WRITING - Short Christmas piece!...Kiss me under the Mistletoe

A short piece I wrote back in 2018 from her POV for Christmas. Not too explicit this time but has quite a nice atmosphere to it and hopefully gets you in the Christmas spirit with fireplaces, cosiness and mistletoe X

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The Mistletoe

Two years ago, we had been in this exact same place, underneath the mistletoe. Not in quite the same environment but in the same situation. Me, forlornly gazing into his deep-set eyes, their blue shades twinkling underneath the lights of the tree, his lips ushering forward to me as the party sounded on all around us. It didn’t matter, we had been wrapped up in our own world, where time had allowed itself to slow down for our special moment, a photo could capture it, but I wanted to bottle it forever somehow.

And now he stands before me, still the handsome and daring man I fell for at and after that fateful Christmas encounter. Still the man who surprises me, seduces me and wins me over anew.

“Merry Christmas baby.” He says.

“Merry Christmas to you too mister.” I reply coyly, the smile spreading across my mouth.

It hadn’t always been so steady, we both knew it. James had his reasons and I had mine, but through the good and the bad times we had made it. Through the times I had wanted to shout at the top of my lungs at him and some of his insufferable behaviours. The times when he could be so distant with no explanation, when he seemed to forget about us and drift off into this own universe for days...sometimes weeks. The times when he did his rock climbing in distant areas of the globe, some far flung part of Nepal and he gave me no word or guarantee of his safety.

It could be tough, being in the life of such a go-getting man, such a fearless adventurer, but by his side and nestled up to him through it all was where I was destined to be. I felt it more strongly than any other sensation in my life.

We live in a small cottage in the Trough of Bowland in the English countryside. A stretch of land that God himself seems to have cast his graces over. From the blistering cold of December to the humid heights of August, the area is stunning.

Trust me, it is the last place I thought I would be after my determination to rise through the ranks in law in London. It can be quite daunting to be so far from the corporate world, but I would not trade it for ten million gold bricks. I still did my law after all, working remotely from a Macbook, I had just traded the cramped city space for the old cottage. The beams on the ceiling, the wooden kitchen, the four acres at the back, the woodland and the koi ponds - we have something really special.

James told me one of the beams in our living room had been repurposed from an old sailing ship and the house was a converted farmhouse, dating all the way back to the 18th century. I still visited London and other cities whenever I wanted but it is difficult to beat the glory of the wide open countryside; the rolling hills, the tranquility, the community. The lustre of the city had just sort of faded for me gradually over time.

As the fireplace roars in the background, I feel the heat through his brown locks, the orange of the flames playing with the hues in a twisted dance. My hands rummage through his hair and glide down his cheeks. I sense my lips moisten as I hunger for his controlling touch and I stare as hard as I can into his fearsome gaze.

He lifts me, allowing my legs to wrap around his torso and we go to sit on the armchair, the wooden floor underneath creaks as we move the few feet required. My head falls into his knitted jumper as my hands explore the fabric, his scent, that body wash and softener comes flooding over me and I find myself smiling again. If he is ever away for a few days I like to remind myself of that smell. A trigger point that delivers me back to him instantly…

The logs will probably burn all night and our mulled wine will get finished at some point but not quite yet. Our tree sits proudly in the corner, with a few presents wrapped neatly underneath, the cards from relatives, friends and parents all scatter around them. The wind rustles the trees outside as the evening starts coming to a close. It is one hour till Christmas Day.

Last night we had gone for a late stroll at Beacon Fell, and amidst the woods we had looked up to the stars making our wish for the coming year. I think James had hoped for more peace and prosperity abroad and in the country, something extremely noble, it was just in his nature. Me? Well, I wish for us to never grow tired of each other, for us to have that same sparkle in our eyes and our conversations far into the future. As we made the wish, I stroked his jumper through his overcoat, I felt warm, close and attached to him. The passion between us, it burns brightly and I revel in the feel of his clothes, it feels like a home within a home.

A bearskin rug is stretched out in front of the fire. I cannot count the times we made love on there, the times my fingernails clawed into his back as he levered me into every position, testing my supple frame. I cannot count the times I laid in his arms on that rug, exhausted and drenched in sweat and fell into a deep sleep waking up in the same place for the following morning.

My memories of Christmas are always fond. No matter the strife and heartbreak of the year gone, me, the family, friends and strangers could all seem to come together and make it work. I remember my tenth Christmas, the smell of gingerbread wafting up to mine and my brother’s room, the stockings hung by the mantel and the lights of the tree twinkling in the corner. My eighteenth Christmas was not so different and I can feel that my twenty fourth could be very similar, with the added bonus of the most important man in my life of course.

The snow blankets the ground outside as the chill casts over the land. The sky is a deep black, the woods are awake with the noise of critters and other creatures but the general atmosphere is one of quiet, of expectation for the celebration of tomorrow. Our gate down the driveway has a steady drip of ice melting onto its length and the night melds seamlessly into our isolated setting, our little patch of heaven out here in the English countryside.

“We should build snowmen tomorrow.” I venture eagerly. “I’ve got the cutest little scarf for it.” My head nestles into his inner shoulder.

“Yeah why not?” He replies cheerfully. “I’ve got a little legal gown I can dress yours with, he may actually end up looking more professional than you.”

“Hey! Watch it.” I punch his arm, before succumbing to his fingers as he tickles me excitedly.

“You don’t get to issue the commands around here Sophia.” My cheeks grow a rosy red colour as he runs his index finger playfully down my stomach and back up again. Yes I know I don’t and what are you going to do about it James?

But before I get ahead of myself, all of this cannot be understood without me going back to Christmas 2016, when the wheels of our life burst into motion. So, without further adieu...

Two years ago

It was an elegant party just before Christmas. We were on the 69th floor of The Shard - The View. I was probably really quite naive in many ways, my first corporate Christmas party and I felt like a fish out of water, amongst wealthy and important strangers. Waiters and servers milled around furiously, with sweat beating down their brows as the conversation stirred over the vast floor. Glasses clinked as they filled to the brim with all manner of liquor and spirits. You could almost smell cinnamon and gingerbread in the air as some small Christmas treats were prepared in the kitchens.

Through the windows you could see the whole of London lit up, the old and the new, the beautiful bridges, Westminster, the Houses of Parliament, Saint Paul’s, the cavalcade of glass and people, all caught up in one exhausting existence. The glamour of the exterior seemed in balance with what was happening on the inside, I knew not everyone in London could be so fortunate and what I saw outside that window was far from reflective of the whole truth, but right at that time, everything felt aligned in my little microcosm.

I had my group of girlfriends, a small group, but we were really tightly connected by that point. We had all graduated from the same university, King’s College, in the same law programme and had each wound up at similar firms, so we got to meet at these events, gossip together and laugh about late evenings gone by.

There was Sarah, the bossier one, she wasn’t overwhelmingly beautiful but she had a look to her and she always had a sense of humour that just got to me. She was about as tall as me, with quite a curvy figure, her hips made me jealous on more than a few occasions. Sarah was probably my closest friend. The disappointing dates, the crying episodes, the anguish of exams, she had been there every step of the way. She was a socialite through and through, impeccably good at going into any room and starting a conversation with people.

Then there was Kate, much quieter than Sarah, but no shrew either, if challenged Kate could be a lioness, I had seen her tear loud-mouthed men to shreds in university debates. Kate had long brown hair and a mousy complexion, she was very tall really, towering a few inches above me, but of course she still loved wearing heels. For a seemingly plain girl working in law, she sure went all out for glamour as soon as she could. Kate always had the best gossip too, of course, every group has to have a gossip.

And finally, Abbie. Fairly short, with blonde hair that ran down to her mid-back and a strong temperament. Abbie claimed she had Norwegian heritage somewhere, I didn’t doubt her, she was stunning, piercing blue eyes and lovely symmetrical cheeks that lit up the room when she walked in. But she liked to underplay it, she never wanted to be known as a bimbo. She had modelled briefly with Select and Storm for a couple of fashion shoots and had done London Fashion Week a couple of times at university, but her brain was overactive and she struggled to land permanent modelling work. In some ways I felt sorry for Abbie, she never really fit in anywhere. The pretty girls found her tiring and the smart girls found her intimidating. Truth be told, I did too. She had a perfect little petite frame that seemed to distract nearly all men who saw her and detract attention from me.

“Champagne miss?” A waiter trying to put on a relaxed expression circles round to Sarah.

“Thank you.” She accepts, carefully watching the very full glass all the way into her grip. The waiter motions to the rest of us, I accept, Kate too but Abbie declines with a shrug as we accept our flutes.

“This whole thing. I don’t know, it all feels so grandiose, not real almost.” Kate chimes. I know the feeling.

“Same, I don’t feel like I belong here,” Abbie says. “All the guys seem remarkably stuck up as well, they all have that annoying inflexion in their voice, like they think they are better than everyone else in the room. And the women are even worse.” But Abbie was a harsh judge at the best of times, dismissive of many men who tried to court her.

“Try and keep an open mind girls.” Sarah bites back. “Sophia, there is a guy you just have to meet, I know he is your type, six foot four, swarthy and amazing all around, I don’t kid.” Great, build some unrealistic fantasy in my head Sarah, brilliant way to be a friend.

“I don’t know Sarah. You have said this a few times and the guys have always been duds. Really dull, either meatheads or work obsessives. Are you sure you know me?”

“Oh hush, he’s perfect. I know it.” She hung onto her words with a strong conviction. Our eyes lock and I am seventy percent sure she isn’t lying.

“Okay, but if he starts talking about his position, you can handle him and get him away from me as fast as possible, fair deal?”

“Fine. He is amazing, I would be happy to.”

We sip our drinks and continue our little chat, we catch up for old time’s sake, reminiscing on our last days of university - the silly parties, the pre-drinking, the rumours, the ecstasy after exams had passed. I found my spirit in good manner, she has been asleep for a while. The noise is building at the party as hundreds fill the space, the men are dressed to the nines in tuxedos and the women wear impressive gowns and jewellery, no expenses spared as clients are wooed and cheers are had. The sparkle of the city is ever apparent below me, the beautiful interplay of the colours punctuating the beginning of my favourite season. I can feel warm, cosy, like I am being hugged in a great big wooly jumper with the hot chocolate by the side of me.

Christmas does that to me.

Two hours in, things are growing stale. The initial allure of the magnificent views and the glamorous settings is wearing off. Kate and Abbie seem quite bored but they have started talking to a group of guys, all dressed in tuxedos and I can see their moods perking up. One of the guys cracks a joke and Abbie nearly falls over with laughter, it is unusual for her and I like seeing her lighten up a bit, though I cannot help but think she is vulnerable prey, a girl as pretty as her, all the guys will be trying to charm her. I had seen men throw punches at each other for her before. I sigh gently, could I have such attention for once in my life?

But my attention wavers, with my focus shifting to other more pressing matters. Where is Sarah’s mystery man?

Sarah is across the room talking to a man who looks like an old friend. He is quite non-descript really, glasses, balding and with bad posture, only in his early thirties but already seeing the effects of working strenuous hours in law. I pause, turning back to the bar and ordering a martini, the champagne just wasn’t quite hitting the spot. I grab the nearest stool and hang my legs down limply, running my fingernails along the marble surface as my dress settles around me, fixed tightly to my body.

“Ten pounds please miss.” The barman chimes. He places the glass on a napkin and stabs the olive in place. My card taps the machine as the beep confirms the transaction.

“Thank you.” Turning back to the crowd I retrain my eyes on Sarah, sipping the first drops of the martini. The gin is nice actually, you pay for quality in a place like this it seems. But something has changed, for the better.

Sarah’s man has been joined by a second man, presumably a friend. She touches his elbow, just subtly and I follow the arm up to his face. He is quite striking, long locks of brown hair, smooth looking skin and a darkness to his personality I can sense just under the surface. A bow-tie rests under his neck, the shaven stubble outlining his cheekbones. He looks like a model frankly. He’s a man, Sophia, nothing more, probably not that impressive up close. Wait till he starts talking.

She catches my gaze and in a sudden motion flaps her arms in the air motioning me to come over. Oh no. Frantically, I catch myself in the mirror behind the bar, my hair is okay, but there is so much I wish I could change in this split second. With a few strokes I comb some strange looking ends out of my hair and take a gulp, the drink swerving in my hand as I rise out of the stool and try to walk in a composed manner over to them. Trying not to trip on the dress and make a buffoon of myself is quite the effort and I just know my bum looks big in it. Damn it.

The steps feel heavy, like I am wearing chainmail, worn down by apprehension. I start to feel intensely guarded, it is a party but a professional one nonetheless, I would be friendly but curt, there was no need to leave a bad first impression. Time seems to blur into a continual second as the voices around me grow distant, the chatter becoming an indistinct sound, I almost feel dizzy, drunk on the martini and a nascent schoolgirl crush as the music serves as my only guide over to them.

Sarah kisses me on the cheek as I arrive. We have never done that in four years of friendship, what is she doing? I try to diffuse the awkwardness with a gentle gesture towards the men.

“Sophia, I want you to meet James here.” She motions towards Mr. Handsome.

“James, James Wilson, the pleasure is mine.” Genuine. I half-expected him to be cocky and lead by telling me the pleasure is actually all mine, but he seems old school in his manner. His jawline is quite distracting, his lips even more so.

“Sophia...Richardson. How do you do?” How do you do? Sophia you silly posh fool. Usually I was fearless in these situations, but the words seemed to stick to my mouth, like I couldn’t get them out.

“I do okay Sophia, just got back from California this morning actually, so a bit tired but nothing I can’t handle.” I immediately want to follow up with a question, but I forget I am being rude to the original guy Sarah was speaking to.

“And his friend Arthur Carrington.” He gives a wide grin and enthusiastically shakes my hand, he seems like a very nervous man, but probably very intelligent. I smile back courteously. The baldness is much more present up close and his eyes are dark, like he has had no sleep for two days straight. Having met many other men like him, it is clear he is a workaholic, a good company man, always half an hour early to the office and ready to go the extra mile, he will be a partner one day somewhere at one of the big law firms.

“Nice to meet you Sophia, Sarah here was telling us a little bit about what you do.”

“Oh was she?” Sarah sniggers slightly as I give her a withering look. “And what is it I do?”

“You are first year IP at Allen & Overy right?”

“Yes.”

“But you want to move to corporate and M&A, seems like an odd switch?” We had exchanged a few words to each other and already he was making grand assumptions about me. It was uncomfortable.

“Yes I do.” There is nothing I want to talk about less. James holds a whiskey glass steady in his right arm looking at a watch on his other wrist as the seconds seem to drag by. I blush sensing this line of conversation is about to bore him to tears.

“The thing about M&A is no matter the hours, the rewards are always so much better, but transferring out of IP is going to be difficult, I can guarantee.” He sniggers, with a quick drink from his champagne flute. Arthur is a real charmer. I cough audibly as a way to signal to Sarah to get me out of it. She always was the better saleswoman and the social butterfly. I purse my lips and glance awkwardly at the ground waiting for the conversation to move somewhere else.

“Oh Arthur can we put work aside just for tonight? James, why were you in California? You must be shattered.” Sarah chips in.

“I was exploring a few of the national parks over there. Joshua Tree, Yosemite, Pinnacles. Just rock climbing with some buddies and a lot of walking. The flight was okay.” He’s adventurous. Not exactly my usual type but it compliments his looks well, he can be rugged and well-dressed. And who just goes rock climbing? He must have a relatively free lifestyle to be able to do such things.

“Really?” I ask, genuinely surprised.

“Yeah I have climbed since I was a young boy, always loved reading fiction and non-fiction adventure stories, gets my blood stirring.”

Blood...stirring, it is an interesting use of words, I don’t hear many men speak like that.

“That sounds interesting, do you wear a harness and helmet and all the gear?”

“Depends really, on the danger I am in. I have free climbed before on some without safety gear.” Butterflies are fluttering in my stomach already, the conversation is still stifled but my sixth sense was telling. I stare at James a bit longer than is strictly necessary. Sarah’s gaze feels hot on my cheeks, she knows how I am responding to him.

“Wow.” It leaves me without censor. Me and my stupid mouth. I flush a bright crimson red as James focuses more intently on me and he snipes me with a quick question.

“What gets your blood stirring Miss Richardson?” He sips from the whiskey glass, the ice clinking against the side. The tension is mounting rapidly.

Freezing up, I look at Sarah. This man is the real deal. Sarah offers a little smile as she sips her cocktail urging me to respond quickly. We have our little signals, Sarah is just an acquaintance of James’s, I can tell that much, Arthur, I’m not sure about yet. Though why Sarah had kept this man hidden from our relationship I had no idea.

“Well I guess I’m a romantic at heart. And making lasting change in the world however I can, charities, helping in war-torn countries.” It felt cliched. “I guess no one has ever really asked me so quickly after meeting me.” I try to put the pressure back onto him.

“One thing you’ll learn about me is I’m not no one.”

My mouth drops open slightly as he checks his phone from his tuxedo pocket, a notification concerns him. A girlfriend? A wife? What exactly is his situation? Sarah notices my curiosity and coughs as a way for James to acknowledge his actions.

“Work Jimmy?” Arthur asks.

“Yeah, some more nonsense, we’ll sit down with them tomorrow. Didn’t mean to be rude ladies.”

Phew. “No problem.” In the brief minute or two we have known each other, James has made quite a mark on me. The Shard feels livelier with him there. But he is inscrutable himself, clearly used to protecting his words, making sure his phrases means what he wants them to. He is a bit of a mystery amongst a sea of predictability. Amongst the suits and the corporate suck-ups he stands taller, physically and spiritually. His long brown locks, romp down his face, so different to the smart and ordered hair cuts all around me.

Gradually, James brings me into his world and we start chatting eagerly as Sarah and Arthur continue a different conversation. She really can make friends with anyone, it is quite a gift, I envy her sometimes, that ability to cut through the awkwardness and connect with people. James tells me more about California, about his activities over there, he has family over there apparently, a big one at that and yet his accent is English through and through, he surely has an intriguing tale to tell about that. But why is he here exactly?

“What brought you here anyway Mr. Wilson?”

“Well, I don’t work in law, I am just here as Arthur is an old friend of mine and my family’s and he is helping with a legal battle for my startup.”

“A startup, you have a company?”

“Yeah it is nothing special, we do pharmaceuticals, in a phase two trial for a new drug for reducing some of the symptoms of type two diabetes. It sounds boring, but it really could be an exciting breakthrough for the problem.” It didn’t sound boring at all. “When I am not creating drugs, I climb, surf, try to stay as outdoorsy as I can. You ever surfed Miss Richardson?”

I haven’t. “No, I’d like to but...my balance isn’t great exactly.”

“Shame I can’t teach you some time, I go to Cornwall every so often in the Summer.” You can teach me, that and a few more private things would not go amiss, Mister Wilson.

“You seem like a good teacher.” I lower my eyelids ever so slightly in his direction.

“As long as you wear a tight-fitting bikini and not a diving suit. I think we can arrange something. We need Baywatch, not Crimewatch.” I tap him on the shoulder, pretending to be shocked as he smirks, the corner of the right side of his mouth upturned. He is like a cat playing with a mouse - the way he teases me, it is quite intoxicating. As he smirks he checks his watch again, I wonder what he is checking it all the time for? Somewhere else he needs to be?

But it is starting to piece together, I can feel the jigsaw connecting in my mind, slowly revealing who James is. But I don’t want the momentum to die, I have a lot of other questions to ask him. And it wouldn’t hurt to stare upwards at his perfectly proportioned face for a while longer.

As Arthur talks industry gossip with Sarah, I signal to her that I plan to split with James somewhere, anywhere. She double checks my wishes, nodding her head a couple of times, as if she wants me to understand what I am getting myself into. I nod back. There is a spark between us, an electricity surging between us, it cannot die tonight.

Sarah and Arthur break away from us to join another group. She catches a snap-second look my way, giving me a wink. James finishes the whiskey glass, placing it on the tray of a waiter passing by. Reaching for his pocket he slides a five pound note to the waiter who looks extremely grateful for the tip.

“Come, let’s head to the bar. You need at least four more martinis before we finish talking.”

“Is that so?”

I laugh gracing my hand across my neck and collarbone unconsciously. How wild can he drive me? I wonder. He leads the way and we snake through the crowd as the revellers talk more excitedly amongst themselves. A few roars of laughter erupt from more senior people remembering times gone by, different suits and cases, funny moments at the offices. It is raucous, but it feels like Christmas, the decorations of green and holly cover the pillars and seating areas. The vibe is contagious, no matter how cynical or professional I could pretend to be.

A couple of hours later, the party is starting to ramp up. People are laughing and the music is pulsing as dancers take to the floor, hurling their bodies in different directions. A big Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner with ten million lights twinkling into the distance, projecting onto London those hundreds of metres below us. I had noticed it on arriving but it was more present now, I was very alert to it. In fact, the view was clearer now, just how high up we were, the goosebumps came over me as I stared into the abyss below.

“Not scared of heights are you?” He questions.

“No, just don’t remember it being so high, just a couple of hours ago” I was a little bit more scared, a fear I had had since being a child. He sensed it.

“Funny, you don’t strike me as a girl that afraid of many things. But maybe I am wrong.”

“Oh you know me now do you?” I challenged.

A delicate touch of my shoulder with the back of his hand. “I know when a woman is fearful Miss Richardson, don’t bullshit me.”

I’m melting. “Well, a little bit. I don’t know, heights just freak me out I guess. I can’t even stand working in a skyscraper half the time.”

“You should try climbing some time, nothing crazy, some indoor activity, it will be hard at first but the fear will be knocked right out of you gradually.” So long as I get to see you climb without a shirt on. But surfing and climbing, which one would it be?

“Is that an invite?”

“It’s a suggestion.” He grins, the angles in his mouth showcasing his lips more fully to me.

“Sounds like quite a forward suggestion Mr Wilson.”

“I’m forward...deal with it.” He fires back with a decisive tone. Okay, I can deal with it. “If I have the time I will show you the ropes. You need a good mentor for these things.”

“And you’re a good mentor?”

He doesn’t respond, allowing me to stand with my words. A moment flutters by, the excitement folds over the air.

He gives a subtle nod.

“I’d like a mentor.”

I wonder at this point if we are still talking about the climbing, the similarity between that activity and something else is really quite uncanny. I bite my lip as I try to suffocate a little murmur, my mind is drifting off to forbidden places and he is good at reading expressions, I couldn’t give too much away. Time to switch topics. I make a concerted effort to look out the nearest window at the spectacular view.

“London is amazing this time of the year isn’t it? The markets, the festivities, everyone just seems happier.”

“Happier?” He retorts with a flash of confusion on his face.

“Yeah, more so than usual.”

He swirls the whiskey before taking a short sip, rolling it along the counter top slightly. “I’ve never seen it that way.” A brooding look fell over his face, it wasn’t quite anger, more a sort of sadness. “Don’t get me wrong I have spent my time here, three Christmases here to be precise. I love the old buildings, the traditional stuff, but I find the commercial atmosphere oppressive. We can all make money but this city finds a way to suck the joy out of people. I’ve seen it too often. Look at Arthur. Just one case in millions. You probably think I’m the kooky adventurer with the grand ideas but I think I might be right on this one.”

Usually, I would have had a witty reply, but the words fail me. I liked the city a lot so it was odd to hear such a resounding speech against it. He could be quite poetic for a rugged outdoorsman.

“There is a lot to like about this city though.” My words seemed feeble in response to his flowing speech.

“What is it exactly about London that you like so much?”

“I like the people, the drive of everyone, the cultural events, the restaurants. I could go on.” Shrugging, he ignored my sentiments and dove straight into this thoughts again.

“I grew up in the countryside, actually in Wales, but I have always had a fondness for Northern England actually, Yorkshire and Lancashire. I spent some time there as a boy, weekends away with the family, going for long walks and enjoying the air. I find it really freeing. The city, often soulless. I can never full relax here. I’m no eco-nut but there is something to be said for living away from too much chaos. I find an inner peace away from the toil of everyday life.”

His words flowed effortlessly, he was a natural speaker. I found myself getting sucked into agreeing, despite my body’s best intentions to fight it, he had a hypnotic way of speaking, he didn’t speak in specifics like the lawyers, he sort of meandered in and out of what he wanted to say. It was quite refreshing.

“You don’t put up much counter-argument do you Miss Richardson?”

Okay, that certainly stung, it was quite rude to be honest. “I’m just a bit tongue-tied. Just collecting my thoughts, give a girl some time will you?” Jeez do I always sound that defensive? Trying not give away my emotions, I bluster my way into another line. “Do you expect me to always resist Mister Wilson?”

He flickers his eyes at me, the burning embers strike up deep within them, they are a bright blue colour, like the azure of the ocean surface, like the body of the sky. Reaching his fingers to his chin, he strokes his stubble thoughtfully, replying when he is ready.

“I expect you to resist Miss Richardson. But I don’t expect you to be successful.” He looks up and down my body, taking in my figure and my dress with a slight exhale. With a singular motion he undoes his bow tie and unravels one button on his white shirt. I can catch a slight glimpse of what is underneath, the moving tendons, the relaxed muscles, I can sense it under the controlled exterior, the rampant being he is.

“What exactly does that mean?”

“It means my hands over your neck, my fingertips over your lips and my body very...very close to yours. With only the words ‘yes sir’ leaving your mouth.” My heart skips several beats and thuds uncontrollably in anticipation.

The tension reaches a crisp height. Surrounding air is so exhausting to breathe, my face is growing increasingly flushed with the nerves and I feel like I need to leave The Shard and inhale the sweet oxygen a thousand times over. Out of desperation I look around for Sarah, for Abbie, for Kate, wondering where they are, my eyes scan the floor furiously, but there are too many bodies. Hundreds of people letting loose. Panicked, is that the right word for this? I don’t know, my throat feels impossibly dry, like I need a thousand gallons of water to quench my thirst.  But of course, he makes my decision for me.

“There is something I want to show you. Follow me.” Yes Mister Wilson. He can be quite scatterbrained, like he has an inability to focus on something for a long period of time, there were little things I was picking up on from him that could irritate me, but it is Christmas. It is hard to stay annoyed at these trivial things at Christmas. I grab onto his outstretched hand as he leads me on.

Outside the tall windows, the first fine drops of snow are beginning to descend down the glass. If you move closer to it, you can almost make out the crystallised structure of each flake, it’s really quite pretty. Each one is really large, it is rare for the snow to fall so early in London, but I am not complaining. It reminds me of childhood, of bursting out of the back door and into the garden to clump together the first snowball to throw at my brother, to have my dad lift me up and spin me around in his strong arms until I feel dizzy. I can still smell the cinnamon from the stove and the orange from the mulled wine, I remember that little girl in her daddy’s arms dreaming of Santa Claus and it elicits the biggest smile on my face to reminisce so many years later. Only Christmas can do this to me.

As the snow falls outside the twinkling lights strike a thousand buildings and bound across the city in even more directions. It looks like the Northern Lights; our own special display to enjoy so many miles away from the true thing.

Just by the tree, there is a quieter spot and practically no one is here. Some mistletoe hangs down from a hook on the wall, buried in between several other decorations. It seems strange really, like no one is allowed near it, hardly real and yet I wasn’t dreaming there it was and James saw it too. There are still people around of course, the music is loud, the dancing is infectious, but a layer of perspex covers this humble part of the floor. The lights from the tree shimmer down, illuminating the ground in a fine film of colour. They really set a gentle and romantic mood for us; but I am not an idiot, I know full well what happens with mistletoe.

I fold my arms and pout. “Oh no, if you think you are kissing me under the mistletoe you are mistaken.” I give him a sullen expression and arch my left eyebrow, daring him to do something. I am no pushover.

He says nothing but moves his eyes between me and the mistletoe. Without blinking, he lifts me off my feet and runs over to it. Banging my firsts on his back hysterically, I can’t stop giggling the whole way as he threatens to put me in a fireman’s lift, twirling me around several times until the room starts to spin.

“I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Believe it.”

We arrive under the mistletoe and he lets me down onto the floor. I feign anger, with my hands on my hips, but he is unfazed. Climbing rock faces is probably harder than dealing with stroppy girls, I admit, but it frustrates me he is so nonchalant. He is unpredictable to a tee.

Without warning he moves into my space and holds his hands on my shoulders. I can’t move them, even if I want to, I feel passive, malleable to his will. His hands move from my shoulders across my delicate collarbone and to the soft confines of my neck. My voice is weak but I whisper a stray sentence to test him.

“Don’t I need two more Martinis?...Mr Wilson.” My eyelids move up and down in a slow motion as my heart hangs onto his every word.

“Well Miss Richardson. That is one way of looking at it. The other way of course is to close your eyes or I will have to blindfold you.”

His fragrance hits me hard, a heady combination of citrusy and dark smells. My hands glide down the lapel of his tuxedo, I want to touch his chest but it feels all too soon. What am I doing? This isn’t me at all. But these were not ordinary circumstances. James, was well, James was something I had never encountered before.

“Close your eyes.” His command rings out loud and clear. It is against my normal nature to follow something so eagerly, but I like the direction of this submission. Slowly and somewhat nervously I close my eyes, there is nothing but darkness for a few seconds as the thud of the music continues in a steady rhythm, the one and two of the kick and snare drum flattening my senses, as everything else dulls. His hand comes down my back, as his other hand tilts my head back and I inhale sharply as his lips make contact gracefully.

He buries his lust and desire into me, roaming his hands across my neck and ears. The momentum of the party is sustained behind us as he unleashes his full passion into me, making me savour every caress and I feel my way to his hair, running my hands through the thicket of locks, pulling him closer to me. His low groans rumble throughout me as our shared chemistry binds us closer, punctuating both the romantic and erotic fervor building in the space between our bodies.

Finally we part, my eyes are ablaze with desire as I pull on his tuxedo lapel hard, wantonly. My breath feels short and hurried but he stays calm and allows for the seconds to elapse before addressing me as he holds my face between his hands.

“Merry Christmas, Miss Richardson.”

“Merry Christmas, Mister Wilson.”