Christmas Kisses

21. Christian

21

CHRISTIAN

F or the second time today, my money is no good for the kind people of Ravenshoe. Pierre refuses the cash I hold out for him, stating that seeing Angel backstage again was more rewarding than any payment he could receive.

He’s been assisting her for the past three hours. He is the number-one costume maker in the country, but I’m still surprised by how long it has taken them to get ready.

My elf costume took twenty minutes for Pierre to whip up.

Angel’s secret project hogged the rest.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t dying to see her selection.

A hundred possibilities are rolling through my head. None match what I get when Pierre coughs to gain my attention two seconds before he pulls back the dressing room curtains Angel darted through almost three hours ago.

I ditched Mrs. Roach’s sweater hours ago. I shouldn’t have bothered. Hairy limb after hairy limb bombards me as I drag my eyes down Angel’s body.

Even her feet are covered with horrid green hairs.

I’ve never seen so much body hair, and I have Greek uncles.

When my eyes land on Angel’s face and I notice she’s gone all out with makeup and prosthetics, a laugh rolls up my chest.

It isn’t faint.

It isn’t polite.

It is the howl of a man beyond amused at the lengths a beautifully stubborn woman will go to make herself unattractive.

Angel is the Grinch.

Not a little.

Not a smidge.

She is the Grinch.

If it weren’t for her eyes, I’d swear Jim Carrey was in front of me, ready to suffocate me with wrapping paper and a ton of dreadful green body hair.

As I approach, Angel dons a grinchy snarl before hitting me with one of Jim Carrey’s famous lines. She sounds just like him, and I understand why Pierre is so desperate to get her to return to the theater. With one line, I’m an addict. She would sell out every show.

Once her performance for two is over, I drink in the entirety of her costume. “Is that a body suit or paint and swatches of the carpet my aunt Sue refuses to replace?”

Pierre answers on Angel’s behalf. “A bodysuit goes from her toes to her neck.”

“Her hair?” I ask, curious.

“Is tucked beneath a wig.” Pierre lifts a small portion of hair next to Angel’s hairy ear, exposing the webbed edging of a wig. “The facial prosthetic glue is temporary. It should loosen up in a couple of hours.”

“And the beer belly? Will that deflate, or do I need to order some de-gas tablets?”

I grunt as if wounded when Angel socks me in the stomach with her hairy hand. “I had to use the extra-large insert.”

“Why?”

My eyes shoot straight to her breasts when she murmurs, “To hide my boobs.”

Again, I mutter, “Why?” I wait for her makeup to get hot enough to melt before saying, “The Grinch had mighty impressive boobs.”

I stop waggling my brows when Angel murmurs, “So that’s where you got your fascination for unkempt body hair?” She thrusts her hips forward and back, shockingly hardening my cock with her belly rolls. “Does this turn you on, big boy?” She sounds more like Fat Bastard in Austin Powers than Jim Carrey.

Sick of lying, I nod.

I didn’t fib when I said she could wear a potato sack and still look hot as fuck.

My honesty stops Angel’s pumps mid-hip-rock. “That’s disturbing.”

She sounds troubled, but her smile is anything but. She’s enjoying the playfulness, and the proof of this doubles when she thanks Pierre for his help by promising to drop into the theater before the end of the year.

That is only days away and a massive step in the right direction for a woman who has barely left her apartment in three years.

“Ready?” Angel asks after locking eyes with me.

“Are you?” I ask, certain she is seconds from being either mobbed by Jim Carrey fans or chased with pitchforks.

She takes a breather before slowly nodding. “I think so.”

Angel’s outfit is so popular that walking two blocks takes almost an hour.

Babies scream, kids squeal, and men wolf whistle.

I issue a few stern finger points for the latter. She’s dressed as a hairy green dude with no visible genitals. What part of any of that do they find attractive?

No, seriously. I’m asking for real. I need to know because my dick has been maintaining its own pulse for the past hour, and I have a severe phobia of body hair.

“N. O. Say it isn’t so.” Angel’s neighbor waits for us to enter the elevator of their building before he completes his statement. “You went and covered up your rogue chin hair with a heap of green ones.”

Angel slaps his chest. It would rile me with jealousy if his printed shirt didn’t give away his sexual proclivities. There are no Mrs. Clauses on his 12 Sex Positions for Christmas shirt.

He laughs off her nonverbal request for him to shut his mouth before selecting our floor.

“Are you not going straight to the party?” asks her neighbor. “It is already in full swing.”

“We will be up shortly. I just need to get something from my apartment.”

As I stare at Angel, vying to work out what she desperately needs, she stares at the elevator panel, urging it to hurry up.

It arrives at her floor fast, but it doesn’t appear fast enough. Angel sprints down the hall before begging me to open the door.

She’s in such a panic that I don’t pretend I’ve yet to have a bowel movement. I remove the key from my pocket, stuff it into the lock, swing open the door, and then gesture for her to enter first.

My attempt at chivalry slaps me in the face. Literally.

Angel slams the door in my face like she did earlier.

This time it doesn’t seem in malice.

It is purely for privacy.

She’s so eager to strip that she’ll never make it to her room before portions upon portions of her milky skin are exposed.

The only thing I can’t work out is why she wants to strip. Why sit in a makeup chair for hours only to wear your costume of choice for a third of the time?

My ego realizes this has nothing to do with the bulge in my pants when she squeals, “Bee. Bee. Bee. ”

My eyes pop before I race to her side. “Are you taking the mickey?”

“The what?” She wiggles and squirms before yanking the zipper on the collar down.

“Are you joking?”

“No. I’m getting stung. It is continuously stinging me.”

“Then it can’t be a bee. They can only sting you once.”

I assist her in removing the bodysuit, my tugs so rueful that it sits at her knees in half a second. I work through a stern swallow when I recall how many wasp nests I saw in the corner of the props closet.

“It could be a swarm of wasps.”

Her face makeup crinkles when her brow shoots into her hair. “A swarm of wasps!” She squeals again. “Please get it off me, Christian. I don’t want to die.”

I strip her almost bare while dodging angry, pesky bugs unhappy about the disturbance. “Are you allergic to wasps?”

A snippet of calm douses the panic swallowing me whole when she shakes her head. “No. But their stings really hurt.”

Once she is standing before me in nothing but a bra, a pair of panties, and two sets of hairy feet, I dart my eyes between the red welts dotted across her midsection and the prosthetic stomach insert.

The cause for the numerous welts is exposed when I find a wasp hive in the lining of the stomach insert.

The newly hatched stingers feasted on her no-doubt delicious skin.

“Do you have Stingoes?”

When she looks at me like I have a second head, I scoop her into my arms and carry her into the kitchen. After plopping her onto the island, I move to the freezer. She watches me with pained eyes as I gather ice cubes from the freezer and snag a tea towel from the third drawer.

“They left me a tea towel?”

Since her question appears rhetorical, I don’t answer her. Instead, I drape the tea towel over her thighs, sit on a stool, and then swirl ice cubes over the angry bumps on her stomach.

She was stung over ten times, so it takes several long minutes to administer first aid. I tend to the bigger bumps with ice while carefully blowing air on the less aggressive ones.

I don’t believe I was stung, so I am clueless as to the cause of the heat trekking through my veins until I spot the faintest press of Angel’s thighs.

In my endeavor to slacken her pain, I’ve wedged myself between her thighs, and since the lowest welt is a mere millimeter from the sexy hem of her panties, my mouth is mere inches from her pussy.

She didn’t wear cotton panties today. She went for a raunchy red pair that sends my head into a tailspin the instant I realize how scant they are. The tea towel has slipped, so I can see the lines of her pussy, glistening and begging to be touched, and smell how delicious she will taste.

There isn’t much pubic hair, hardly any, but the thin curl-less strip down the middle announces she is a natural blonde.

When I raise my eyes to her face, desperate to gauge if she wore this little number for me, I balk. From the neck down, she is Angel. From her collarbone up, she is a hairy green beast.

I try to remember that while continuing to administer first aid. I play Jim Carrey’s hip thrusts on repeat and recall him telling the Whovilles to pucker up while holding mistletoe over his hairy ass.

Nothing works.

The ice melts at a record-setting pace, leaving the soothing touches to my fingertips.

Angel’s nipples bud as her needy breaths tighten the front of my pants. She lets out a little cry when I drop my index finger to the bump just above the seam of her panties.

She’s no longer in pain.

She’s needy and wet and on the cusp of begging.

The fight is all over her face.

I try to ignore the tension pulling my balls in close to my body, but within seconds, it becomes too much for me to ignore.

“Ask me to touch you.”

“Christian…” She hesitates until my fingertip breaches the waistband of her barely there panties. “Touch me. There. Touch me there. ”

“Here?” I ask while slowly trekking my index finger over her practically naked mound.

When a whoosh sounds through my ears, I look up again. Her face makeup is perspiring but still perfect, prompting me to say, “Can you remove the nose prosthetic? You need to smell what I’m smelling. See what I’m seeing.” Again, I run my hand down her wet panties, causing a shudder to roll down her spine. “Our noses forever feature, so I can only imagine how much of the view that one is hogging.”

When she removes her prosthetic nose, she still looks like the Grinch, so she tugs off her wig and fans out her pinned locks.

Now she’s the woman I stroked my cock to last night.

Not exactly, but close enough.

“Ask me again.”

There is no hesitation this time around. “Touch me. Please. ”

Her head thrusts back when I replace my fingertips with my tongue. I slide it down her body and flick it over the no-longer-angry welts before circling it around her belly button.

Angel moans a long, wanton “ Yesss ” while bucking her hips, seeking firmer contact. “Now lower.”

A hearty moan vibrates through me when I press my nose to the seam of her panties and inhale deeply. She smells like heaven and sin. Terror and peace. She smells so fucking good that I can’t stop myself from going back for a second whiff.

She has the power to stop this, and the acting skills for me to believe she is as desperate for me to taste her as I am, but I continue savoring her like I won’t die if she does precisely that.

I tongue her clit through her panties, almost vaulting her off the island.

Her response is exactly what I’m seeking, so without hesitation, I slip her panties to the side and marvel at her nakedness for the first time.

“So fucking pretty.” Each word is punctuated, as manic as the throbs thickening my cock.

After scooting her to the edge of the island, I double the span of her thighs by wedging my shoulders between them. I take my time assessing the sheer brilliance before me, desperate to taste but unwilling not to marvel.

“Please, Christian.”

Her beg spurs me on. I kiss her clit, doubling the heat roaring through her, and then drag my tongue up her slit. As she bucks against me, I graze her gorgeous clit with my teeth before circling my tongue around it.

Angel knocks off my elf hat when her hand shoots out to grip my shoulder. She holds it tight when I flick the swollen bud again and again. I feast on her for several long minutes, confident I’ll never taste such an alluring banquet again in my life.

I don’t rush. I take my time, learning what she likes while also enjoying the splendor of her hot, wet pussy. I adjust my pace according to how deeply she digs her nails into my shoulders and the depths of her moans.

“Oh God,” she chants.

In minutes, I find the perfect tempo to get us both off.

It is an odd mix of hard and fast while also slow and steady.

I return my mouth to her clit while slipping a finger inside her. Her hips buck wildly as her spare hand darts to the back of my head. She holds me hostage to her pussy as I eat her with timed licks, bites, and finger pumps.

“I’m…” Her grip on my hair tightens as her limbs begin to shake. “Oh God.”

I love her inability to form complete sentences. It has me eating her faster, more expertly. I push her to the brink of hysteria with nothing but my mouth and my hand.

My tongue and thumb fight for control of her clit. I tease her with both, bringing her cries of ecstasy to an ear-piercing level. Her pussy tightens around my finger as the most erotic noise I’ve ever heard whistles through her O-formed lips.

I lap up every droplet of her goodness when she unexpectedly comes. She tastes divine, and her scrumptious palette floods my tongue with every hearty lick.

“Better than I could have ever imagined.”

I bring her down from climax with slow, more controlled licks. Once the shakes calm, I force them to reform. I’m horny as fuck, but this… I’m not giving this up for anything. I won’t care if she stops this the instant she comes down from the clouds. Her orgasm is spread across my lips, and her screamed version of my name won’t stop ringing in my ears for a week. Life can’t get better than this.

“Christian…” Angel squirms before another long moan simpers from her mouth. “That feels so good.”

She shakes and trembles and moans while riding my face without hesitation until she comes for the second time.

Again, I lap up her sweetness without hesitation.

Her orgasm covers the tip of my nose and my lips and is dripped partway down my chin. I already feel like the luckiest bastard in the world, but Angel guarantees I can’t be mistaken. “Please tell me you have a condom?” As she plucks me from the stool with the strength of the Hulk, her hand shoots down my elf pants. “I want you so bad.” She pulls down on the elastic waistband so fast that my cock springs free with a boing. “Sweet baby Jesus.” As she takes in the veins feeding my erection, she whispers, “I don’t think that’ll fit.”

I band my arms around her back and tug her forward until her pussy suspends in midair. As I slowly peel down her panties, I say, “How about we find out?”

I’m partway through digging for my wallet, seeking the condom I am praying hasn’t expired, when a knock sounds at Angel’s door.

“Angel, dear, are you home?”