I don’t love the holidays. Every year I close my eyes, hold my breath and hope I don’t get roped into too many social commitments. Especially those involving antlers, or holly. Although I don’t mind the eggnog to tell the truth.

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This year was no different, except that Mum – in exponential Markovitz tradition – had opted to bail on the whole thing in favor of a cruise somewhere south, warm, and as far from the ho ho ho season as she could get.

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Me, I’d delayed my escape plans too long so here I was, stuck in Toronto on Christmas Eve with the snow and the tourists and those who took the whole season far more seriously than me.

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I hit the drugstore around nine on a hunt for deeply discounted chocolate and a pint of ice cream to fill the emotional void. The holiday music a tinny reminder I was on my own.

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The last thing I expected was a call. Especially from Jon Grizendorfer, my art dealer friend with sex game benefits.

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“Busy?” Most people would text. Most people also weren’t 100+ year old vampires.

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“Nah.” I tucked the phone between my ear and my shoulder, evaluating exactly how many containers of ice cream I could balance in one hand while still grappling with both the chocolate orange ball and Toblerone stick in the other.

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“Want to come by?”

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I eyed my ice cream and chocolate stash. Better to leave the ice cream; the chocolate could wait for me in the truck until later.

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“Sure,” I said.

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*  *  *

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He’d left it unlocked. I crossed the threshold from cold and snowy into fogged-windows warmth, kicking the door shut with a Doc Marten booted heel behind me. A holly-draped evergreen in the corner, wrapped in blue and green and white lights twinkling from tiny plastic bulbs, gave the darkness a surreal flickering glow.

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“You don’t need this, do you?” Jon peeled the parka from my body, my scarf from around my neck. His breath cool as he tasted beneath my ear; my sweater unbuttoned by nimble fingers that traced between and then lower. Oh. Apparently tonight’s agenda involved less talk and more action.

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Conversation was over-rated. I spun around, sliding my own hands up along the flat expanse of his abdomen; hesitating – wait, was he wearing antlers?

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“Mine,” I grinned, reaching up to snag the ears from his honey-streaked, shoulder-length hair and insinuating them in between my own dark curls. Even as I yanked his faded grey t-shirt up and over.

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Naked happens fast when you’re motivated. Moments between clothed and oh wow here we are. I saw myself reflected back to me in the blue-green swirls of his eyes, pale against the dark.

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“Wait,” Jon said. Kissing my palms, wrapping my wrists together with strands of holly. A game we played. Decorating my neck, waist, arms. Tasting, touching.

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Until. And then. Afterwards, crushed plastic vines beneath us, the scent of pine tickling my nose.

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“Happy holidays,” Jon said.

*