“Every time I think about you, my memories lick their lips and sigh.” ~ Jonny Ox
Baby, this year there is only one item on my Christmas list—you.
I don’t want you wrapped neatly underneath my tree Christmas morning, but wildly undressed—tangled and breathless in soft sheets as we press our fingertips into the most delicious parts of each other’s flesh.
I don’t want you framed in a nice and tidy package that I can make sense of and show off, but rather real and chaotic, passionate and free.
Because men like you should never be placed within a box or made to fit neatly into anyone else’s ideal of a life well lived.
I don’t want sparkling jewels that can be placed around my neck, but rather your supple lips, and the tender trail your tongue leaves, as it makes its way from my neck, across my collarbone and down to my nipples waiting in trembling anticipation for you to take them into your mouth.
The greatest holiday gift I’m hoping for is the opportunity to make a few more enthralling memories with you—no one but us will ever know.
I don’t need silken cashmere draped against my soft skin, because my favorite accessory will always be you and the weight of your strong body against mine.
This Christmas I am asking for the fiery passion in your eyes and the desire that ripples across your confident shoulders, leaving your knees weak every time our eyes meet.
I am not only asking for the flames but for the precious ignitor as well.
I don’t care for rare perfumes, traded across distant seas that will scent and stain my neck, because the fragrance that you leave on my skin and in the tendrils of my hair is always the most seducing of all.
The truth is, I have everything that I need and want—except you.
At one point I spun delusions of not needing anyone, but I have finally conquered and put to rest those irrational fears—and settled into the knowing that I am no less strong because I need.
Not only have I admitted that I do need someone—I am also realizing more and more that the specific someone is quite possibly you.
Although I want to make your back arch and see your eyes roll as I bring you to the brink, underneath canopies of white lights and memories, I also want a little more.
I want you to stay.
This Christmas I want you to stay until the first rays of indigo morning light wash across heavy blankets, still thick with the night’s seduction.
I want to feel the way your breath caresses my bare shoulder, when you are deep in tranquil sleep, and just once, I want to wake up with your arm pulling me close, hovering in between wants and reality.
And maybe you’ll have to leave soon after, for a mysterious reason, but I want to see your eyes clouded by dreams, blinking them awake, wondering if you are still dreaming or not.
I am not asking for much, but I might as well be asking for the world.
But, this year I finally know what I want—and it’s you.
And that is the beginning and the end of a story that I never expected to write, but is one I crave to finish reading.
It just is.
I don’t need a lavish spa getaway, but would rather join you in the shower, under the steaming hot water, feeling the way our skin slides against one another and the way your hands press into my stomach as you grasp me from behind.
There is no use for bows or fancy wrapping because we are at our most beautiful when not even a stitch covers a any part of our glorious skin. Just seeing how we move against one another is enough to turn me on every time.
And this year, I don’t need boxes of expensive imported chocolates or sweet candy canes—because you have always been the most delicious thing I’ve ever put into my mouth.
This Christmas darlin’ all I want is you.
We both know that I have wanted you in my bed for some time—but now, I want you in my life as well.
Because I have spent years searching for someone who looks at me like you do—and all the other eyes have driven me closer back to you.
And the thing, I don’t just want you inside of me—but I want to feel my hand inside of yours.
I want you as only I can—as strawberries ripe from the summer sun and as intoxicating as deep raspberry wine.
I could spend time discussing the tumultuous past and the complacent realities of the future—but I just don’t see the point, because it won’t change anything.
And I’ve listened to your words, but your eyes still say something different.
I know my chances are good, of waking Christmas morning and being just as alone as when I went to bed.
I know that the odds are stacked against me—and that no matter how good I was this year, Santa may not be able to deliver me the one thing I really want and need.
But, I am still wishing anyway—on the slim chance that maybe there is still a part of you that wants me just as much as I want you, and in all of the ways we haven’t yet explored.
I’m hoping that maybe, just maybe—I am your secret Christmas wish too.
Author: Kate Rose
Editor: Ashleigh Hitchcock
Photo: courtesy of the author