Last Holiday

Last Holiday

Winter Holidays Story Contest 2023

Hello again friends -

This is my entry for the 2023 Winter Holiday Contest.

It's pretty short, and it's not a happy holidays story. When the idea came to me, it was just about a couple snow bound in a cabin on New Year's Eve weekend. But, it's been kind of a rough year for me, and, well, things took a turn.

I hope that when you're done, you at least think of it as a tale well told.

Many thanks to RustyOzNail for his review and editing, and coming up with the tag line for it.

As always, please let me know what you think; comments and feedback are welcome. And, since it's a contest story, please, please vote.

Thanks, and hope you all have very merry holiday seasons.

Belle

***~~~***~~~***

Well, the weather outside is frightful.

I watch him reach over to turn off the car's radio. The weather is frightful, the snow falling fast and heavy on the roof as we drive out to the cabin. I know he's worried. I see the whites of his knuckles as he grips the steering wheel. I'm quiet, trusting that he remembers how to drive in conditions like these. It's Virginia, so snow like this is unusual, and we're rolling over the mountains on roads that haven't been plowed much.

We'd decided on going to the cabin when all the flights got cancelled and we realized that neither his sister nor my mom would be able to join us. Rattling around a house that suddenly seemed too big, we'd thought of the cabin. On the back side of the lake, near the state park, in the area not even the summertime tourists go. The perfect place.

He glances over at me, trying to smile as the useless windshield wipers clack. I smile back, wanting to touch him, to rest my hand on his knee like I so often do when he drives. But he's tense, and I understand. The car slides a little, shimmying on a slick spot as he rounds the last curve before the access road.

He turns, carefully, onto the access road and I'm surprised at how little accumulation there is on the gravel. The woods are dense here, treetops almost meeting each other. And on this side of the ridge, the mountain itself may be sheltering. We hadn't paid any attention to the weather forecast when we started out, but having lived through storms like this before, I'm assuming the snow will come down all night.

We roll on through the night, the headlights illuminating the flakes as they fly up and over the car. They're the light, small snowflakes that will pack down densely, if the wind dies down.

We slide into the carport at the side of the cabin, and he sighs heavily as he turns off the car. I reach out then, take his hand and kiss his knuckles. He strokes my cheek, and squeezes my hand back.

We open our doors at almost the same time, and the bitter chill in the air startles me. I hadn't realized it was supposed to get this cold. But no matter, soon enough we'll be hunkered down in the cabin.

We each open a back door and haul out the suitcase, cooler, and a large tote bag. I brought extra sheets and towels, because I couldn't remember what we'd left in stock the last time we were here. He trudges, carrying the cooler, up the few steps to the front porch as I put the suitcase up there and go to the trunk.

Bags of groceries and another large tote with some blankets. I'm not sure, honestly, why I packed so much. He'd been in a hurry, but he saw something in my eyes, and didn't even question. He'd just loaded the car as quickly as he could.

I hear him stamping his feet on the porch, knocking the snow off, and the familiar creak of the heavy door as he opens it. We work quietly still, something about the snow muffling the normal sounds of nature making us not want to disturb the peace.

We haul everything into the cabin, dragging clods of snow in that I'll have to mop up once they melt. But I don't care. Even chilly and dark with most of the lights still off, the cabin feels cozy, safer than our house in town.

I shake off the snow in my hair, long wet strands whipping and sticking to my face. I hear him clomping across the main room, to the other side of the huge hearth. One of the first things we'd done, when we renovated, was make a shed to store wood for the fire. He was so proud of thinking of it, using the one window with no real view, and adding a simple tin shed that opened from the outside as well as into the main room.

He opened the inner door, and I go to the fireplace to get the kindling. He brings over several logs, and soon enough we have a fire going in the wood stove insert. It'll heat up nicely, warming the whole cabin, and if the power goes out, there's a nice flat surface we could probably heat up some water on.

But neither of us are thinking about that now. Now is just the quiet and the solitude with options.

He stands next to me, and I brush the rapidly melting snow off his shoulders. He shakes his head like a dog and I laugh.

He grins now. Sure that we're safe, no dangerous journey to worry about. He pulls me in for a kiss and a tight hug. I hug him back, reaching up on tiptoe and wrapping my arms as far around his broad shoulders as I can.

When we part, he brushes a hand over my rounding belly. I hold his hand there. The faint flutters of the life I'm carrying like drunken butterflies in my stomach. Not enough for him to feel. We were so surprised; things had gone so wrong, so many times, but here we are.

I'm in that middling, mythical stage, where I can feel the work my body is doing to sustain this other creature, but she's not making herself known with the kicking and stretching so many of my friends lamented in their later months.

It's just the fluttering. And the pants that don't fit right. And the skin on my abdomen stretching. And the joy. The wonderment. Fear.

He gestures toward the assorted luggage near the door. He carries the cooler into the kitchen, then drags the suitcase and the totes into the bedroom. I carry the grocery bags and we make quick work of setting ourselves up for comfort.

We'll only be here two days, but we packed like it would be a week. Maybe this is the nesting that my friends kept talking about.

He's in the bedroom, just off the main room, and I hear rustling as he makes up the bed, then throws our clothes into the dresser.

"Hey babe, you want some hot chocolate?" I holler at him, and in an instant he's at the kitchen door.

"We got something to spike it with?" he asks.

"Rum. Three kinds of bourbon. Coffee liquour."

I'm standing next to the kitchen window, where the booze shelves are, and I find that I'm not even annoyed that he's drinking and I can't.

"Bourbon, if you please."

I make the hot chocolate, my grandma's old recipe that's basically just a Hershey bar melted in a bunch of milk. He got me whipped cream, the kind in the can that uses the aerosol. And just to make sure it's still good, I squirt some onto a spoon and eat it straight.

I put a slug of Woodford reserve in his mug. It's the good bourbon, but this is a special occasion, so why not? I add another chunk of chocolate to the bottom of my mug, and pour the hot chocolate over it. Topped with as much whip cream as I can fit.

I carry the two mugs into the main room. The fire is roaring, and he's taken off his sweater. His t-shirt is thin, and just a little tight on him, but it shows off his chest and what's not to like about that?

His blue eyes fairly twinkle at me as I sit next to him and he drapes an arm along the back of the couch. I pull off my sweater, slip off my shoes, and snuggle in close to him, resting my head on his shoulder.

If this isn't heaven, it's pretty damn close.

I slide down, drink forgotten, to lay my head on his lap, stretching out along the couch. He plays with my long dark hair, running his fingers through it rhythmically. Suddenly I'm very sleepy. I close my eyes in peace.

I wake up well before dawn. He's somehow gotten me into the bed and mostly undressed me, and I have only the vaguest memory of moving. He's asleep next to me, snoring softly, curled on his side facing me.

I sit up, pull off my shirt and bra, and shimmy out of my underwear. I lay down facing him, watching him, grateful that I've had him in my life. I lay there, drifting half asleep as the sky lightens on New Year's Eve Day. Then, still sleeping, he reaches for me, and I slide toward him. His arm curls around me, he sighs, and I fall asleep again.

Some time later, I wake up and see him staring at me. He's been watching me sleep again. He smiles slowly, stroking gently down my side and sliding his hand around my butt. He squeezes, and I chuckle.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?"

"Nope. You're too tempting."

It's an old joke we have, along with about a dozen different euphemisms for my backside that all have something to do with ripe fruit.

I slide closer to him, my belly pushing into his flat stomach as I stretch to kiss him.

Slowly, languidly, we kiss, sighing into each other as his tongue darts into my mouth. I press into him, needing more, wanting all of him. My hands roam over his front, down his legs, take their own turn squeezing his behind. His laugh reverberates into me.

I push on his shoulder and he rolls on his back. He's already hard, waiting for me to catch up to him, and I have. I kiss his lips, his chin with its two-day old stubble, down his neck, across his collarbone. I kiss more, lower, pulling his nipple into my mouth.

My breasts glide over his chest, rough with hair, but his skin smooth around his navel as I keep kissing lower, and lower.

I barely feel his hands as he strokes my skin, reaching down my back and then moving up again to wind his fingers through my hair. I'm intent on his taste on my tongue, and breathing his scent deeply. I'm moving, sliding over him, keeping as close contact to his body as I can as I work my way down. I hear his sharp inhale when I kiss the base of his cock and lick his balls and then his shaft.

I need more from him. I need him fitted inside me. So, I lean up, pushing off his hip as I swing my leg over his pelvis and reach for his penis.

I kneel up, glancing down at my hand around him, disappearing under me as I move, up and slightly over, and his tip meets my hole.

I wait, for a long moment, with just a fraction of him inside me. My heart is pounding, and I feel and see the flush on my skin. His hands are on my thighs, grabbing, holding, his fingers flexing over and over. I press my hands onto his chest, balancing, waiting for the moment. Savoring everything about this moment.

I listen for the birds and hear only the low hum of a steady wind. I hear his breathing heavy and rapid. I lock eyes with him, staring into him, memorizing the pattern and flecks of color in his irises, the shadow of his lashes, the shape of his brows.

The heat off his body ignites me, even as the chill air in the bedroom raises goosebumps on my arms and back. His hands move again, sliding up my thighs, reaching for my backside, pulling me down.

I relent, and lower myself slowly onto him, watching as he lets out a long breath and closes his eyes.

He's thick and heavy inside me. I rock my hips up and down, while I arch my back and look up toward the ceiling. Up and down, grinding slow onto his hips with every downward stroke, clenching myself tight around him going up.

He groans. I'm taking my time. I'm going slower than he would like and his fingers dig into the flesh of my hips, trying to guide me into a faster pace. I wait until he opens his eyes again, then speed up. Then slow down again, teasing, asserting my power over him. He starts rocking, thrusting into me, so I stop moving completely.

He opens his eyes, then his mouth, and before he can say anything, I lean down and claim him with mine. My tongue finds his and he opens up, not just inviting me in but twining his tongue with mine. His hands are on my back, on my shoulders, in my hair again. I'm gluing myself to him, the shape of my body making this familiar act new and fraught.

He rolls us over, onto our sides. He pulls my hip close to him, and I clamp my leg around his back. We move together, surging against each other and then parting, surging together again. I realize I'm crying when he kisses my cheeks.

He's overwhelming me, filling me, claiming me. Saving me.

His breath hitches and he shudders. A few sharp thrusts, and I'm clenching around him, shuddering myself, the pleasure blooming over and through me as he orgasms too, deep inside me.

I rest my head on his shoulder as he rolls onto his back, my leg still draped over him, and his hand still wrapped around my thigh. I reach, as far as I can around him, clinging to him, shivering and satisfied.

We lay there like that, in silence. I'm listening to his heartbeat, my eyes closed, with the errant thought that maybe our dried sweat could stick us to each other, never to be parted.

Then his stomach growls.

I laugh. I laugh almost hysterically. I catch a glimpse of the bemused look on his face and I try to apologize, but he kisses me instead and climbs out of the bed.

I sprawl, arms and legs wide, the post coital endorphin rush better than the best alcohol.

I hear the shower start, but I won't join him. I want his stink on me. I want his taste in my mouth. I want his cells co-mingled with mine. Forever.

I roll out of the bed, patting my belly, and find his t-shirt from yesterday to wear with my sweatpants and thick woolen socks.

I mosey into the kitchen. To my surprise, I see that it's not 9 am yet. I start breakfast while he finishes his shower. Bacon, biscuits, a pile of soft scrambled eggs, and coffee. I'm putting the last plate on the table in the kitchen as he wanders in.

I love his smell and he looks good after a shower too. He's dressed just as casually, in a ratty old college t-shirt and nearly shapeless sweatpants. I don't care. He's an Adonis, as far as I'm concerned.

One of the things we like so much about this cabin is that there's no real connection to the outside world. No cable or satellite TV, no WiFi, shitty cell service. It's a forceable disconnect when the world is getting to be too much. And the world has been too much, a lot, lately.

We eat mostly in silence, cutlery clicking on plates, chairs scraping on the old wooden floor as we shift in our seats.

When we're done, we make quick work of the dishes together. He leans on the counter after drying the last plate.

"Guess we should see how much it snowed?"

I shrug. I don't really care. I want to pretend that he and I are the only people in the world, and that nothing outside this cabin exists.

I watch him walk to the front door, and shiver as a gust of frigid air flows through the house.

"Babe," he says, his voice soft. "Babe. Come look." He's whispering.

He turns, one hand still on the door handle.

"Babe, really, come see."

I walk to where he is, prepared to be unimpressed. It's just snow. It snows in Virginia. I've lived other places that it snows a lot. I've seen snow in mountains, and forests, and covering frozen lakes.

But he's right. It's breathtaking.

Somehow, the wind kept the porch mostly bare. Just a light dusting covers the wooden slats that lead to the front set of stairs.

But the stairs themselves are covered. The top stair is visible, but the other three are completely buried. It must be almost two feet deep there. The access road is gone, just a white path through the trees. But it's the trees that get me. The pines are filled with sleeves of snow on each branch, hanging down heavy, the lowest branches dragged down to meet the snow on the ground. The tops of several are bent over, like lovers sharing secrets in bed.

The silence is deafening. Reverential. No birds, no rustling, not even snow falling off branches. The wind has gone and everything is still. The world is on hold. Holding its breath, bated.

And the light. The light is alien. The air almost glitters. The shadows are blue, cast long onto the few open spaces because the sun is still low in the east. I look around, not just at the yard in front of me, but up, over the trees, to the other ridgelines, and up farther to the stark blue cloudless sky.

I sob. Suddenly taken over; it's involuntary. I'm crying again and he moves behind me, wrapping me in his arms, and pulling me tight against him. I'd thought I was done with crying. I was convinced I didn't have any tears left.

I spin, burying my head in his chest, breathing him in until the panic passes.

He guides me into the cabin, shutting us back into our safe space again.

We spend the day listlessly watching movies. White Christmas. Holiday Inn. Miracle on 34 ^th Street.

He holds up a Die Hard DVD.

"It's a Christmas movie!"

"Sure, babe," I chuckle. "Whatever."

I veto Nightmare Before Christmas. He vetoes the Jim Carey version of The Grinch.

We snack and at some point in the afternoon he makes sandwiches. We keep the coffee going, determined to make it to midnight and see the old year out.

I fall asleep again, my head in his lap, but it's a short nap, partially because he's restless and I feel his nerves in every twitch of his legs.

He apologizes when I sit back up.

I forgive him with a long kiss. But neither one of us is in the mood to take things any further. As we separate, he holds my belly with both hands, cupping the round bump carefully, as though he's afraid of breaking me, or breaking her. I cover his hands with mine, holding him to me, and hoping that she'll choose that moment to move.

I feel a flutter, a shift, and I glance at him. His eyes are watery and he's staring at my abdomen with such an intense look that my heart beats double.

"Babe. Hon." I start to ask him what's wrong, but he shakes his head, kisses me quickly and stands. He shifts one foot to the other and then practically runs to the bedroom.

I stay on the couch, giving him space for the moment. I stare out the window that looks over the back deck. The night seems to seep in through the drafty sill that we never could get caulked properly. There's menace out there, in the deep dark.

I go to the bedroom and see him curled on his side; his shoulders are shaking.

I crawl onto the bed and spoon myself around him, returning the comfort he gave me earlier in the day. Minute by minute, I feel him relax an inch at a time.

Gradually he unfurls, rolling onto his back and sliding an arm behind me. I tuck myself into his shoulder, leaning my body onto his. He sniffs, clears his throat.

"It's so much," he whispers. "Too much."

"I know."

"But not nearly." A pause. "Enough."

I nod.

"Oof. I need a drink." He squeezes my shoulders and gets out of bed. I follow and walk with him into the main room.

The fire is still going strong, but I pull an afghan down around me. The chill is inside me.

He comes into the room with two mugs.

"Coffee," he says as he hands one to me.

I take a sip. "Did you spike this?"

"Uh. A little. Oops?"

"You know I shouldn't."

"I figured one drink wouldn't hurt?"

"I," I pause. Because he's not wrong. But it feels wrong. "I just can't. It. I dunno. It feels weird? And there's enough weird already."

"Got it."

He takes the coffee back, and returns with a fresh cup adulterated only with a massive amount of whipped cream.

We settle in again. There's just over an hour until midnight, until this year officially ends.

He sets a timer on his phone so we won't miss the moment. He puts in another movie, but I don't really watch it. I don't think he does either.