Christmas Kitsch by Amy Lane

Author:Amy Lane
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Riptide Publishing
Published: 2013-12-04T23:00:00+00:00

“You know,” Oliver said from his perch on the porch, “this is not what I had in mind when I talked about a day hanging out.”

“I’m sorry.” I was, too. Both my hands were wrapped around the thick handles of a pair of pruning shears, and I kept thinking, Was Oliver’s cock this thick? I think it was thicker. I think it was about this long. But I’d really, really frickin’ love to see it this time, and taste it, and touch it some more and . . .

Yeah. I meant well, but it’s a good thing Oliver was out there to tell me what to cut and what not to cut, or I would have just razed all those damned fence flowers, thrown them away, and gone inside and used Mr. Campbell’s son as my own personal playground. And I don’t think Oliver would have minded one bit.

But no, we could have been doing that, but I was cleaning up Mr. Campbell’s yard instead.

“Your dad’s done me a solid,” I said simply. “I’d really like to do something nice for him.”

Oliver grimaced. “Rusty, he’s my dad, that’s what he—”

“Look,” I said, feeling embarrassed at having to point this shit out, “I know you are used to your dad being a stand-up guy, but there’s a reason I had to leave the damned house to come out to myself, okay? Your dad cried a little and went and had a sit-down with God. My dad boxed up my shit and cut off my phone service.” Fuck. Rex. I hadn’t called him before I’d given back my phone. I’d promised him I’d call him. He was probably frantic. “I know you take that shit for granted, but I’m not gonna, okay?”

Oliver sighed and stood up, dusting off his bottom, shivering as he did so because it was chill and gray and sitting on the concrete did not make it any warmer. There was only one pair of shears and one pair of gloves, so I’d been chopping everything down, since I had the height and (sort of) the muscle mass. Oliver had been using the gloves to haul the dead branches and stuff to the green waste can. I rode clean-up and raked the small stuff into a pile. It worked, actually. We each got to take little breaks, and it gave us a chance to talk, which was the best part.

But that’s not why Oliver was standing up and coming toward me now. I wasn’t done cutting down the last stand of dead flowers, so he wasn’t ready to pick it up.

Instead, he took the shears from me and set them down, and then took my face in his cold hands and pulled me in for a kiss.

It was the good kind, the kind that started off light and got deeper and heavier, until I grabbed his ass and hauled him closer. He chuckled and gave himself to me, with the same generosity as the rest of his family (although, you know, not quite giving the same thing).

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