself scooped up in his arms.

“Come on then, lets go wash up.” Something tells her as he carries her effortlessly through the apartment, that ‘washing up’ is going to be a whole lot dirtier than it sounds.

Christmas Wishes and Yuletide Dreams/Part 3

Water splashes gently against the sides of the tub as they settle into it together. The radio on the shelf above the sink is on, and Tara hums softly along with Silver Bells, as she lets the warm water soothe her. Will is in front of her, his head pillowed on her breasts, his soft hair tickling her skin. She's a bit surprised that the tub can hold them both. It was one of the reasons she'd rented this apartment. It was deep and long and just perfect for after-work soaks to get out the kinks of a long night. And apparently after a few hours of mind blowing sex.

He's gently rubbing a washcloth over her bent knee and down her calf and back up again. She's not sure if he's actually getting anything clean, but it feels too good to really care. She can't remember a time when she has ever felt this peaceful, this content. Last year at this time, she'd been back on the farm, watching her mother waste away as the cancer ate her from the inside out. She had pretty much accepted it then, that Christmas would never be the same for her again.

"For what?" he asks, inclining his head a little to try to get a peek at her face. Its not the easiest angle, so he just snuggles further into her embrace and closes his eyes. Her fingers play softly along his shoulders and arms, raising gooseflesh, even as the warm water steams around them.

"This isn't an. . .easy time of year for me. Thank you for making it better," she says simply, pressing a kiss to the top of his white head.

"More than welcome, luv. And I can say you've returned the favor." He grabs one of her hands and brings it to his lips, rubbing them against his mouth before placing a kiss on them. "What happened to you?" he asks quietly, wondering even as he says it if he's stepping over some invisible line they've put up between them, without realizing they had. She's quiet for so long, he begins to think that he has. Then, she sighs, the sound so world weary and sad he wants to cradle her in his arms forever.

"My mother died." It’s said quickly and quietly, but there was no missing the pain that coated the words. He sits up and turns to face her, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. Neither notice the water that clings to his skin, or they way they transfer to hers to slide down her cheek in an imitation of the tears gathering in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Tara." he says, knowing it isn't enough, but hoping it might give her some semblance of comfort. He leans forward-carefully so as not to slip-and captures her mouth with his. He can taste her sadness on her tongue, can feel it pouring from her and into him. She smiles weakly when he pulls back, her hand coming up to clutch his, her thumb rubbing across the back in a silent thanks.

"When?" She sighs and blinks back tears, but still manages to keep the smile on her lips.

"New Years. I went back home for Christmas, just to see her. She kept telling me I didn't have to, that she was fine. . .but I could hear it in her voice that she wasn't. I had been paying her medical expenses for a long time, so I knew that it wasn't as rosy as she tried to make me think. Not to mention my dad always calling. Trying to get me to come home. Finally, I did. And that was the last Christmas we spent together." Her words were laced with a bone deep bitterness that he wasn't sure he wanted to understand. Something told him, by the way she had said ‘my dad', that the man was the root of it all. And if he got confirmation of that, Will just might do something that would get him in very deep trouble.

"At least you got that last holiday together. Some folks don't even get that." He said, the words sounding lame to his own ears. His parents had long ago divorced and married other people. But the loss of parent through divorce was nothing compared to a loss through death.

"I suppose not," he murmurs softly, before turning back around to settle against her. The only sound for a few minutes is the Christmas carols playing softly from the radio. Miss Kitty has nosed her way in at some point and is sitting on the closed toilet seat, her yellow eyes thinned as she looks at the humans in the tub. She twitches when Tara moves her leg, but she doesn't move other than that.

"What about you?" Tara shifts a bit to relieve the tingling that's starting in her butt from sitting in one position to long, then rests her chin on the top of his head. She knows they should be washing or something, but just being like this with him is too comfortable. Even the thought of her mother didn't hurt as bad as it usually did. She hopes that it will continue long after he's walked out her door and gone back to his life.

"What's that pet?" He pretends that he didn't hear her. Not because he doesn't want to tell her, but because he doesn't want to have to say the words out loud. Even when he'd explained it to his father, he'd used gestures and left things hanging, hoping that old Rupert would get the idea. Lucky for him his father was an astute man.

"Oh, that," he says nonchalantly, waving a dismissive hand in the air. Water flies from his fingers to land on the cat, who meows indignantly then jumps off the toilet. They both chuckle when she saunters out, tail twitching in the air. "Well, sorry kitty."

"She'll get over it. I do that all the time. I don't know why she comes in here when I'm taking a shower. She always gets one too." Tara explains with a laugh.

"I left my ex-wife." Tara blinks, confusion marring her brow for a split second. Then, realization settles over her.
"Oh," is all she can say for a minute. She notes that he doesn't sound devastated and that his voice isn't coated with pain. But there is a certain amount of weary acceptance. Like he doesn't really care for what happened, but there is no changing it now. "Why?"

"No, s'not that. I love children. Always wanted a huge passel of ‘em running around. No, her bein' pregnant wasn't the problem. It was who the father was, that was."

"Oh," she says again, completely stumped as to what to say to that. "I take it, it wasn't you?"

"Nope," he replies, popping the ‘p'. "Was my best friend’s. Or former best friend I should say. Couldn't really stomach talkin' to him after I found out what he'd done." No, she didn't suppose he could have. "And the bitch told me last Christmas. Came home from a trip like this, determined to get there before midnight so we could spend the whole day together. When I walk in, there's soft lights, music, candles. She's waitin' for me with champagne. The works. She's wearing one of those filmy gown things. She actually smiled when she saw me. Smiled. Like she wasn't about to rip my heart out and stomp it under her delicate little heal." She can feel him practically vibrating with remembered anger, his words taking on a sharp edge the more he said.

"It's ok. You don't have to say anymore," She rubs her hands along his arms, trying to ease the tension in them.

"It's alright. I want to tell you. Never actually said the words out loud," he sounds distant. Almost like he's back at that night where the woman who had vowed to love him forever had betrayed him the worst possible way. "She gave me a kiss and I said some shit about her glowing. She laughed. She always had this real magical laugh, that reminded me of fairies and elves and the like. What a ponce I was," he gives a bitter, rueful laugh and snatches her hand off his arm. He rubs his chin absently along her knuckles, his eyes staring unfocused at the plain, white tile of the wall. He can feel the anger in him like a balloon in his chest, building in pressure until he thinks he might burst with it. Even now, after all this time, the thought of how she looked that night can make his blood boil. "Then she tells me, I must congratulate her. I ask her for what, with some simperin' look of adoration on m' face I'm sure. Her eyes flash. Amazing eyes, really. Blue, but not warm like yours. Like ice. Clear as any winter day with the ability to freeze you with a look."

He snorts at himself, scoffing the man that had been in love with Druscilla. Tara keeps touching him, stroking his skin with the hand he's not holding to ease away the pain she can hear in his voice. She can feel the prick of tears at the back of her eyes for him and she finds that it is possible to hate someone you have never met.

"She says ‘Sweet, sweet William, I'm going to be a mum.' Well, I went clear over the moon. I was so excited. A baby!" He sounds so wistful, so full of longing Tara wraps her free arm around him and holds him close. He sighs in her embrace but doesn't quite relax. He turns his face to nuzzle her breast with his cheek, seeking her scent to fill his head and replace the images of his ex-wife. "Then, as I'm prancing around getting ready to call my dad and tell him, she starts to laugh again. But, it’s brittle, cold. And the eyes that look at me aren't my Dru's. Or, maybe they were and I was just too blind to see." He's wishing desperately for a cigarette right now, but they are out in the living room. Sighing, he continues, speaking quickly just to get the rest of it out.

"‘My silly, pretty one,' she says, taking a sip of champagne. ‘I said I was going to be a mum. I didn't say anythin' about you being a daddy,'"

"Sh, just stop. It doesn't matter now. I'm so sorry, Will. So sorry," she cuts him off, unable to stand anymore of the heartbreak in his voice. Somehow, she shifts and turns and lifts his chin to cover his mouth with hers. It’s her turn to taste the pain on his tongue and she's not surprised to find it bitter. There's tears streaking down his face, hot and salty and mingling with their kiss. She's not sure he's even aware of them. She goes easily when his arms convulse around her, allowing him to shift and tug until their positions are reversed. She's now straddling his thighs, her knees digging into the unforgiving sides of the tub. She doesn't care though. All she cares about is stripping the hurt away from this man and giving him only happiness.

Her lips never leave his as she raises her hips a fraction and takes his hard shaft deep inside. Water sloshes crazily over the sides, soaking the floor but she doesn't care. They come together hard, fast, each trying to purge the inner emptiness they've been carrying around for too long. Their orgasms build quickly, and soon they are gasping and clinging to each other, whispering each other’s names. Tara's inner walls are still fluttering around his cock when he pulls back to look at her. He cups her face, tenderly, arousal clouding the sharp blue, and taking away some of the haunted pain.

"You're a hell of a woman, Tara McClay." The denial springs to her lips almost immediately. But this time, she holds back. She looks into his eyes and can finally see herself reflected in them. He's not saying this to be nice, or to get her into bed -too late for that. He really means it. The realization has fresh tears sliding out of her eyes to wash over his hand and a wide smile curving her full mouth.

"You're one hell of a man, Will Giles," she whispers back. Then, they are kissing again, their bodies moving together easily at a slow pace. There's no rush this time, no hurry to forget. They rock gently together, each thrust designed to keep climax at bay for as long as possible. Their kisses are soft, searching, and languid. Tara wants this moment to last forever. She feels so warm, so free, so wanted. It's something she's only experienced in her mother's arms and it’s intoxicating to be experiencing it with a man for the first time. Regret that this is a one time deal tries to sour the bliss singing through her veins, but she squelches it.

No regrets, she thinks as her body can hold out no more and sends her spiraling over the edge. Will is right behind her, her name falling from his lips like a prayer, his fingers bruising on her hips as he buries himself deep inside her warmth. They collapse together in the tub, and stay like that, despite discomfort, until the water long goes cool.

It's nearing nine-thirty on Christmas day, and Will is sitting on the couch in Tara's living room, wearing nothing but his suit pants, smoking a cigarette. In front of him on her low, oak coffee table, are the divorce papers. But, he's not looking at them. Not yet. His mind is replaying everything that had happened over the last several, wonderful hours. After they had made love the second time in the bathroom-he refuses to think of it as anything else-they disentangled long enough to get out and clean up the water. Then, they'd fallen into her bed, where he took her over and over, between short naps.

He figured they'd only gotten a good two hours of uninterrupted sleep before her phone had rung. At six am. He'd slipped out of bed to give her some privacy and went to the kitchen to feed his raging appetite. For food. When he went back into the room, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, glaring at the phone.

"My father needs money," she says as her only explanation, the anger and resentment in her voice thick enough to choke on. He put down the bowl of steaming oatmeal he had brought in for her and started to kiss those harsh feelings away. He successfully drove out all images of her father with each thrust into her and he was satisfied that by the time she was clawing at his back and shrieking his name that the man was completely forgotten. Then, they had feasted on the near-cold oatmeal and coffee she had gotten up long enough to brew, watching Christmas specials.

By the time Santa had made his way down Main Street in Disneyworld, the oatmeal was gone, and they had made love another three times. He wasn't sure where this addiction for her was coming from. But something told him it would be a long, long time before he was sated. After the last time, however, their bodies started to protest the over exertion. They weren't physically used to this lustful marathon, so obviously, a break was in order.

They spent the rest of the day playing games. That she smoked him at poker should have bruised his ego. But she had looked so cute every time she won, doing a little dance in her seat and fixing him with a smile so bright it was blinding, he couldn't' seem to make himself care. Around three they made dinner. A Cornish hen roasted with olive oil and rosemary, baby carrots sautéed in honey and butter and creamy garlic mashed potatoes. The fact that she was such a good cook was not lost on him and he wondered why the hell she was working in a diner. Then, he remembered the phone call that morning from her father, and he had sneaking suspicion that man was the culprit.

They knew that their time was coming to a close after they did the dinner dishes. It was almost five. In a few hours, Christmas would be over and he would be headed back to his life in England and she would resume hers here. Fatigue was forgotten and soreness ignored as they spent the next couple of hours memorizing each other's bodies. The way she sounded when she came, the way he looked when she took him fully into her mouth. It was after the last time, though, that Tara finally gave out. She fell into a sleep so sound, that she didn't even stir when he slid out of bed to go smoke a cigarette.

And now, here he sat, staring at the papers, and wishing he could just stay here with her. It would be so easy to check out of his hotel, cash in his plane ticket for the next day and just go curl up back in bed with her. Easy. But he wasn't entirely sure if it was right or welcome. They had made no promises to each other, no guarantees. This was one time. An island of calm in the storm that had been their lives over the last year. Perhaps even longer for her.

There's also the consideration that neither of them maybe ready to deal with a real relationship right now. Physical attraction was one thing. Converting that into forever was a different beast entirely.

No, it was better it end like this. They could walk away from each other, without pain or regret. Yeah, no regrets, his sarcastic inner voice chimed. He ignores it and grinds out his cigarette in a cheap glass bowl she had provided for him. With another sigh, he leans forward and stares down at the empty signature line above his name. He hasn't signed them before now because of some childish notion that when he did, Dru would somehow win. Ridiculous of course. Especially when she wouldn't be getting much more than she had come into the marriage with. Five hundred thousand pounds wasn't more than a chump of change to the Giles family fortune. Will sent out a silent thanks to his dear old dad for insisting on the pre-nup. And that for once, he had listened to the old man.

With another sigh, he reaches for his duster and pulls out a gold plated pen. A second passes, then two before he finally twists the barrel and exposes the tip. Then, a sudden urge to get it over with brings the pen to the paper and he quickly scratches his name across the line. It was done. A strong sense of relief fills him and he wonders why he had even hesitated in the first place.

A soft chime brings his eyes to the clock hung on the wall. Nine o'clock. He had an early flight and he still had to collect his things from his hotel room. It was time to get going.

It takes surprisingly little time to wipe his presence from her apartment. After all, all he'd brought with him were his clothes and himself. He had a feeling, as he walked back into her bedroom and stared down at her peacefully sleeping form, that he would be leaving a part of himself behind. He shoves his hands in his duster and looks at her, fighting the urge to chuck his clothes and climb back into bed. His fingers brush across the cool metal of his ring and he pulls it out. It catches the light from the few candles lit around the room and shines as he twists it in his fingers.

Then, without letting himself think about the P.C-ness of leaving a ring he had worn with another woman, he reaches over and places it on the pillow that still held the impression of when he'd laid on it. With one, last gentle kiss to her temple, and her scent still lingering in his nose, he leaves. She waits until she hears the soft click of the front door closing behind him before opening her eyes and reaching out to take the ring. A lone tear slides down her face as she puts it on her middle finger. She watches it glint in the candle light for a second, before pulling the pillow he'd used to her and burying her face in it. She loses herself in his scent and pretends it’s him, closing her eyes and forcing herself to go back to sleep, the gentle throb between her legs a steady reminder that their time was over.

"So, you have class tonight?" Willow Rosenberg, a pretty young red-head with a habit of babbling when she's nervous, asks Tara as she takes off her apron for the night.

"Yeah." Tara says with a smile. It's been three months since Will came and went from her life, but the ring still shines on her hand, a constant reminder. Not that he's completely gone, of course. Every week, a new postcard comes. They are never signed, but she knows they are from him They always say ‘miss you,' or ‘thinking of you', or something else short and sweet and guaranteed to make her heart race and her knees turn to jelly. She's managed to stop looking for him every time the bell above the door to the diner jingles, but the postcards give her a sense of hope that they are far from thru. And if they weren't even a factor, what she held in the envelope in her hand was.

"How are you feeling today? No sickies?" Willow wipes down her tray and studies the blonde with critical green eyes. She had come to work there about two weeks after New Years. She was a student, working at both the diner and the Bronze part time to supplement her student loans. She was living with a guitar player named Mark, who Tara had been struck speechless the first time she'd seen him. He was gorgeous. And he was so nice. Nothing like her initial impression of rock musicians. The girls had become fast friends, a fact that Tara attributed to Will. He made her feel like she deserved life and friendship and all those other things that made human existence worth living. So, it hadn't really been strange that she had immediately told the red head the first time she had gotten sick. The entire story had spilled out and Willow had sworn she'd never heard anything as romantic as that. Ever.

"No, no sickies," Tara says with a laugh. "Which is good, because I have a quiz tonight." she folds her apron and tucks her tips into her purse. Then, she hefts her back pack-which contains a change of clothes, her books and some vitamins-before pulling her hair out of its ponytail to relieve the ache forming at the back of her head.

"Well, good luck. And call me tomorrow. Mark's playing this weekend and we'd love for you to come."

"Bye," Tara walks out of the diner and take a deep breath of night air. It smells fresh and clean, and it brings a smile to her face. It’s early evening and she got off just a few minutes late waiting for one of her tables to check out. So, she takes off for a brisk walk towards the campus. The diner's owner had nearly had a heart attack when she informed him she was going back to school. He had even tried to talk her out of it, telling her she was too old to try to get a degree. But, she held fast. No more would she allow herself to be dictated by men. Not him and most definitely not her father. The next time he had called demanding money, she suggest he get a job, or better yet, Donny could get off his ass and do something productive for once. Then, she had hung up on her sputtering father with a smile on her face. She hasn't heard from his since.

It amazed her, the changes she's gone through in the past months. She hardly ever stuttered anymore, rarely backed down when she thought she was right. She liked to think that Will left behind some of this strength, to help her get through the days.

She feels a small flutter in her stomach and smiles, the rubs a hand absently over her it. She sees the campus up ahead and increases her pace even more. She's not really settled on a major yet. She's taking a few classes that strike her fancy, until she decides. Tonight, it’s women's studies. On Friday's, it’s Classical writers. And on Sunday, it’s Lamaze.

With a sigh, she pauses by the mailbox outside of the lecture hall and looks down at the name printed on the front. William Giles. She was a little surprised that it was so easy to find his address. But, after a night spent on the Internet, with a very determined Willow, they found the website of his family's store in London. She's had it for a couple of weeks now, but she had to be sure before she sent him this.

Inside the envelope was a small scrap of paper. Easy to overlook, really, if it weren't carefully attached to the one line note she had written.

"Come on, Tara. You're gonna be late." her head jerks to the side to see the smiling face of Dawn Summers, a girl six years her junior.

"Ok, I'm coming." Tara quickly drops the letter inside the mailbox and double checks to make sure it dropped. Then, she quickly trots up the stares to join the dark haired girl, their laughter rising up to be swallowed in the clear, night air.

The End

a/n-Yes, I went there. Total cliche, but I don't give a crap. Hope you all enjoyed this little adventure, and I hope to see you on the next one. :) Lisa.

These authors spend lots of time to write these stories. If you took the time to read this PLEASE take the time to give them some feedback. Happy writers write more ;-)

Jypzrose - jypzrose@aol.com

Christmas Wishes and Yuletide Dreams

Part One

Christmas Wishes and Yuletide Dreams/Part 2

Christmas Wishes and Yuletide Dreams/Part 3

The End

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