Unwrapping Presents is Fun!

"I miss him, Jack," she said, fighting a sob.

"Of course you do, Anne, of course you do." Jack took her hand, and squeezed her fingers gently. Anne gave him a wan smile, and dashed tears from her face with the back of her other hand.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Jack shook his head. "No, Anne, you never need to apologise for honest grief."

She nodded, then gently withdrew her hand from his. "Thank you, Jack," she said, her tone soft. "If you'll excuse me, I'll just wash my face."

"Of course. Another cup of coffee?"

"Please."

She was calm and composed when she came back from the bathroom, accepting the coffee and sitting on the couch beside him.

"I'm sorry for that, Jack. I thought I was over it, but every so often something happens that reminds me of Peter. It's been three years now, I should be getting on with my life."

"Healing takes times, Anne, but it happens."

"Deep down, I know that." She took a deep breath, and smiled. "Enough about me and my troubles. What about you? What do you do?"

Jack smiled. "I write."

Anne smiled back at him. "I'm going to avoid the cliché response, because you've probably heard it before. 'You're a writer, wow, that's wonderful. I have a little piece here that I wrote. Would you look at it?' I suspect you've had that happen to you?"

Jack laughed. "Not yet. Most of my writing so far has been technical manuals. Good money, but I want to try my hand at a novel. I arranged a two month leave of absence, and here I am. My laptop's in the cupboard. I was going to celebrate Christmas by making a start."

"No reason why not. Since I'm stuck here, I'll cook, and if you don't mind I'll plug in my own laptop." Anne gave a wry smile. "I've written a few short stories." She flushed. "Mostly erotic, I have to say. I don't know if it's losing Peter and missing him at night, or what, but that's what seems to come out when I start writing."

"Any published?"

"I've submitted a few to Literotica. What's so funny?" said Anne, a little annoyed, as Jack laughed.

"Sorry," said Jack, smiling at her. "I have, too. Submitted to Literotica, I mean. I even got a couple of little red H's."

Anne grinned. "Me, too."

"Small world."

Anne laughed. "I wonder. They must have millions of readers, so the fact that we both know the site isn't so surprising."

"True, but both being writers? Not so common, surely?"

"You're probably right. What time is it? I seem to have misplaced my watch."

"Your watch is on the mantel, and it's, um, just after seven."

"Still early. Jack, can we do something about getting my clothes dried? I might be able to dry some pyjamas by bedtime, otherwise I'll have to borrow another of your shirts as a nightshirt."

"I'm sorry, Anne. I meant to rig up the line earlier. I forgot when we started chatting."

"Don't blame yourself. I did too. Now, how are we going to do this?"

"There's a rail on the stove, see? We can put some on there, and now that the stove is going well, the radiator over there will be warm. I have a rack that clips on that I use to dry things."

"Sounds like enough to get started. Underwear and PJs first, I think." Anne looked down. "And socks that fit me!" she added with a laugh. "No, you get your laptop out and start writing. I'll sort my clothes out."

"Okay," said Jack. He hadn't planned on starting until the morning, but the circumstances were giving him ideas for a short story, and he could probably finish it before bed. Tomorrow would be soon enough for The Novel. He got the laptop out of the cupboard and moved to put it on the table, but Anne's portfolio was in the way and he moved to pick it up, then laid the laptop down. Portfolio in his hand, he looked for somewhere to place it. She was looking at him, several pairs of skimpy panties in her hand.

"You can look at them if you wish, Jack," she said softly. "I told you, I'm not ashamed of them."

"Are you sure, because I'd like to?"

"I'm sure," she said, and moved to arrange a row of panties on the stove rail. Jack moved the laptop to one side, and opened the portfolio. There were a couple of dozen nude studies and several landscapes. The landscapes were excellent, the mark of a good cameraman who could see a photograph in the simplest of subjects, mostly hill and forest pictures. Jack put the landscapes aside, and picked up the first nude study, a full-length, standing shot, Anne leaning against a tree, smiling. It was a totally natural pose, the subject beautiful, the location verdant. The other poses were similar, natural, no coy placement of hands, celebrations of female beauty. Jack glanced across at Anne, to find her watching him, her gaze solemn. He smiled.

"You are beautiful, Anne Matthews. He loved you, I can tell just from his photographs of you."

"Thanks, Jack. You like them?"

He nodded. "I like them. A lot."

There was a pause. "Do you have a favourite?"

"Yes. This one. Like I said, you're beautiful, especially so in this one."

"I never thought so until I saw Peter's photographs, but I have to admit it, he made me look good. Even then, I think my mouth is too big and my nose is crooked."

"Believe me when I say that no-one will notice looking at those."

Anne laughed. "Why? Because they'll be staring at my tits and my tush?"

"No, not exactly. There's much more in these pictures."

"Not exactly, he says. Gimme a break, Jack. I know men!"

"Come here," said Jack. "Look." He turned the picture he'd chosen towards her. "See? That lovely long curve, down your side, around your bottom and into the thigh? That's poetry, woman."

Anne looked at him. "Like I said, my tush." But there was mischief in her eyes.

Jack threw up his hands in mock surrender, grinning. "I give in. You're right, it's the tits and the tush!" He held her gaze. "And they're lovely."

Anne flushed and looked away, confused for a moment. She looked back at Jack but he was sliding the pictures carefully back into the portfolio. He glanced across at her. "Writing time?"

She smiled, nodding, obscurely relieved, feeling frustrated, and not knowing why. "Writing time." Fetching her bag, she set her own laptop up on the opposite side of the table. "Power outlet, Jack?"

He pointed. "On the wall there. It's a dual, so we've got one each. If you need anything printed, I can set up the laser printer."

"Not at the moment. I'm just starting a fresh story," said Anne, plugging her laptop in and switching it on.

"Erotic?"

She grinned. "I don't know yet, it hasn't told me."

Jack laughed. "I know what you mean. My last story, I was just going to write a two or three thousand word vignette. I eventually got it told in about sixteen thousand. Took on a life of its own."

"It's happened to me, too. Can be fun."

"It can. First one to five hundred words gets the coffee. Okay?"

"That'll be you. I'm slow." There was a pause. "Um, Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm also stupid." Jack raised his eyebrows in mute query, and Anne smiled. "It's okay, I live with it every day. Jack, any time you want me to get you a coffee, say so. I owe you my life."

"There's a saying. If you save a life you become responsible for it, so I'll get you the occasional cup to make sure you don't collapse from exhaustion. Deal?"

"Deal. Now, let's write."

There was little sound for a while except the click of keyboards, interspersed with Anne's occasional journey to set a fresh batch of clothes to dry. She came back smiling from one trip and Jack glanced up at her. "What's so good?"

"My PJs. They're dry, so I'm going to leave them on the rail, and they'll be toasty-warm when I get into them. Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"It's almost eleven, and I'm tired. Have you any cocoa?"

"I do. You're right, it makes a nice nightcap. My turn, I think."

Jack went across to the stove to prepare the cocoa and Anne turned to watch him. After a little while he looked across. "Keep an eye on the pan, will you. I need the can."

"Sure." She stood as Jack disappeared into the bathroom and moved towards the stove. Catching sight of Jack's open laptop, she decided to peek, see what he had written, and stopped in shock. It had obviously not been intended for her eyes, that was plain. She thought he'd been working on a short story and, yes, the bottom of the screen showed another file open, but on the screen was a poem.      Anne, she crashed into my life      Anne, she's so unlike my wife      Anne, whose body is a dream      Anne, with skin of rosy cream      Anne, who's going to share my bed      Anne, who says, I touch, I'm dead      Anne, attracts me so damned much      But, Anne, I'm not allowed to touch Hearing a noise, Anne scrambled towards the stove, in time to stop the pan of milk from boiling over. Mechanically she made the cocoa, her mind whirling. Obviously, Jack was attracted to her. And you to him, she acknowledged to herself. He's a very attractive man, and it's been three years, since Peter was killed, since you had a man in your bed. She shook her head, but there was no mistaking the once-familiar but now almost forgotten feeling of heat in her.

She heard Jack coming back and focussed her attention on the cups.

"Something up? You look tense."

She forced a smile and looked at him. "I wasn't paying attention. I almost let the pan boil over."

"No big deal. It cleans up. I know, I've let it boil over before." He smiled, and she felt herself responding. There was something very attractive about Jack Kearney. Was she ready? She didn't know. Hell, she'd only known him for a few hours. It was strange, they were so easy together it was as if they'd known each other for ages. Wait, girl, don't do anything rash. You're here for a couple of nights, at least, maybe longer. Don't do anything to spoil it.

"Jack?"

"What time do you usually go to bed? I don't want to interrupt your routine."

"Routine? What routine? When I feel like it is probably the true answer, but normally between eleven and midnight. Up here, with no TV, I make the most of daylight so sometimes I'm in bed by eight or nine, and get up early. Tonight, well, why don't we just finish the cocoa and then you can have the bathroom. When you're done, I'll use it, and we'll get ourselves some sleep. I don't think I snore, but you have my permission to dig me in the ribs if I do, okay?"

"Sounds like a plan to me. I'll just check that I've saved what I've written." Because she was watching Jack out of the corner of her eye she caught the worried look he gave towards his open laptop, but she went straight to her own, saved, and closed down, just as Jack sat down to do the same for his own. "Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"Is it okay if I hang onto this shirt as a robe? Mine is going to need drying. I've concentrated on getting underwear and nightclothes dry."

"Sure, no problem. If you need a toothbrush, you should find a new one in the bathroom cabinet."

Anne smiled. "It's okay, mine survived the flood. My toilet bag was wrapped in a towel and the water didn't get through. Okay, it's bathroom time for me. Back shortly."

In the bathroom she studied her face as she brushed her teeth. You're not ugly, girl. In fact, for someone very nearly closer to forty than thirty, you're not bad at all. How old is Jack? Maybe forty? Well-preserved, for sure. Admit it, you think you'd enjoy it if he was to make love to you, so make up your mind. If he makes a move, are you going to slap him, or kiss him? He liked the photographs, and they're only five years old. You haven't changed much since thirty. Lost weight, if anything. She stared at herself, then shrugged. Wait and see. Quickly, she stripped and pulled on the still-warm pyjamas, then pulled Jack's thick wool shirt back on as a robe.

Jack was sitting on the couch when she went out. He stood as she came across, still skidding around in his too-big socks. "All set?

She nodded. "And tired, suddenly. I think it's delayed reaction."

"Understandable. Anne, if you don't mind, take the right-hand side of the bed. I've gotten used to sleeping on the left."

"No problem That's the way Peter and I did it."

"I'll bank the stove, so it will still be warm in the morning. I'll have to reset the fire, but it's the stove that provides most of our heat."

"Okay, Jack. I may be asleep when you come to bed, so, just in case, thank you, thank you for everything." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, then turned and climbed the steep stairs to the bedroom area. Moments later, she was in bed, shivering as the thick duvet began to warm her. She never felt Jack come to bed, for she had indeed fallen asleep.

Something woke her. She lay still, barely breathing. Still night, the cabin was dark, the only light a glow from the stove, flaring briefly as a log moved. There was the buzz of Jack's breathing, a grunt as he moved in his sleep, then it came again. She fought a giggle; Jack must be having an erotic dream, because for sure it wasn't his finger that had just poked her butt. Scarcely daring to breathe, she pressed gently back, lifting her left leg, so that the bulge in Jack's pyjamas slid between her cotton-covered thighs, then lowered her leg, trapping him. She sighed, feeling the heat of him, hard between her thighs. She lay still for a few moments, but she could feel the excitement building in her, and she began to move her hips gently back and forth, a fraction of an inch, but she knew it would be enough.

She knew when he woke, for his breathing changed, a soft sound, half-moan, half gasp, in her ear.

"Anne?" he whispered. "Are you awake?"

For a moment she debated feigning sleep, but she knew she wanted to take this further. "Yes," she said, her voice soft."

"I'm sorry," he said, "I was asleep, I didn't know what was happening. I know you said not to touch you. I'm sorry, Anne."

"Don't be, Jack. I knew what I was doing." She chuckled, soft in the night. "I'm a big girl now."

There was a pause. "Does that mean I can touch you?" he said, a catch in his voice."

She laughed, soft and low. "I though you were already."

"You know what I mean, minx."

"I know. Yes, Jack, touch me, please touch me."

"I want to kiss you, but it's awkward this way. Think you could turn over?"

"And lose my big, hard friend? Okay, but bring him back soon." Anne eased forward, then rolled over to face Jack, just a shape in the darkness. His hand came up and caressed her cheek, and she turned her head to kiss his palm. His hard curved behind her neck, and he drew her closer, slow, gentle, giving her all the time in the world to break away, but she knew she wasn't going to reject him. Not now, for she'd made her mind up.

The kiss was gentle, too, as their mouths explored each other, moving, clinging, drawing heat from each other until Anne was almost gasping as she broke away. She took a deep breath, for she'd had an idea.

"What time is it, Jack?" she said.

"What time?" Jack laughed. "I've no idea, but it was after two when I used the bathroom, so I'd guess at about four, maybe five, in the morning."

"In the morning of Christmas Day. Merry Christmas, Jack Kearney."

"And a Merry Christmas to you, too, Anne Matthews."

"I didn't know I'd need a present when I left the Lodge, Jack, so I'm a little unprepared. I thought about it, wondering what I could give you, then I had an idea. A good idea, I think, in fact a brainwave."

"Oh, yes?" She could hear the smile in his voice.

"Yes. I thought of something I could give you, Jack Kearney, something I think - I hope - that you'll like."

"And just what is this something, Anne?"

"Me, Jack. I want to give you me. Would you like that, would you like to unwrap your present?"

There was a pause, and Jack's hand stroked her cheek again. "A wonderful gift, Anne, one that I shall treasure, but I have nothing to give in return."

"But you have!"

"I have?"

"Yes, of course. You were poking me with it before. All hot and hard it was."

"Ah. Right. In a moment, then. I think you said something about me unwrapping my present?"

"Yes, I did. This present would rather enjoy being unwrapped by you."

She felt his hand move from her neck, holding her breath, letting out a soft sigh as she felt his fingers on the buttons of her pyjama top. Her nipples were erect in anticipation, and she held her breath as his fingers undid the last button, spread her jacket open, and moved carefully to her breast. She moaned, quiet, soft, as she felt his fingers cup her breast, his thumb stroking her nipple. Then he moved, his head going down, lips closing over the nub, sucking gently. Her hands moved to his head, pulling him close. Jack suckled on her breast for a moment, then he moved over, giving her other breast the same loving attention.

Anne was wet now, soaking, but she didn't want to rush anything; she just knew, deep within her, that it would be good. Jack eased back, and his lips came to hers again, the kiss a promise, long, clinging, until he broke it gently.

"I've only unwrapped half of my present," he murmured. "I want to unwrap the other half."

Anne said nothing, just let her arms slide from him as he moved to loosen the cord at her waist, his fingers sliding under the waistband, stroking the silky fleece at the apex of her thighs, sliding into the gap, his finger running along her cleft, dipping into her wetness. His finger came away, and his hand went to her waistband.

"Lift a little, sweetheart," he murmured, and she arched her back, raising her butt so that he could slide the pyjama trousers down. She pulled her knees up and helped him wriggle her out of the trousers, so that all she was wearing now was the jacket, unbuttoned and open to him.

"Now you," she said, coming up onto her elbow, running her fingers across his chest, then unbuttoning his jacket, awkward with one hand, but the awkwardness was adding to the tension that was building in them, adding to the excitement they were both holding in. Last button undone, she flicked the jacket open, bending to tug at his sparse mat of chest hair with her teeth, her lips closing over his male nipple, sending a frisson of pure pleasure through him, a gasp as her teeth nipped him. Her hand moved down, across his stomach, tugging at the cord at the waist of his pyjama trousers, loosening it, her hand moving into the trousers, finding him, a gasp from him as her hot fingers measured his length.

"Lift your ass," she commanded, her voice gruff to hide the desire flooding her. Amused, he complied and she tugged down. He wriggled and kicked off the trousers, letting himself lie back as she rolled half on top of him, her breasts against him, her chin on his chest. His hand was on her shoulder, stroking, gentle. She wriggled back, down, and her breath was hot on him as she took his hardness in her hand, stroking, squeezing, slowly jacking him. He gasped as he felt her mouth close over him. In the darkness of the room everything was sensation. Touch, taste, sound, texture, everything but sight. Her head bobbed, once, twice, her tongue busy on him, but then she lifted her head and wriggled up, offering her lips to his in the darkness.

The heat was strong in their kiss, and he moved her over, onto her back, his lips never leaving hers, so that he could bring his free hand up to cup her breast, to mould, to squeeze, caress, thumb stroking her nipple. She broke the kiss and her hand moved down, taking his, pushing it lower, across her stomach, into the fleece at her fork. His hand moved over her, stroking, warm on her skin, his extended finger sliding into her cleft, stroking, spreading her wetness, moving into her, into the heat of her, moving in and out like a miniature penis.