Christmas Tales - Brandon Witt Page 0,19

in the fridge, Raymond finally turned to me and spoke again. And though there was just a hint of his teasing smile, his tone was serious. “Now, I know you want me to stay and fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before. And, believe me, even without my magic brownies, I’ll rock your world. However, I’m going to head home.” Another one of his shrugs. “Honestly, I’ll probably jerk one out thinking about you. But I don’t want you to think this gets you off the hook. I’m getting in those pants. I promise you.”

Disappointment and relief washed over me. Surprisingly, more disappointment than relief. I glanced out the window. “It’s practically a blizzard outside.”

This time, his grin was back in full force. “I’m not a spring chicken, Mister Phipps. I’ve heard ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside’ more than once. I know what you’re doing. But your seduction isn’t going to work. Not tonight. But it will. It will. You just keep it up.”

He placed his hand on my shoulder. For a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me. And judging from the look in his eyes, I think he thought so too. But he didn’t. After a quick squeeze, Raymond disappeared into the snow.

I went to bed, both warmer and more alone than I had been since I’d moved back home.

Four

Over a week passed. I tended the cattle and the birds. The days were gray and cloud-covered. No new snow. Only ice and layers of dirty snowfall refusing to melt.

I set up the old family Christmas tree with the old familiar ornaments. The melancholy of solitude more sharp than normal. I hung the wreath on the front door that no one ever came by to see.

I made dinner every night. Well, the first two nights, I had leftover poached venison Mexican casserole. But after that, I was back to my normal routine. Food from the deep freezers that I’d cooked in bulk and froze in individual containers.

I sat by the Christmas tree and fire and fell asleep, then trudged up to bed in the wee hours of the morning to fall asleep again.

Everything was how it had been. Just how I liked it. How I’d always liked it.

However, I found myself staring at the chair Raymond had sat in when we’d had dinner.

I glanced over toward his property about thirty times a day as I cared for the birds. I barely paid them any attention, I was so distracted. I used to talk to them, coo at them lovingly, pat their silky feathers. It didn’t matter how biting the winter wind was, I’d never slacked in giving them attention. Suddenly, the wet winter felt colder, more cruel. If I kept going the way I was, the birds would turn wild again, not used to human interaction.

And I’m ashamed to admit, I started masturbating again. Took longer than it used to, but I enjoyed it. Until it was over, then I didn’t. I’d promise myself I wouldn’t do it again. But I did, every day. Without fail. Picturing Raymond naked. Wondering if he was always unclothed in his own home or if I’d just caught him at the right moment. Imagining what it would have been like if he’d kissed me instead of squeezing my shoulder. It was all so sordid and pitiable.

I didn’t notice the new patterns for several days, and when I did, it just pissed me off.

I’d been happy in my life. In my routine. I’d had all I really wanted or needed. I could’ve torn down Old Man Webber’s house and lived in peace for the rest of my days.

Until fucking Raymond.

Now, I wanted. I longed. I ached.

And, seriously, what the fuck was that about? I didn’t experience those feelings anymore. I didn’t want to. And it seriously pissed me off that I was. Pissed me off at him.

I knew what he was doing. He teased and taunted and then pulled back, making me want him more. He was fucking with my head, and he knew it. He enjoyed it. He was probably dancing all over Old Man Webber’s home naked, stupid big cock flopping about, and laughing gleefully over the agony he created.

If he’d just pressed a little further when he’d been here, the fucking could’ve happened. It would’ve gotten awkward, but it would be over. We could’ve moved on. Itch scratched. Forbidden fruit tasted. Remembered in the afterglow of orgasms that we hated each other.

But, no. He had to play games and