Here We Come A-Carolling
By S. Faith, © 2015
Words: 1,794
Rating: M / R
Summary: Here we come a-carolling / Among the snow so white!
Disclaimer: Isn't mine. Oh, how I wish it were.
Notes: All I'll say is, if you have not yet read Apple Tree Yard by Louise Doughty, you should. Aside from being a nail-biter of a book (although TW: sexual assault), there are some hot, hot, HOT (consensual) scenes.
The house seemed too quiet without her in it.
With the fireplace crackling in the room behind him, he stood by the window with a mug of hot tea, watching with a minor awe at the fluffy white flakes that fell down. Such a snowfall had been rare enough, especially so in recent years. It made him feel especially Christmassy, and he smiled, particularly as the snowfall brought back memories of a first kiss…
She'd be home soon enough.
He didn't always want to go out; she didn't always want to stay in. Fortunately, they each understood their respective natures. When she wanted to go out with her friends, he didn't mind. When he wanted to stay in, she would stay in with him. It was just the way their relationship worked—and he couldn't imagine a more perfect one for him.
His thoughts were broken by the sharp ringing of the telephone. He picked up the receiver and brought it to his ear. Before he even had a chance to greet the caller, he heard a familiar voice in his ear:
"We need a ride. Pleeeeeease?"
He sighed, pressing his fingers into the corners of his eyes… but he couldn't help laughing, either. He'd guessed this might happen; he'd passed over a glass of wine in front of the fire for a reason.
"Will you?" she asked again, practically reverting to lost-little-girl voice. "Will you?"
"Yes, darling, I'll come for you," he said. "Tell me where you are."
"Ooh. Um." Everything went silent. "We're on a corner?"
It was clear that she was pissed. He was torn between being amused, and being a bit angry that she was out there like that. At least she was with her friends. "Street signs? Landmarks?"
"Oh! We're right near the Tate."
He tried not to laugh; it was not like the museum was hard to miss. "All right. Stay there, and I'll come for you."
"Okay," she said. "But we're not done carolling yet. Will you drive us to the next pub?"
Carolling, he thought. Is that what they're calling a pub crawl these days? "We'll see."
"Thank yoooooou," she said. "Love you!"
"I love you too, Bridget."
He disconnected the call, then went to the foyer to slip on his shoes, overcoat, muffler and gloves.
The drive was short but not uncomplicated, due largely in part to the falling snow; it seemed to him that everyone had forgotten how to drive in it. He saw her before she saw him, and he smiled at the sight of her; hair blowing in the snowy air (what had happened to her hat?), ruddy-cheeked and laughing as she skipped around kicking up what had accumulated (and nearly toppling over in the process). He pulled over to the side to park, then walked over to where she was.
She spotted him and beamed a smile. "Mark!" she said, throwing her arms wide, running over to him, hugging him sloppily and thoroughly. "My hero! My saviour!"
He felt his face flush with embarrassment as he glanced around to find the rest of her friends; to his surprise, none were to be found. "I thought you said your friends were here," he said sternly.
"Oh, they were," she said, her eyes shining. "Shaz and Jude begged off after number six. And Tom just left after his phone went off, bloody Tom."
"Tom just left?" he said, irrationally angry at the man for taking off. "So you've been standing here on your own."
"Yes, durr, but not for long; he only just left," she said. "Come on, let's go to the next, number eight! It's The Blue Eyed Maid."
He looked down into her own blue eyes. "You can't be serious," he said. "You're already pissed."
She blew air through her lips in a half-hearted raspberry. "Am not. Come on."
"One drink," he said, walking with her towards the car. "And then we're going home."
"But there's four more left after that!"
He did the math in his head. "Twelve altogether?"
"For the twelve days of Christmas."
He exhaled. "Get in."
Once they were moving, he spoke again. "Bridget," he said, "I don't think they're all meant to be done in one night."
"Mark," she said with equal gravity, "life is all about setting goals and meeting them."
"One more," he repeated. "Eight out of twelve is a good success rate."
The drive to the next pub was much like his first drive. As he had, at one time, spent a lot of time parking in the Borough Market area, he found a spot off of the Borough High Street in which to park. He looked over to her, saw how glum she'd become, and decided to make the most of the outing. He smiled. "Come on, my blue-eyed maid. Let's have that drink."
The surprise and pleasure found her features, and she smiled again. "Okay."
The atmosphere inside was highly festive; karaoke was underway, featuring Christmas tunes. Suddenly he understood why she'd called it carolling. He asked what she wanted—a mojito, which she'd been drinking ever since she'd discovered their existence—and he decided to have one himself. When he returned with them, they toasted to the holidays, then she decided she wanted to sing in the karaoke. She knew better than to ask him to join her, which worked well for him, as he decided to polish off her drink then continue to sip on his own.
The song she chose was one that had been made very popular a few years ago, and it seemed appropriate for her to sing to him: "All I Want for Christmas is You". She kept looking at him as she sang, smiling and winking, and clearly having a wonderful time. With the alcohol working its way into his system, he was starting to feel a little swimmy-headed himself… and full of affection for his wife.
"Oh!" she said when she returned. "My drink."
"Don't you remember finishing?" he fibbed.
"Did I? Damn," she said glumly.
He reached out to put his arm around her waist and pulled her closer on the bench seat, then placed a kiss on her temple. "It's all right," he said. "We don't have to go immediately."
"Mmmm," she said, appreciative of the attention, and he was all too happy to give it. Her hand found his thigh, his knee, as she tilted her head to the side. He obliged and kissed just by her earlobe, then her throat. "Was going to beg for another drink," she said, "but I'll take this instead."
Mark realised his inhibitions had lowered. How else to explain beginning to place open-mouthed kisses on her throat? His arm came up around her, and he brushed his thumb along the side of her breast. No one around them seemed to notice or care.
"Maybe we should go, after all," she murmured.
"To the next pub?" he teased.
"Home, silly," she said, leaning her forearm heavily against the fly of his trousers. He made a little groaning sound. This made her giggle. "Yeah. Let's go."
They departed the pub, slightly unsteadily. Belatedly he had a thought that he shouldn't drive, that he should ring up for a taxi, and it turned to Bridget, the snow coming down around them in those light, fluffy flakes again. She had a smile on her face again, and mischievousness in her eyes. She glanced down the alleyway next to the pub, lit only with the occasional pool of light, then back to him. She slipped her arm around his waist, then wrapping her arms around him, sliding her hands over his backside, squeezing gently.
It was cold; it was snowing. What she was hinting towards was a supremely bad idea. And yet… his love (and lust) for her as well as the alcohol overrode all good sense.
He reached around to take her hand; he then led her into the shadows, into a recessed area between two lamps, before turning and pressing her up against the wall, then launching upon her with a kiss. She whimpered into his mouth, threaded her hands up around his neck as she returned the kiss avidly.
The clothing was a bit tricky to work around, but they made it happen, and before too long, with her leg hooked around his, he was holding her backside and thrusting up into her with wild abandon. It took great effort to stifle his cries—the last thing he wanted to do was attract attention to their clandestine lovemaking—especially when he came, her hands pressed hard into his shoulders. She reclaimed his mouth for a kiss as she came, moaning into his mouth; what she could not restraint she could at least make quieter.
"Ahh," she said as her foot slipped down to support herself again. "That was a very fine end to my pub crawl."
He chuckled, drawing away from her, stepping unsteadily back and righting his clothing as she righted her own. She still looked insufferably smug and pleased. "I can't drive yet," he said. "Which defeats the whole purpose of my coming to get you."
"I think your redirected purpose was more than acceptable," she said. She reached into her handbag—which had stayed put since she had slung it across her body—and drew out her mobile. "I'll ring up a minicab, shall I?"
He nodded. He was still far too addled by the drink he'd had.
"Ooh," she said, brightening. "Now that we've… well. Can we go to the next pub?"
He chuckled, glanced to his wristwatch, then pulled her close to him. "The pubs are closing soon," he said. "I'd rather go home, to be honest. I loved your little serenade. Maybe you can give me a private encore."
"Ooooh, yes," she said. She brought up the mobile, then rang through for a minicab.
As they rode in the back of the minicab on their way to the house, he rested his head against the top of her own. She smiled blearily. We'll just come back tomorrow for the car, he thought distractedly. It's fine.
The sound of her giggling brought him back to the present. He had apparently drifted off. "You're such a lightweight," she said. "Come on, we're home."
He couldn't help chuckling, either, as he paid the driver; she, meanwhile, dug out her keys, singing the first few bars of her karaoke song. As she walked up towards the front door, still singing, she danced a little, shaking her backside.
"Don't fall over," he said, coming up behind her, steadying her with his hand on her lower back.
"At least not yet, eh?" She turned the key and opened the door.
It was good to be home.
The end.