Shooting Stars (Christmas Spirits 6)

Shooting Stars (Christmas Spirits)
Shelby Morgen
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2018 Shelby Morgen

The cross-country flight to Brasilia International Airport had taken less time than the trek down the mountainside, but it was still after 9:00 pm when we checked into the Windsor Plaza Brasilia Hotel. But it was Brazil. And apparently we had reservations. Or I did. I had to sign a form adding Mika to my room. The hotel restaurant was still open, and the concierge assured us room service was always available. “Which is a good thing,” I told Mika. “I’ve missed hot running water. I want a shower.”

Mika sniffed and wriggled his nose. “I can’t argue with that.”

I swatted at him, but he ducked behind the bellhop, who kept his gaze trained on the elevator, and managed to conceal any hint of surprise at our road weary condition behind a smile that earned him a large tip.

My long-sleeve shirt and jeans and socks -- all intended to help make me look less like mosquito bait -- made their way into the trash the moment the door closed behind the bellhop. This was Brazil. I was confident the concierge could have a new wardrobe sent up for me as easily as dinner and coffee.

Hot running water was one of the few things I’d truly missed in the last four months we’d spent in the Andes. The hotel’s amenities included scented soaps and shampoo that might turn me back into a human given enough time and scrubbing. I just stood under the spray for several minutes, soaking in the return to civilization.

Despite the data I’d lost, the trip hadn’t been a total loss. Mika was right. I had backed up most of my data -- satellite Internet was a glorious thing -- and I’d pocketed not only my thumb drive but the wallet-size external hard drive as well. And what I’d learned could not be erased from my head. Including the truths about myself and what I wanted, needed from life. And Mika was one of those things. I leaned into the spray, almost asleep from the sheer relief as the steam penetrated my knotted muscles.

“Mind if I join you?”

Mika’s voice was almost a surprise -- I hadn’t heard him cross the tile floor, and I’d already steamed up the large bathroom enough to not notice the temperature change when he slid the glass door open. “You’re always welcome.” I’d expected him, after all. Had allowed myself to admit that despite the rocky road behind us -- and likely ahead of us -- there would always be a place for Mika in my heart.

“You look like you could use some help.”

Mika didn’t ask what I wanted. He always knew. He could read my body like a flight plan. He started with the shampoo, running his fingers through the short strands of my hair until the water washed clear, then did it again, massaging my scalp, and then again. The soap was a more leisurely trip, exploring every crevice and crease where dirt could hide, scrubbing with the soap bar wrapped in the washcloth, then, once he was satisfied that the worst of the grime was gone, kneading and massaging my knotted muscles. “You’re a mess,” he muttered, working at the knots next to my spine that refused to let go.

“This was easier a decade ago,” I agreed. “When did canvas cots and wooden chairs get so damn hard?”

“We all grow up eventually, Silvi. Our bodies do, even if our minds think we’re still teenagers.”

“Not you. You’re always the same. And you’re always there to rescue me. Even from myself.”

“Not still mad at me?”

“Usually.” I turned to pull him under the spray, running my fingers through hair that was only slightly shorter than my own, then stretching up to press a kiss to his mouth. His lips opened against mine, and his tongue swept through to taste and to touch, exploring and stroking and pulling the wildness from me.

I saw the condom he’d left on the shower wall shelf, and pulled back enough to rip the package open with my teeth. The thing looked like it had been in his wallet since the last time we’d met up. He groaned and pushed into my hand as I unrolled it over the hot, steely length of his cock.

“God, I’ve missed you, Silvi,” he murmured as he turned me back to the wall, his foot between mine spreading me wider, like a lineup in a cop show.

I hadn’t wasted my minutes on the SAT phone watching TV online, but I still remembered.

The first thrust was slow and tight, want and need and time and space all lingering between us, a lingering push followed by an oh-so-slow withdrawal. I thrust my ass back at him, clenching the muscles of my pussy as hard as I could, hoping he could feel how much I wanted this, needed him. He slipped an arm around me, hip high, fingers trailing down through my lower curls to find my clit, while the other moved higher, brushing my nipples again and again, one at a time, then capturing my breast to massage the nipple with the heel of his hand.

I pushed against his hand, hard, then rocked back harder onto his cock, reaching, taking, taking a much as I could. Slow and tight turned faster, tighter, with every thrust, although I was wet from well more than just the shower.

“Mika!” My voice sounded hoarse, harsh, even in my own ears. “Oh, God, Mika…”

“Fuck me,” he whispered, nipping at my earlobe. “Fuck me hard, Silvi.”