Page 73 of Unwrapped

Sometimes I still can't believe this is my life, honestly.

Iwake to white light and the heavy silence of snow that has fallen thick enough to muffle the world. I lie there for a moment, listening to nothing. Vince's arm is across my waist, heavy and warm, and his breathing is deep and even against my back.

Through the window, all I can see is white. Vince stirs behind me, his arm tightening, and I roll over to face him. His eyes are still closed, his face relaxed in a way it rarely is when he's awake. I trace the line of his jaw with one finger, and his mouth curves.

“Merry Christmas,” I whisper.

His eyes open slowly and he squints. “Merry Christmas, Sophie.” Then he smiles sleepily and draws me closer, kissing me. I slip my arms around him and nuzzle into his chest, in no hurry to get out of bed.

He holds me for a long time, his hand stroking my back, fingers tracing lazy patterns up and down my spine as he wakes up. I love mornings like this—when we have nothing to do except exist together, no obligations except to each other.

After a few minutes, the hand on my back starts to wander. Down over my hip, tracing lines over my ass. I murmur contentedly and then look up at him and smile. He smiles back and lowers his mouth to mine, kissing me deeply.

“Mm, I love waking up with you,” he murmurs against my lips.

His hands find my breasts, his kisses grow deeper, and soon I’m reaching under the covers for him, wrapping my hand around his growing member and making him groan.

I stroke him, feeling him grow hard and thick under my hand, and then he growls and rolls me onto my back, pinning me with his body. His mouth moves down my neck, over my breasts, and he takes one nipple between his lips, flicking his tongue over it until I’m squirming. He lowers a hand to my pussy, discovers how wet I am, and chuckles darkly. He pushes my legs apart, and slides a finger inside of me, making me moan. “You’re so ready for me,” he says, low and thick. “You want Daddy’s cum this morning?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I gasp, my heart already beating so hard I’m losing my breath.

He strokes me a few more times, then lines himself up and pushes in. “God.” He pauses for a second, squeezing his eyes shut like it’s just so good he can’t take it, and then he’s fucking me with long, deep strokes, gripping my hips to hold me steady.

He groans, a deep, guttural sound, burying himself as deep as he can go. “I’m going to come inside you, sweetheart. Gonna fill you up just like you want.”

My pussy clenches, my body trembling at his words. “Please, Daddy,” I whisper, feeling the heat in my core intensify and tighten, my insides clamping down. I can hardly get the words out. I think my heart has stopped beating for a second. “Give me your cum, Daddy. I want it so bad.” And then fuck—I’m coming, the tension in my core breaking in a pulsing wave, my vision going dark as my body convulses.

“Fuck,” Vince cries out, moving faster. “Fuck, baby, yes. Daddy’s going to give it to you.” And then he lets go, hips jerking as he empties inside me, his heat flooding me. He groans, pushing himself in as deep as he can, and then collapses on top of me, staying buried, breathing hard against my neck.

We just lie there for a minute, coming down, while I stroke his hair and he kisses my shoulder. The cum starts to drip out of me, but we leave it—we’ll clean up later. But eventually, we get hungry.

We get up and get dressed and head downstairs.

The house is beautiful on Christmas morning. We left the tree lights on overnight so they’re still glowing when we wake up. Our gingerbread mansion sits proudly on the sideboard, with its candy cane lampposts and gumdrop doorknob, looking considerably more respectable than last year's attempt. And outside the window is nothing but snow and calm, and the empty stretch of lake. Vince makes coffee, pouring two mugs while I lean against the counter and watch him. A year ago, I would have studied every little detail about him with the furtive attention of someone who wasn't supposed to be looking. Now I can enjoy the sight of him as much as I like, and he always smiles when he catches me at it.

We carry our coffee into the living room and sit on the couch, side by side, his knee pressed against mine. There are presents beneath the tree, wrapped in deep green paper with gold foil snowflakes, with Vince's familiar handwriting on gift tags.

I reach for a flat package and hand it to him. Inside is a first edition of Raymond Chandler's The Long Goodbye, which I found at a used bookshop in Portsmouth and knew he would love.

Vince turns it over in his hands, running his thumb along the spine, and the look on his face is worth every penny.

“Sophie,” he says. “This is—wow. This is perfect.”

“I know you already have a copy,” I say. “But not this one.”

He sets it carefully on the coffee table and kisses me. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

His gifts to me are equally thoughtful—a cashmere scarf in deep burgundy and a first edition of Plath's Ariel, which he must have hunted for months to find. By the time we've finished opening everything, the coffee is gone and the living room is strewn with discarded paper and ribbons.

I think we're done, but Vince reaches behind the tree and produces one more package. A small square, wrapped in the same green paper.

“I didn't see that one,” I say.

He smiles. “It was hidden.”

I turn it over in my hands, curious, while Vince watches me expectantly. I unwrap it carefully, peeling away the tape rather than tearing the paper, and find a plain navy-blue box beneath the wrapping. No logo. Nothing to indicate what's inside.

I lift the lid.