#rushbelle

“Doctor Rush,” she stammered, “I wasn’t expecting you.” She turned her hand to check the time on her watch and half of the string of lights she’d had draped over her arm slipped off and ended up wrapped around him like some kind of surreal Mardi-Gars beads. “Oh,” she exclaimed, hopping down from the chair and starting to remove the accidental festooning from around his shoulders. “I’m so sorry. I guess I must have lost track of time.”

Rush growled wordlessly at her until she stopped fussing, turned and put down the stack of materials that were now half tangled in Christmas lights, and then tugged those lights from around himself, tossing them unceremoniously on the floor between them.

“That doesn’t answer the question,” he snapped, pointing at the doorway, where the other half of the lights were already hung around the door.

“Would have thought that was obvious,” she answered petulantly, bending down to pick up the tangled string. “It’s almost Winter Break and your office is as barren as Ebeneezer’s parlor.”

“Bah, fucking humbug,” he said dryly. He couldn’t resist.

“No,” she said patiently, “Seriously. Yours is the only office in the entire department without any kind of decorations. You should see Professor Topper’s room - and his seminar space - they’re both so… festive.”

“Bit like the man himself then,” Rush derided, earning himself a stern glare from the young woman standing in front of him, glowing warmly from the lights she had draped around herself as she untangled them. He glared back, but something about that glow surrounding her disarmed most of his ire, and began to awaken another kind of warmth inside of him.

“It’s Christmas,” she insisted.

“It’s December fifth,” he argued, adding as emphatically as he could, “No!”

“Just the lights,” she bargained.

“There’s a stack of papers to grade,” he answered, pointing at the items he’d deposited on the table after she assaulted him with fairy lights.

“And then I can finish putting up the lights?” she offered him an enticing smile and he threw up his hands.

“Fine!” He sighed and started to reach out for the door. “I’ll be in the lecture hall if you need me.”

He didn’t give her a chance to answer in any way before he snatched open the door, went through, and slammed it behind him.

“Bah, humbug,” Belle chuckled as she listened to his footsteps retreating down the hallway. The man was all bluster, and the way he grumped and snapped and snarled, like some kind of abandoned dog, only endeared him to her all the more.  She would crack that shell. She just knew there was a kind and gentle man within.

He was just hurt that was all. She knew, of course, who didn’t after all? Everyone in the department spoke in hushed tones about how the man had become even more driven after he lost his wife to cancer, and holidays were always the hardest times of year that way. She knew that too - from personal experience - always missing her mother all the more at Christmas time.

She took a breath, and shook it off. No sense in getting maudlin. She had a stack of papers to grade, and several strings of lights to hang, not to mention the small tree to decorate that was still boxed in the corner, half obscured by the book case, and all before Doctor Rush got back from setting up for the afternoon lecture.

Smiling, she pulled a pen from the cup on Doctor Rush’s desk, and pulled up the chair from beside the door, settling down to read, and grade the undergraduates’ work.

His mind was wandering, and the figures on the whiteboard swam around in front of his eyes. He was distracted and he knew it.  With a sigh he capped the pen currently held between his teeth, and retreated to the front row of the desk to concentrate on what was written in the small notebook.

Why should it bother him so much that Miss French wanted to decorate his office? It wasn’t as if he would notice it much anyway; he was rarely there, preferring the space of the lecture hall instead.

He pulled an older notebook from the small stack in his pocket to flick back through years old calculations.  He knew the answer he needed was in one of them, somewhere, and he’d be damned if he’d let inappropriate thoughts about his graduate assistant distract him from finding it.

The door was locked, garlanded with lights that softly faded in and out behind him, throwing multiple, color-tinted shadows across the creamy curves revealed by the open cotton of her blouse.

“Fuck!” he hissed, shaking his head to banish the imaginary scene; to refocus on the figures on the pages he turned one after the another, skimming them quickly and taking in mathematical formula after mathematical, theoretical proofs.

“Put up the tree, Nick!”

Written in flowing cursive, in the soft magenta color that Gloria had always used when leaving him notes, the message leaped up at him like the Ghost of Christmas Past. He blinked and ran his fingers over the letters on the page. The message made him chuckle in irony, thought he actually stopped to consider the message - thinking about it for quite some time before he flipped the old notebook closed, put it back into his pocket and scribbled something down on a page in his current one.  Then he stood up and left the lecture hall with a determined stride, and almost… almost a spring in his step.

Belle rubbed a hand across her forehead, frowning as she tried to decipher the handwriting on one of the papers.  There were only a few students who still submitted by hand, most typed up their assignments and she very much wished they all did. It took three times as long to grade the hand written - and for that you could usually read ‘scrawled’ - papers.  Mind you, given that she spent half of her days trying to decipher Doctor Rush’s hand written lecture notes, she couldn’t understand why it was so hard to do the same for student papers.

For a moment she considered dropping this one to the bottom of the stack and getting through more of the typed papers, but she was determined not to be defeated. She was half way through the paper when the office door almost burst open, making her almost jump out of her skin.  The only thing that kept her in her seat was Doctor Rush, who suddenly leaned over her, one hand on the back of the chair, the other on the desk beside the paper.

She closed her eyes, and took in a deep breath. He didn’t do this often, but when he did it sent her senses reeling in a most inappropriate direction. The deep breath did nothing but fill her with the biting proximal spice, and only exacerbated those feelings that she mostly managed to keep in check.

“Doctor Ru—”

“Leave that one,” he instructed, picking it up by the corner as if it were some kind of insult, and moved it to one side. “I’ll pass it back and tell the little weasel to get it typed.”

“Bu—” she began, turning her head to look at him, and almost had to pull back to prevent brushing the underside of his chin with her lips. She swallowed and pulled her lower lip between her teeth.

“Seven,” he said, his voice all gravel and accent. “I need y’help.”

She began to frown, confused, but then notice that either by some kind of otherworldly physics, or at the very least, slight of hand, he had set a piece of paper from his notebook on top of the stack of as yet ungraded assignments, and as she looked more closely, she saw an address - presumably his - scribbled on the notebook page.

“I’ll… be there,” she told him, and he nodded, beginning to straighten up.

“Dinner’s on me,” he told her, and turned to head for the door, adding, “and ye might wannae finish hanging up these lights, before someone trips and gets hurt.”

“Of course, Doctor Rush.” She couldn’t help but smile, as color crept onto her cheeks.

“One more thing,” he stopped by the door and half turned her way, his hand on the handle. “I think it’s about time - when there’s no one else about mind - that you call me Nick.”

She didn’t have time to answer, other than to blink owlishly, before he was through the door and it swung closed behind him.

Rush three - tree two.

It had taken a while, but finally he sat back on the couch, victorious, the tree upright, level, and ready to be decorated, in pride of place in the corner of the seldom used lounge room. Boxes of lights and decorations stood nearby, and in the kitchen, the Chinese take-out, was keeping warm in the oven.

He shook his head as he felt the flutter of nervousness tickle his insides. He was too old for that kind of shit, he told himself. He was a grown man. He could handle himself. Right?

He looked around, checking that the room looked acceptable for company, not that he was proud, nor did he think he’d fool Miss French - Belle, he reminded himself - in the slightest. She’d seen his office at the university after all, but he wanted this to be different - special - and he purposely ignored the danger in that desire.

He got up then, and moved to light the gas fireplace to take the chill off the room. He just about had time for a shower to freshen up before Belle arrived, and he found himself wondering just what she would be thinking.

He wasn’t one for singing in the shower, as the old cliché went, but for some reason, he found himself humming a little known Scottish Christmas carol, or - he corrected himself quickly - a Winter one at least. He couldn’t for the life of him remember where he’d learned it, nor where he last heard it, but it suddenly came to him with the warmth of the water cascading over his naked form in direct contrast to the cold in his bathroom, and that reminded him that he needed to get the heater there fixed.

So much was wrong with the old house that he wondered at himself; at what on earth had attracted him to the building in the first place. Part of him couldn’t help but wonder if it was more to do with wanting to get out of the old place so quickly that had colored his decision. Over the years though he had come to love the place, even though he barely used anything but the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen and the downstairs office. There were several other rooms, and the real estate agent assured him it would make a good family home.  He snorted at that thought.

“God forbid,” he murmured aloud, and ended up with a mouthful of soapy water for his troubles. He’d usually swear at such a thing, but then, for no reason he could explain, it just made him chuckle.

For good measure, after he finished rinsing his hair, he ran soapy hands over his body once more, his wiry arms, skinny chest, his strong thighs and calves - just about the only ‘workout’ he ever got was racing from one lecture space to another to keep up with his schedule - the firm globes of his ass, similarly toned, before bringing his hands around to the front, to cup, and properly attend to his manhood. For a guy his age, he thought, he wasn’t in too bad of a shape.

He twitched beneath the touch of his hand, and all but dropped himself when he realized he had been wondering what Belle thought of his physique, and that he certainly thought of her as more than ‘handsome,’ as his family would have said, no, Belle was beautiful.

“Behave,” he told himself firmly, also aloud, and decided it was probably a good time to get out, get dry and dressed, and… “Shit!”

He also realized then that he had forgotten the gift he had for Belle; that it sat - still unwrapped - on his kitchen table.  He’d meant to wrap it before getting the decorations down from the attic, but had gotten himself sidetracked, and there it remained, in the middle of the table for all to see.

No stranger to drying and dressing himself in ten seconds flat from the days where he was leaning far too much on the booze for sleep, he snapped off the water, stepped out of the shower and vigorously toweled himself dry, before padding naked to the bedroom where he had already laid out the smart, but casual enough clothes - a clean pair of jeans and an almost festive shirt in dark green, like holly.

He didn’t bother with socks or shoes, the rest of the house was warm enough after all, and he usually padded around his home barefoot anyway. That settled, he started down the stairs, and to the kitchen, where the little solar powered reading lamp stood waiting atop the book it was meant to illuminate - an old science fiction novel about man’s first space travel that he’d found in a second hand book store, and thought would make an excellent gift for the inquisitive young woman that was his graduate assistant.

The lamp was packaged in a dome shaped piece of Perspex to better display the innovative science that had made it possible. Charged by either direct or indirect sunlight the battery gathered and stored the power it gleaned from the day, and the small but powerful LED lights, amplified by the mirrored cone around them provided - so the back of the packaging said - ample powerful light that could be angled to suit the needs of the reader. He’d overheard Belle complaining to her friend, Miss Lucas, that her apartment was terribly dreary and it made reading at night before bed very difficult.  This, he hoped, would work, and of course he’d tease her and say that he bought it for her so that she could keep up with the grading he expected from her.

A small smile crossed his face as he wrangled with the wrapping paper to try and get the dome adequately and neatly enough covered, and he was doing just fine… fine until the doorbell sounded that was. He rushed the last of the wrapping so he wouldn’t keep Belle waiting, because it could only be Belle, and quickly dropped off the gift in the lounge before heading for the door.

Of course ruby had teased her mercilessly as she tried on outfit after outfit, before she finally decided on a festive - and somewhat short - plaid skirt in red and green, with a softer green sweater.

“Going for seduction, are you?” Ruby teased again, and Belle blushed.

“Is it too much?” She asked, tucking her lower lip between her teeth in worry.

Ruby laughed. “Not enough if you ask me,” she said.

“I did ask you,” Belle gave her a pointed look, “and for the record, I’m not planning on seducing my professor.”

“Sure,” Ruby agreed, dragging out the word in a two tone kind of way. “Belle, I’ve seen the way you get all day-dreamy, and it sure as shit isn’t over Gaston.”

Belle made a sour face at the mention of the jock that had been harassing her since the beginning of the semester.

“Nick said he needs my help, that’s all.”

“Nick?” Ruby teased, with a raised eyebrow.

Belle blushed again fiercely. “Doctor Rush,” she said firmly.

“Belle, give it up!” Ruby laughed. “You wouldn’t be the first to get the hots for a professor, and you sure won’t be the last. Besides, you’re an adult, and a grad student, not even his student, just assigned to him as his assistant. What’s the harm?!”

Ruby began to push Belle toward the door when the sound of a car horn came from outside of their shared, ground floor apartment, draping her coat around her shoulders, and handing her her purse, and the bag containing the wrapped gift she meant to give to Nick, and the bottle of wine, so she wouldn’t turn up empty handed.

“Go… enjoy the man!”

“Ruby!”

“Go.”

As she settled into the back of the cab, Belle considered Ruby’s words. As much as she protested her innocence, her attraction to the irascible Doctor Rush had been growing stronger the more she worked with him. It was getting harder to ignore, or to hide. Perhaps Ruby was right, perhaps she should just throw caution to the four winds and… 

“Miss…?”

The cab driver startled her out of her contemplations, and as she looked around, she realized they had already arrived. She quickly drew out the fare, and paid the driver, adding a generous tip, before she got out of the cab, and headed for the door of the modest suburban home in which, it seemed, Rush lived.

She tried not to bounce on her toes as she rang the doorbell and waited. What if he’d changed his mind?  What if it had been all some kind of cruel joke on his part and it wasn’t even his house at all? What if…?

The door before her opened to reveal Nick Rush, casually but smartly dressed in a pair of jeans, and and a dark green shirt that was untucked, and open at the top two or three buttons. She drew in a deep breath, and gave him a smile.

Before she could speak, however, he reached forward and drew her inside, saying softly, “Come in. You must be freezing out there.” He closed the door behind her, and she felt herself enveloped in the warmth of the house, and then the soft embrace of his arms as he gave her a brief and somewhat awkward hug of welcome. “I’m glad ye came,” he said as he pulled back.

“Thank you,” she said softly, feeling her face flushing brightly.

“Let me take y’r coat,” he said, and took it from her, taking it to a small closet where he hung it up before returning to her. “Why don’t you come through and warm y’self.” She watched as he gestured to a nearby open doorway. “Can I get ye something to drink?”

She smiled then and broke from becoming lost in the softness of his demeanor, his accent more pronounced in private than at the university. She liked this version of the man all the more, and her belly flipped, sending gentle but insistent tingles up, and down through her body.

“Ah,” she said, remembering the wine. She reached into the bag, and pulled out the bottle. “I didn’t know what we’d be eating, so I brought a rosé. I hope that’s okay?”

He returned her smile, with a twinkle in his eye as he said, “You didn’t need t’do that, but thank you.” Then he added, “Chinese, I hope that’s all right?”

“Perfect,” she assured him.

“I’ll put this in the fridge to chill,” he told her. “Go on through, and make yourself at home.”

He ushered her toward the doorway with a gentle push of his hand in the small of her back, before heading in a different direction, to the kitchen she presumed.

The lounge was warm, neat and tidy - which surprised her, from what she knew of Rush. She could only guess that he didn’t much use this space, and found herself wondering why now? The thought sent another burst of butterflies swirling around in her stomach. Then she spotted the tall Frazier fir in the corner of the the room, and the boxes that stood nearby and chuckled as she understood. He wanted her to help him decorate for Christmas.

The chuckle gave way to a deep feeling of fondness that actually brought gathering moisture to her eyes. She felt honored and accepted that he would ask her to do that.

Rush leaned against the kitchen counter for a moment, gathering himself after slipping the bottle of wine into the fridge. He hadn’t expected quite such a visceral reaction as he’d felt when he saw Belle for the first time that evening, her short skirt giving a wonderful view of her lithe legs, and he firmly resolved that he would be the one mounting the short ladder to reach the top of the tree, otherwise the temptation would just be too great.

Then again, he’d felt her shiver as his hand pressed into the small of her back. Could that mean that the feelings were shared? Mutual?  He shook his head. He couldn’t let him think that way. 

As a distraction, he took the eggnog from the refrigerator, and the delicate frosted glasses that had been specifically bought for the purpose, so many years ago now. He’d washed them earlier. He decided that there was little more festive than decking the halls with a glass of eggnog in your hand, holiday music playing - and he already had that prepared - and… He tried to stop himself, but the thought came anyway.

Someone special to share it with.

He took a breath, poured a splash of dark rum and cognac into the bottom of each glass, and filled each the rest of the way with eggnog, stirring them gently to incorporate the liquids, before picking them up, and heading back to the lounge.

He stopped dead, and swallowed hard. Belle was bent over one of the boxes of decorations, the back of her thighs visible far more than was appropriate. Gentleman that he was - or rather, could be, - Rush backed up a few steps, and before he started forward to reenter the room, said cheerfully, “I thought we could have some eggnog to start the evening.”

Thankfully, the tactic worked, and Belle had straightened up and turned to face him as he entered the room a second time. Even so, the memory tightened his jeans just that little bit. He smiled as he handed her the glass.

“Tell me if it’s too strong,” he said, watching as she took a careful sip.

“No,” she said with a smile, “It’s lovely. Thank you.”

He waved away her thanks and then gestured toward the boxes. “I figure y’ve guessed what I need you to help me with.” Then he gestured to the tree. “I’m hopeless with stuff like that. It was always Gloria’s job.”

He blinked then, getting the deepest sense, as he spoke her name then, and without a stab of grief or guilt at having another woman in his home to help with the task, that this whole evening, that making him face his feelings for the young woman before him, was somehow Gloria’s doing. It had been her note, after all, that had led him to ask Belle to come and help. Ordinarily he would dismiss such a ridiculous notion, but something stopped him, and for once, he decided not to fight it.

“I’m delighted,” Belle said, and reached out to squeeze his arm. He felt the heat of her touch keenly. “I love this kind of thing.”

“Aye, I guessed when I caught you decorating my office.” His words were spoken with a light chuckle in them to let her know he wasn’t serious.

“Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” she quipped, and he laughed, and raised his glass to her in a silent toast of agreement.  “You’ve enough lights, I take it,” she said, moving to the second box and beginning to open it. “That’s a pretty big tree.”

She set her glass down on the nearby sideboard before rummaging in the box full of boxes of decorations and other Christmas fixtures. Rush forced himself to move beside her, and focus on also searching in the boxes for the many strings of lights he knew he had.  Soon enough, he and Belle had them lined up, and ready to decide which sets to use. He had white, and gold, and a soft rose color, enough of each to fill the tree with light.

“Which do you think?” Belle asked, turning to face him.

“Um…” he hedged, truly at a loss, but also lost in wanting her to make the choice, wanting her to be the one to bring the grace of the holiday to his home. “Why don’t you choose. I’d like that,” he said honestly.

Belle let her eyes meet his for a moment, taking in the truth in the words, and not daring to hope she truly saw the feeling behind the words.  Then she nodded, and took a brief look around to room to decide which would best compliment the décor.

“The rose and the gold, I think,” she mused, and then nodded to herself. “Yes. Rose and Gold.”

Rush nodded, and began to move the white lights aside to make space around the tree so that they could hang the lights, spiraling round the tree, weaving around each other until there was a net of beautiful lights illuminating the dark green of the fir.

Belle took a step back to admire their handiwork and collided with Rush, who had done exactly the same thing. Rather step away though, he draped his arms around her shoulders, just in companionship, she knew, but still, the contact stirred her growing need to be closer to him.

“Looks good,” she managed.

“Aye, it does,” he agreed, and she heard the slight roughness in his voice. A moment later he swallowed, and then did move away, and she watched for a moment as he began to pull out packages of baubles from the two boxes, before turning from his crouch to ask her, “Angel or Star?” and nodding toward the top of the tree.

“Star,” she said, without hesitation.

From the box, he lifted out a beautiful, delicate star, woven into a snowflake, that she could see would plug in to the lights at the top of the tree. It was perfect. It felt as though it were meant. She moved to take it from him and without giving a moment’s thought to her attire, climbed up the four step ladder, and began to secure the star to the top of the tree, having to stand on tiptoes, even atop the ladder, to reach and fix the thing in place.

Before she could truly overbalance, she felt the warm strength of Rush’s hands, one on her belly, the other holding her hip, as he stood beside her to steady her. The touch, though practical, was the most intimate yet, and she felt a pulse between her legs. She drew her lip between her teeth once more to stifle the soft moan that was gathering in her throat. How she wanted more.

“Should have let me do that,” he said softly, though with no reprimand, only concern. The breath of his words tickled her thigh, doing little to curb the feelings of need within her. She started down the ladder once the star was lit and yelped, just a little, as he suddenly lifted her down the short distance to the floor. She grasped his shoulders, and knew he wouldn’t let go until she caught her balance. It would have been so easy to give in, to tug him closer and devour his mouth in a deep kiss.

Instead, she took a breath, swallowed, and thanked him softly before turning to examine the treasures laid before her to hang upon the tree. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. God knows she did, but the feelings, though compelling, were also delicious in their denial.

Rush caught the moan that left his chests in the tightness of his throat as Belle moved away, then moved to take a sip of his eggnog, which he had set down on the coffee table, and discreetly adjust himself within his jeans, as uncomfortable as his growing desire had made him.

When he turned back to Belle, she was she was sorting the ornaments into piles, before setting one stack back into one of the now empty boxes, and on the ground, laid out by color and length, were strings of garland for them to tuck into the branches of the tree.

“Are you always this organized, Miss French,” he teased.

“Only when my project partner is so disorganized, Doctor Rush.” She gave as good as she got, and that made him chuckle. He got a string of silvery white garland thrown, snowball like, in his face for his trouble.

He laughed, genuinely then, and taking the hint, he moved to the tree and began to festoon it with garland, taking guidance from Belle, warmed by the companionship they shared, and the occasional, accidental brushes of hands. Lit and garlanded, Rush had to admit, the tree, and the room around it, were beginning to look, and feel warmer and more festive.

“Now for the fun part,” Belle said, almost bouncing in place with the excitement he’d felt gathering in her the more the tree became decorated.

“What, and this wasn’t fun so far,” he raised an eyebrow, drawing a soft giggle from her.

“Here,” she answered, thrusting a box of baubles into his hands, “See if you can use those mathematical formulas of yours to space them out around the tree.”

She was teasing, he knew, but his answer was serious. “Oh no. No math tonight. I’m leaving work at work.” The words held such a double meaning that he had to take a deep breath against his body responding to his own admonition.

She gave him a warm, gentle smile and answered, “I’m glad to hear it.”

Each box of baubles placed brought them closer, as if their connectedness, was tied in to the completion of the tree, and with the final decoration hung, they stepped back to admire their handiwork.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, feeling more than a little breathless at the near perfection of the tree.

“It is,” she agreed. “Thank you for letting me—”

“You’re beautiful,” he interrupted, while he still had the courage to speak the words.

“Nick…?” she answered, half exclamation, half question, and he gave the only answer he could.

Turning to her, he cupped her face in gentle hands, and leaned down to capture the sweetness of her lips with his, deepening the kiss when he felt her relaxing against him, as he felt her arms wrap around his shoulders, and her fingers find their way into his hair. He tugged her closer, releasing her face to wind his arms around her and draw her body against his, uncaring that she would feel him, hard against her belly. He wanted her to know how much he wanted her; how much he wanted to give her.  She moaned into the kiss, and his spirit soared as he understood that she shared his desires.

She moved, almost catlike, loving the feel of his hardness pressing against her. The thought made her moan into the kiss once more, and as if the sound of her pleasure spoke her permission, he tugged her closer still, his hand slipping down to cup the firm globe of her behind as he shifted her to feel him still more.

Breathless, she broke the kiss and turned her head just enough to give a needful, whispered plea into his ear.

“Nick, please!”

His arms around her tightened, and he lifted her fully against him. As he moved the two of them, she found his neck with her mouth, and began kissing, nipping, teasing at the exposed flesh until he moaned, and almost dropped her. Instead she felt herself set down; released, but before she could reach for him again, he spun her around, pinning her hands beneath his atop the mantle, the heat of him behind her outweighed the heat of the simulated flames in the fire.  His knee slipped between her thighs as he tugged her back against him; before his hand dipped lower to the hem of her short skirt, and climbed again beneath.

Belle let out a sound half way between a moan and a whimper, the heat of his hand eclipsed by the hot, moist need between her thighs, yet somehow she felt his near touch like a fire that could soothe the ache that pulsed within her folds.

“Yes,” she gasped against his mouth as she turned her head to meet his lips that were questing over her cheek, her jaw… the side of her neck.

“…touch you…?” She barely heard the words, but repeated her breathy affirmations of desire, then let out a soft cry as his fingertips slipped beneath the lace of her panties, parted her folds, and teased at her swollen clit.

“Fuck…” he moaned against her neck, his fingers still gliding circles in her wetness, and where he pressed hard against her back, she felt the pulse of need that she strengthened in him as his cock twitched within the confines of his clothes.

“Can’t reach you,” she gasped, her legs beginning to feel like Jello beneath her.

“I know,” he growled against her shoulder, before nipping at her through the wool of her sweater, his fingers tightening around hers where he held them against the mantelpiece.

“Nick,” she pleaded, “I want…”

She bit her lip to try and slow the rising tide of her arousal, but his fingers were too clever, too knowing… 

She lost all sense of thought and became pure emotion, pure feeling as he turned his hand and pushed a long finger deep inside of her, his thumb still working her clit, and she shattered, her muscles dancing around the touch inside of her.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, nipping at the back of her neck like a tomcat, but finally released her hands from atop the mantle. She covered his fingers, slick and soaked with her juices, with her own, and eased his still teasing hand away from her so that she could turn to face him, draw him down to meet her hot and still hungry kiss, while her shaking hands fumbled with the belt, and the button of his jeans.

She frowned as he chuckled, but he just shook his head, and wrapped her in his arms again. He eased her down with him onto the soft rug in front of the fireplace. 

As romantic as it was, the moment gave way to passion and became a flurry of hands and touches, and clothing falling around them as they surrendered to their shared needs. She pushed at his shoulder until he took the hint and rolled so that she was over him. She straddled him, murmuring deeply at the feel of his masculine strength trapped against her wet folds as she teased him with her body, until he moaned, whispering her name.

As much as she wanted to tease him even more, make him wait until he begged for her to take him inside of her, she wanted to feel that glorious, risen length filling her; wanted to ride him until he was spent beneath her. 

Her own thoughts made her needful sigh bubble up through her; tremble with the need of acting on her desires, and she rose again over him, clasped his scalding cock in her hand for but a moment to guide the wide head between her folds, against her, before sinking down slowly to take the whole of him deep and true.

Their shared soft cry resonated between then, within them both and she began to move, rocking over him, her fingers teasing his risen nipples, his hands guiding her hips, supporting her as she then leaned against his shoulders, her movements increasing, a soft gasp escaping her with each thrust he gave to meet her movement.

“Belle,” he groaned, and she could feel the tightness of his balls against her as she descended again to take him fully inside of her. “I can’t…”

“Let go,” she whispered, shaking with the gathering of her own release, and she leaned down to capture his mouth, to taste him as he met the kiss hungrily, their tongues mirroring the movements of their bodies below, until with a growl he broke the kiss, and she felt the heat of him flood within her in the moment before she broke apart, milking him dry, only to fall against him as spent as he was beneath her.

She felt him brush her hair back from her face, and then wind his arms around her securely, holding her close as she tipped her head to look up at him. Then melted as he kissed her softly, before she gave in to the afterglow of their passion, languid and pillowed against him.

The couch cushions leaned against the heavy wooden coffee table made a wonderful support for the two of them as they rested in front of the fireplace. Sated and replete, at least for the moment. Rush held Belle against him, wrapped only in his shirt - which, he noted, suited her better than it did him - and a soft blanket.

The empty plates and wine glasses, still half full, stood on the stone hearth, as they both stared deeply into the flames, and Rush wondered, not for the first time, if he should have someone remove the gas fireplace and truly open up the chimney.  He turned his head to look at Belle as she sighed softly.

“Penny for them,” he said softly.

“I have something for you,” she told him, and scrambled, not quite on all fours, but affording him a delicious glimpse of her creamy behind, to where she had left her bag, returning with a beautifully wrapped gift, which she held out in his direction.

“That’s a coincidence,” he teased, moving with a little more decorum, as little as he wore, to where he had left the gift he had for her, returning to hold it out to her. “I have something for you too.”

She smiled, and then her smile became a giggle, and then a laugh.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Oh, Nick,” she said between peels of laughter. “Someone really needs to teach you to Christmas.”

“What’s wrong with the way I ‘Christmas’?” he mock protested, and grinned as she gestured to the gift he held her way, knowing what she was about to say even before she said it, and fighting to stifle his own laughter.