The Mistletoe

Ariana pins the mistletoe overhead the same December morning every year. She does it without fail, a private ritual meant to pull sex and heat into her holiday. This year the thrill sits deeper. Diva arrived last night with nothing but a grin and two bottles of red. Gifts mean little to her; she wants skin, sweat, the long, slow collapse of bodies that have wanted each other all autumn. After the turkey, Ariana reaches for the presents. Diva answers with a kiss that steals the breath right out of her—tongue deep, hands already sliding under the thick holiday sweater. The fabric peels away. Their breasts meet, nipples drawn tight. Clothes drop to the rug; the only sound is breath and the soft wet pull of mouths tasting bare skin. Diva drops first. Her tongue parts Ariana’s smooth lips, circles the swollen clit, then slides lower until Ariana shakes and swears. She drags Diva up by the hair and returns the favor, licking her open, drinking in the sharp sweetness until Diva’s hips buck and a single low moan breaks. Eye to eye now, knees locked around each other, they push fingers in—two at once, slick and steady—thumb pressing hard on the tender hood above. They kiss through every thrust, sharing the taste of cunt and cinnamon from earlier. Sweat beads between their breasts. The couch creaks. Ariana comes first, mouth open against Diva’s neck, then Diva follows, clutching her shoulders hard enough to leave faint marks. Later, bodies cooling, they tangle beneath the blanket of discarded sweaters. Fingers trace ribs and hip bones while the tiny lights blink overhead. Neither moves until the gray light of Christmas morning finds them still pressed close, legs twined, breath slow.