Patreon Exclusive: Mistletoe Madness (Patreon)

Here’s a little holiday treat for subscribers to my Patreon: a short, sweet, nasty little story involving an overworked mom, her son’s promiscuous girlfriend and some extremely potent mistletoe.

Enjoy! (written on a plane, let me know if you see typos)

Mistletoe Madness

Rose moved through the crowded living room like a shark in a tank of guppies, smile locked on, eyes scanning for anything out of place. The Callahan house glowed red and gold, every surface dusted with fake snow or wrapped in ribbon, because if it wasn’t perfect she’d agonize about it for the next eleven months. Rose was, through and through, a perfectionist.

She topped off Mrs. Lang’s prosecco before the woman even noticed it was low, slid a fresh tray of bacon-wrapped dates onto the coffee table, and snatched Ashley’s third spiked eggnog right out of her daughter’s manicured fingers.

Ashley rolled her eyes so hard Rose could sense it with her back turned. “Mom, I’m nineteen.”

“Exactly. Act it.” Rose’s voice stayed low, pleasant, lethal. She dumped the drink in the sink and kept moving.

She was 44, 5-foot-6 in her little black booties she only fished out on special occasions, and a lean 130 on her most stressed day, every ounce of which was earned in the courtroom or on the stairmaster or on the reformer. 

Her husband Hank called her “high-strung.” The partners at the firm called her “the closer.” Clients called her at three in the morning crying because their ex was hiding assets in the Caymans and Rose was the only one who could find them. She billed $400 an hour to ruin men’s lives and still came home to fold laundry because Hank couldn’t match socks if his life depended on it.

Hank was parked by the fireplace with Dave and Paul, same two golf buddies, same three stories on rotation. He had a bourbon in one hand and the other resting on his belly like he was proud of the soft swell under the cashmere sweater. He hadn’t touched the boxes of garland and mistletoe she’d left on the hallway bench with a note that said HANG TONIGHT in red Sharpie. Typical.

Jordan hovered near the front window, checking his phone every four seconds. Twenty-three, tall like his dad, still waiting for someone to tell him he was allowed to take up space and lacking the confidence of the women in his bloodline. 

He’d graduated seven months ago, moved into the city, and immediately latched onto his college girlfriend that his sister kept calling “a walking STD.” 

Rose had seen pictures of Serena. Blonde, tiny, legs for days in her Florida State dance team skirt. For reasons that were never quite explained, Ashley seemed to hate her. She had said the girl had blown half the lacrosse team freshman year. Rose didn’t know if she believed that, but she believed the girl was trouble and tonight was the first time she’d step foot in this house.

Ashley flitted past in a silver mini dress, giggling with a couple of her Vanderbilt friends, already sneaking another drink. Rose made a mental note to cut her off before midnight or the kid would puke in the guest bath again.

She slipped through the kitchen, past the island sticky with spilled cranberry, and out the side door to the garage. The cold hit her arms left bare from her sleeveless halter dress with the houndstooth print. She welcomed the burst of cold on her heated flesh. She dug the crushed pack of menthols from behind the paint cans (same spot for six years), lit one with shaking fingers, and sucked the smoke down like it was the only honest thing she’d touched all night.

She’d quit. Everyone thought she’d quit. Hank bragged about it at parties. She let him. The truth was she smoked when the house got too loud, when Hank forgot the one thing she asked, when the kids looked at her like she was the enemy, when her own body felt like a cage she couldn’t stretch far enough to escape. Four drags and she crushed it out, sprayed perfume on her wrists, and went back inside.

The party noise swallowed her again. She smiled, she circulated, she refilled, she rearranged. 

She was wiping fingerprints off the stainless fridge when her gaze snagged on the bench again. Two big boxes, gold foil stickers from that year-round Christmas shop downtown. The garland was real pine flown in from Nova Scotia, heavy, fragrant. The mistletoe came wrapped in burlap from some farm in Oregon that only harvested on the full moon or whatever bullshit the owner spun to charge three hundred bucks a bunch. It smelled sharp, earthy, almost rank, like wet soil and something darker underneath. She’d spent a fortune because the website had billed it as the most magical Christmas decoration on the market. Rose didn’t believe in magic, but she believed in appearances and spending entirely too much on simple trinkets in order to remind her peers she could afford it.

She caught Hank’s eye across the room and tipped her head toward the hallway bench where the boxes sat untouched. He lifted his glass in a lazy salute that meant ‘later.’ 

Later meant never.

She stood there in the hallway, booties planted on the hardwood, mulled wine sloshing in her glass, and let out a slow, tired breath that fogged in the air for half a second before she swallowed another gulp of her famous holiday wine.

Emboldened, she cut across the living room like a blade, a smile welded on so tight her cheeks burned. She reached the fireplace where Hank sat with Dave and Paul, all three red-faced from bourbon and the same recycled story about the ninth hole at Pinehurst. She slid her arm through Hank’s, fingers curling over his shoulder just hard enough that his laugh caught in his throat.

“Sweetheart,” she said, voice sugary, teeth barely apart, “the garland and mistletoe are still in the box. Could you hang them now? Pretty please?”

Hank’s eyes flicked to her grip, then to Dave and Paul, who suddenly found their drinks fascinating. He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. “Rose, the party’s already going. Everyone’s here.”

Her nails dug in a fraction deeper, still smiling like a campaign ad. “Pretty please, Hank.”

He swallowed. He knew that tone. That was the tone that ended with him sleeping on the couch for a week and her freezing his balls off with silence. He set his glass on the mantel. “Yeah. Sure. Be right back, guys.”

She released him and he walked off toward the garage, shoulders already sagging. Rose followed two steps behind, close enough that her perfume mixed with the faint menthol ghost on her breath.

In the hallway she stopped at the bench, tapped one bootie. “I spent almost eight hundred dollars on that garland and the mistletoe. Real pine from Canada. The mistletoe is some rare strain. People are supposed to see it.”

Hank rubbed the back of his neck. “Babe, no one’s gonna notice. They’re drunk.”

“They’ll notice if it’s up. You were supposed to do it this afternoon. Like I asked. Twice.”

He sighed, opened the garage door, and stepped inside. The air hit him cold and sharp, laced with fresh smoke. He frowned, sniffed once, but said nothing. He grabbed the red metal toolbox he hadn’t opened in months, pulled out a hammer and a handful of nails that looked about right.

Back inside, he dragged the three-foot aluminum step ladder from the coat closet, clanging it open under the bare archway between main foyer and living room. A couple guests glanced over, amused. 

Hank climbed up, garland draped over one arm like a dead animal. He held a nail to the wall, swung the hammer, missed, and hit drywall. Second swing, third, finally got the nail in maybe half an inch. The garland sagged. He hammered another nail on the opposite side, same problem. The thing hung crooked but stayed.

Then the mistletoe. Smaller bundle, wrapped in coarse burlap, tied with red twine. He pulled the little nail he’d saved, pressed the bundle up dead center. The scent hit him immediately, thick, green, almost sour, like crushed leaves and wet dirt and something muskier underneath. It crawled straight into his lungs and lower. His penis twitched, thickened in his slacks for no damn reason he could name. He shifted on the ladder, face hot, hammered the nail in fast. The head went in crooked, the whole bundle tilted, but it held… barely.

He climbed down, stepped back. The mistletoe drooped there, faintly glowing under the chandelier, smelling vaguely like sex and pine needles. Hank’s pulse thudded in his ears. He cleared his throat. “Good enough,” he muttered, and bolted through the archway and toward the upstairs bathroom before anyone noticed the sudden bulge in his pants.

Jordan, meanwhile, had been pacing by the front window for ten minutes, phone in one hand, the other rubbing the back of his neck raw. Headlights swept the driveway. A white Jeep Wrangler. His stomach flipped. He yanked the front door open, cold air rushing in, snowflakes swirling across the threshold.

Ashley appeared from the kitchen, fresh Solo cup in hand, cheeks flushed. She leaned against the wall, watching her brother with a smirk, took a long swallow.

Jordan’s hand closed around the doorknob, metal cold under his palm. He twisted.

****

Rose shoved through the swinging kitchen door just as the timer screamed. Heat slapped her face when she yanked the oven open. Three trays of mini beef Wellingtons sizzled, edges going dark. She grabbed the mitts, pulled them out fast, and slapped the trays onto the stovetop. 

Grease popped onto her wrist; she hissed, wiped it on a towel, and started sliding the pastries onto a clean platter with a spatula. Her pulse was still hammering from her conversation with her husband in the hallway. Unbeknownst to her, Hank had disappeared, the mistletoe hung crooked, and a strange unplaceable smell was already seeping into the foyer like somebody spilled potpourri and pheromones at the same time.

Out in her Jeep, Serena sat in the passenger seat killing the last of a Truly she’d cracked on the drive over. She was 22, barely 5 feet tall, 115 pounds on a day she ate carbs, and every pound was muscle wrapped in smooth tan skin. Four years at Florida State: dance squad flyer, marketing major, still somehow managing to maintain a 3.6 GPA despite showing up for class the bare minimum needed to graduate. When she wasn’t cheering at sporting events and working the sideline, she partied—hard. She’d done body shots off sorority girls in Cancún, fucked a starting quarterback in the equipment room, let a married professor bend her over his desk for an A she didn’t even need. 

College had been one long adrenaline high. Now graduation was four months away and the real world looked like a brick wall. Job offers were thin, her parents were already asking about “plans,” and the idea of being entry-level anything made her want to scream.

Jordan was different. A year older, steady, still looked at her like she was a princess in need of a knight. He opened doors, paid for dinner, texted ‘good morning’ without being asked. He was safe. He was the guy you brought home when you were tired of waking up in someone else’s sheets wondering whose name you moaned the night before. Serena needed safe right now. She had no intentions of losing him yet, and from everything Jordan let slip, his mother was the final boss.

She’d met Ashley over FaceTime once. Jordan’s sister was pretty, but bratty and talked like her tongue was dipped in vinegar. Ashley hated her from the get-go; apparently her reputation preceded her. 

She had met Hank for thirty seconds at parents’ weekend; he’d stared at her legs the whole time and asked if she still did the splits. It was pathetic. She didn’t despise older men, but he wasn’t even in the same stratosphere of older men who’d made a pass. 

Rose was the myth: the ice-queen lawyer who ran the house like an assembly line or a prison camp and thought her son hung the moon. Serena had decided months ago it would be fun to watch that woman realize the moon had a new orbit.

Serena killed the engine and Jordan was already opening the door for her. She tucked the empty can under the seat, checked her lip gloss in the visor mirror, and stepped out into the cold. The red satin sweater hugged her chest, the green pleated mini skirt barely covered the curve where thigh met ass, black tights shiny under the porch light. Four-inch heels crunched salt and snow. She felt the bow in her hair bounce with every step. Jordan grabbed her hand, squeezed like he was scared she’d bolt.

The front door opened and heat rolled out, thick with pine, booze, and something green and rank underneath. It was not the perfectly maintained scent of a home run by a dictator perfectionist. There was no way Jordan’s mom was aware of the smell.

Serena crossed the threshold and felt it immediately: every pair of eyes in the place sliding over her body like hands. Uncle Whoever in the corner adjusted his glasses. Hank’s golf buddy Dave did a cartoon double-take. Some neighbor lady’s husband forgot his wife was standing right next to him. It was brazen and unabashed, but unusual in a way. She was used to eyes, but there was a strange vibe that permeated the living room. People were acting… strange.

Ashley leaned against the wall nursing a red cup, eyes narrowed and glassy. Jordan’s grip tightened, proud and nervous at the same time.

If Hank hadn’t vanished to jerk off in the bathroom, he’d have been drooling too. Ashley definitely was, even if she’d never admit it. Serena had her pegged from the moment they met. She smiled at the room, slow and easy, because she knew exactly what this body did to people.

The only person whose stare Serena couldn’t feel yet was the one she wanted most to impress.

Ashley pushed off the wall, hips swaying like she was drunker than she let on, and stopped two feet away. She looked Serena up and down, lips curled in a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Wow,” Ashley said, voice loud enough for the foyer to hear. “I’m honestly shocked you showed. Figured you’d bail when you heard there weren’t any professors here to fuck for extra credit.” She flicked the green bow with one finger. “And dressed like a horny department store elf. Cute.”

Serena didn’t flinch. She tilted her head, let her smile go a little sharper, and looked Ashley dead in the eye.

“Hi, Ashley. Still mad no freshman girls have asked to sit on your face this year?” She let the words hang just long enough, then brushed past like Ashley was furniture. The bow bounced as she walked deeper into the house, heels clicking, every step saying she already owned the room.

Jordan’s face went red the second Serena was out of earshot. He stepped forward fast, hand half-raised like he could stuff the words back in. “Ash, come on. Be nice.”

Ashley snorted, already turning away, cup sloshing. “She’s a whore, Jordan. Enjoy.” She pushed through a couple of cousins and disappeared toward the back of the house before following her mother’s previous example and disappearing into the garage.

The cold bit her bare legs the second the door shut behind her. Ashley leaned against the wall, breath fogging, heart beating too fast. She hated how hot her skin felt under the silver dress. Hated the way Serena’s little bow and that red sweater made her stomach twist. Fuck Serena. Fuck her perfect body and her smug mouth and the way every guy in the room had looked at her like they were starving. Ashley dug behind the paint cans where Mom still hid the emergency pack (same spot since high school), pulled out a menthol, lit it with shaking fingers. The first drag burned good, made her thighs clench. She pictured Serena on her knees in some dorm bathroom and hated how wet it made her. She took another drag and stared at her father’s dirty CRV parked in the center.

Inside, Jordan rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks still flushed as he tried to make amends on behalf of his sister. “I’m sorry. She’s drunk and she’s always like this with… with anyone I bring around.”

Serena just smiled, slow and easy, like nothing had landed. “It’s honestly not surprising. She’s jealous, baby. Doesn’t know if she wants to hate me or fuck me. Or both.” She shrugged, the satin stretching across her chest. “Give her a couple years. She’ll graduate, move to San Francisco, get a buzz cut and a girlfriend named Sage. We’ll all laugh about it at Thanksgiving.”

Jordan barked a nervous laugh, not sure if she was joking. “You want a drink? Mom makes this mulled wine thing, it’s actually really good. Cloves and orange and whatever.”

“Yeah, sounds perfect. I gotta pee first though. Too much pre-gaming in the car.”

He pointed down the hall where the garland hung poorly from an archway. “Bathroom’s on the right, down the hallway, first door.”

Serena leaned in, kissed his cheek soft, lips warm. “Be right back.”

She turned and walked toward the archway, hips swaying seductively and with intention. The hallway was narrower, warmer, people parted for her without thinking. The garland sagged overhead, heavy pine branches barely hanging by a thread. That weird green smell from before hit her again—sharp, earthy, almost sour—but it was faint, just a background party stink mixed with cinnamon and bourbon and holiday candles. 

She didn’t slow down, didn’t feel anything except the low buzz of alcohol and the knowledge that every eye in the house was still trying to sneak looks at her ass under the green skirt. The bathroom door was ten or so feet past the arch. She reached for the knob, twisted.

Locked

The light leaked orange under the door and she could hear someone inside breathing hard, low, ragged like they were trying to stay quiet and failing. A soft grunt, the rustle of fabric, then another thick exhale. She rolled her eyes. Fucking great. She wasn’t waiting in the hallway like an idiot while Jordan’s cousin or whoever finished up.

She turned and walked the few steps back, planting herself directly under the arch where the garland drooped. The pine needles brushed the top of her hair. She leaned one shoulder against the wall, pulled her phone out, and opened Instagram. The thirst trap she’d posted from her apartment an hour ago (red sweater tugged low, skirt flipped just enough to show the lace band of her tights, tongue touching her top lip, caption “who’s been naughty”) was already at 842 likes and climbing. Comments from half the dance squad, a couple of the lacrosse guys she’d ghosted, one TA who still slid into her DMs every semester. She smirked, thumb scrolling, feeling the little rush of power that always came when she knew people were hard just looking at her picture.

Up above, the crooked nail Hank had barely hammered into drywall instead of a stud had been working itself loose for the last five minutes. The weight of the damp mistletoe bundle, the constant warm air rising from the party, the tiny vibrations of people walking past; all of it had been nudging the nail millimeter by millimeter. Now it gave one last tired creak, slid free with a faint metallic scrape, and dropped.

The nail hit the hardwood first: a soft, high ting that nobody noticed over the music and chatter. A half-second later the mistletoe followed, burlap-wrapped sprig heavy with thick green leaves and waxy white berries. 

It flipped once in the air and landed dead-center on Serena’s head, catching perfectly in the big green velvet bow, berries nestling against her blonde waves like it was meant to be there.

The impact was light, just a tap, like someone had flicked her hair. She frowned, reached up, felt around the bow, found nothing loose, and dropped her hand again. 

Whatever. Probably a pine needle. Or a draft.

She went back to her phone, liking a few comments, ignoring the same strange smell. Sharp, rank, almost wet, like crushed stems and something darker, something that made her thighs feel suddenly warm even though she hadn’t registered it yet.

The mistletoe sat tangled in the bow, light and wispy, leaking its strange scent straight into her hair and down the back of her neck.

****

Rose tipped the last of her mulled wine down her throat, the cloves and cinnamon burning sweet all the way to her stomach. She set the empty glass on the counter with a sharp clink and slid the final tray of pigs in a blanket from the oven. 

She arranged them in neat rows on the cooling rack, steam curling up around her face, making the fine hairs at her temples stick to her skin. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine and the heat and the constant motion of the night.

Through the kitchen window she spotted Ashley in the backyard next to the garage, backlit by the string lights, cigarette tip glowing orange as she sucked hard. 

Rose’s mouth tightened—that little shit. She’d smelled the smoke on her daughter’s clothes for months and pretended not to. It was hard to play righteous when her own fingers still smelled like menthol from the garage fifteen minutes ago. 

She would confront her daughter about it later. Not tonight. Not in front of forty people. She let the curtain fall back into place.

Hank had vanished after his temper tantrum. She assumed he had done his job poorly and she needed to check if the garland was at least semi-straight. She refilled her glass with her mulled wine, deep red, almost black in the low light, took a long swallow, and headed out the far kitchen door that led into the living room.

At the exact same moment, Jordan came through the opposite door from the dining room side, carrying an empty platter someone had handed him. If their timing had been off by a split-second, they would’ve run into each other. But they didn’t. Rose never saw her son. Jordan never saw his mother. 

He set the platter on the island, glanced toward the hallway, figured Serena was still in line for the bathroom, and noticed Ashley outside shivering in that stupid silver dress, smoking and staring at her phone as she tried her best to look unaffected by Serena’s comment.

He sighed, rubbed his neck, and stepped out the patio door to go lecture his sister.

Rose kept moving, wine sloshing gently in her glass. The living room crowd parted for her automatically; she had that effect. She turned the corner into the foyer, heel catching the edge of the folded stepladder Hank had left propped against the wall and haphazardly. She kicked the ladder’s leg, stumbled, caught herself on the wall, wine splashing a single drop onto her wrist. She spun around, irritated, ready to hiss her husband’s name.

Instead she saw her son’s girlfriend.

The girl stood alone under the bare arch, phone in one hand, red sweater clinging to every curve, green skirt so short it was basically a belt. Blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the party’s light and shimmering like gold. And right on top, tangled in that ridiculous velvet bow, sat the fat sprig of mistletoe, the one she’d spent entirely too much on, looking like it had sprouted from the young woman’s perfect head.

Rose froze.

Her stomach flipped hard, a mix of fury and something hotter she refused to name. The smell hit her next, thick and green and wrong, curling straight into her lungs and lower. She stared at the mistletoe crowning the girl like some obscene Christmas ornament and felt her chest tighten against the lining of her dress for no reason she could control.

Rose’s eyes locked on Serena’s across the dim foyer. The air between them became inexplicably thick, like someone had cranked the heat ten degrees in a second. Rose felt her chest rise faster; Serena’s lips parted on a soft inhale that sounded a touch too desperate.

Rose walked straight to her, feet dragging slowly as she made her approach. Up close Serena looked even smaller, the red sweater hugging perfect round breasts, waist tiny, hips flaring under that ridiculous skirt. Her skin glowed. She didn’t look cheap like Ashley had often implied. She looked like something painfully expensive, something you weren’t allowed to touch but were always tempted to.

Serena’s brain short-circuited. She had expected a pinched-face, helmet-hair lawyer in mom jeans. Instead Rose was all sharp cheekbones, full mouth, body carved from years of Pilates and rage. The houndstooth dress clung to heavy breasts and a tight waist, stockings making her legs look a mile long. Serena felt her stomach drop straight between her thighs.

“Hi,” Rose said, voice lower than she meant. “I’m Rose. Jordan’s mom.” She stuck her hand out like this was a normal introduction and not some charged encounter.

Serena took it. Their fingers slid together, warm, held half a second too long. “Serena. So nice to finally meet you.” Her voice came out breathy. She hated that. Rose loved it.

Rose smiled, big, real, teeth and everything. “Jordan talks about you nonstop. Says you’re brilliant, gorgeous, the whole package.” She let her eyes drag down the red sweater, slow, then back up and found herself admitting something she never would’ve said in a million years. “He wasn’t exaggerating.”

Serena laughed, soft, nervous. “He’s sweet. He was so stressed about tonight. Kept saying ‘my mom’s intense, she’s gonna grill you.’ I was ready for the third degree.” She tilted her head, blonde waves shifting, bow bobbing. “You’re… not what I pictured.”

Rose arched a brow. “What’d you picture?”

“Older,” Serena said, then bit her lip like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “I mean, not old. Just… Jordan made you sound… scary. You’re fucking stunning.”

Rose felt the words hit her right between her thighs. She laughed too loud, covered it with a sip of wine and then set it down at a nearby table. “He’s a good boy. Reliable. Steady. Honestly I’m shocked someone like you picked him.”

Serena stepped closer, close enough Rose could smell vanilla and something sweeter on her neck. “Don’t be surprised… I mean, Jordan’s extremely hot,” she said, eyes locked on Rose’s mouth. “Like, stupid hot…” She swallowed hard. “And I can see exactly where he gets it.”

Rose’s cheeks went hot. She reached out without thinking, brushed an invisible hair off Serena’s shoulder. Her fingers grazed warm skin through the satin. Sparks shot up her arm. Serena swayed forward, just an inch, but enough that her chest almost touched Rose’s.

“Careful,” Rose murmured, smiling like a warning. “People are watching.”

“Let them,” Serena whispered. Her hand found Rose’s elbow, light, thumb stroking once. Goosebumps exploded across Rose’s arms. Her nipples were rock hard now, pushing against the dress lining. She could feel arousal starting between her legs and had no idea why.

They kept talking, words tumbling out flirty and stupid.

“You look incredible in that dress.”

“That sweater should be illegal.”

”Your husband’s lucky.”

“Jordan’s lucky.”

“He knows it.” 

“Bet he doesn’t know how lucky.”

Every sentence came with a look, a tiny lean, another graze of fingers. Rose’s pulse pounded in her throat, her pussy, her ears. Serena’s pupils were blown wide, lips wet like she kept licking them. Both of them pretending this was normal small talk. Both lying.

Serena took one step back, slow, until her shoulders hit the wooden arch. The garland overhead swayed. She let her hips roll just enough to make the skirt ride higher on her thighs, eyes never leaving Rose’s.

Rose followed like she was on a string. She reached up, fingers sliding into the blonde waves, and carefully plucked the heavy sprig of mistletoe free from the green bow. Berries brushed Serena’s cheek as it came loose. Rose held it up between them, dangling by the burlap tie.

“What’s this?” she asked, voice rough, eyes locked on Serena’s mouth.

Serena’s grin went wide and filthy, green eyes glittering under the Christmas lights. “You tell me.”

Rose dangled the fresh sprig higher, letting the pungent scent infiltrate Serena’s nostrils and lips. “It’s mistletoe,” she said, voice scraped raw. “You know what you’re supposed to do under mistletoe, right?”

Serena tilted her chin, lashes fluttering. “Kiss?”

“Yep.” Rose’s pulse was hammering so hard she felt it in her ears. “Did you stick it in that cute little bow on purpose? Hoping to catch me here?”

Serena laughed, low and breathy, the sound curling straight between Rose’s legs. “I didn’t put it in my hair, Mrs. Callahan. Maybe you yanked it out of your pocket and you’re holding it up so I have to kiss you.”

Rose’s eyes narrowed, smile sharp. “I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t believe you,” Serena shot back, voice dropping. “I think you want to kiss me.”

Rose’s breath hitched. “I think you want to kiss me.”

Serena looked up through those long blonde lashes, lips parted, cheeks flushed pink, red sweater stretched tight, tiny waist begging for hands. The hallway noise faded to a dull roar. Rose couldn’t think about Jordan, about Hank, about the forty people ten feet away. All she saw was that perfect mouth and the dare in those eyes.

She moved first.

Rose stepped in hard, one hand slamming against the arch beside Serena’s head, the other still clutching the mistletoe. She crushed their mouths together like she was starving. Serena made a soft shocked sound that turned into a moan the second after their lips met. Rose tasted mulled wine on herself and watermelon lip gloss on Serena, then nothing but heat and wet.

Serena’s back pressed against the wood, skirt riding higher as her thighs parted on instinct. Rose shoved closer, knee sliding between them, dress riding up her own thighs. She felt the girl’s tight body melt against her, petite breasts pressing soft and full into her chest.

Rose dropped the mistletoe, hand diving to Serena’s waist, fingers digging into warm satin and the firm curve underneath. Serena’s arms flew around Rose’s neck, nails scraping the nape, and she pushed her tongue into Rose’s mouth, slick and eager, licking deep like she was trying to taste every lie they’d both told themselves five minutes ago.

Rose groaned into the kiss, hips rolling forward, grinding against Serena’s thigh. Serena answered by opening wider, tongue fucking Rose’s mouth in slow, filthy strokes, little whimpers vibrating between them.

Serena pulled back first, breath ragged, lips swollen and shiny. She bent down quick, skirt flipping up in the back enough to flash the bottom curve of her ass in black tights, and snatched the fallen mistletoe off the floor. She straightened, cheeks flushed, and held it up between them again, dangling it by the burlap string teasingly.

Both of them cracked up at the same time, low, stupid giggles that turned into big grins. Rose felt something painfully warm hit her chest. The girl was ridiculous and sweet, picking it up like they were playing some innocent game instead of tongue-fucking in front of the whole party.

The giggles lasted three seconds.

Then Serena lunged. Rose met her halfway. Their mouths slammed together again, harder, wetter. Tongues slid deep, sucking loud enough that Rose was sure they were making a scene. Serena made these little greedy noises every time Rose licked into her mouth, high and needy. Rose answered with low groans, hands sliding to the girl’s ass, squeezing hard through the skirt. It was the best kiss of Rose’s life—no contest. Hank had never kissed her like this, like he wanted to crawl inside her mouth and live there. 

Rose broke it just long enough to grab the mistletoe from Serena’s fingers. She reached up, tucked the damp sprig right back into the green velvet bow, nestling the berries against blonde waves.

“You look so fucking cute like this,” Rose muttered, voice wrecked.

Serena let out a desperate little groan, grabbed Rose’s leg behind the knee, and yanked it forward. She shoved Rose’s thigh between her own, hiking her skirt higher, and settled her pussy right on Rose’s kneecap. The pressure was immediate, firm, perfect. Serena rolled her hips once, twice, grinding slow, eyes fluttering.

Rose felt the heat through the tights first, then the slick. Serena was soaked, the fabric between her legs turning dark and clingy. Rose pushed her knee harder, giving the girl something solid to ride. Serena whimpered into the next kiss, tongue sloppy now, licking at Rose’s lips, teeth nipping, both of them panting loud.

The earthy, rank smell of the mistletoe poured off the bow, thick and green, mixing with the hot, musky scent rising from between Serena’s thighs. Rose’s dress was rucked up to mid-thigh, stockings rubbing against Serena’s tights with every roll of hips. Serena’s hands were in Rose’s hair, pulling, keeping their mouths sealed while she humped Rose’s leg like she was trying to come right there in the hallway.

Rose felt her kneecap go from warm to wet to drenched, the damp spot spreading fast, Serena’s arousal soaking straight through the layers.

Rose locked her leg solid, thigh muscle flexing hard under the houndstooth dress, and started driving her knee up in a steady, mean rhythm. Every push lifted Serena onto her toes, then let her drop back down so the girl’s soaked pussy slammed against Rose’s kneecap again and again. Serena’s skirt was bunched around her waist now, black tights shiny with her own wetness, the crotch panel stretched thin and dark.

Serena rode her boyfriend’s mother’s leg like she was possessed. Hips rolling, ass bouncing, thighs clamped around it so tight her muscles shook. She gripped Rose’s thigh with both hands, nails digging through the stocking, using it to pull herself harder onto every thrust.

“Fuuuck… ohhh shiiit… Rose… fuuuuuck…” 

The moans poured out long and broken, no shame left. “Mmmmmmmmhhh… yeeessssss… right there… ohmygodddd…” 

Her voice cracked higher with every bounce. “Don’t stop… don’t fucking stop… nnnnnnnghhhh…”

Rose grabbed Serena’s face with both hands and yanked her in. Serena’s tongue shot out, long and pink and dripping spit, and Rose caught it between her lips. She sucked on it slow, reverent, pulling the whole length into her mouth like it was the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted. She swirled around it, flicked the tip, dragged her teeth lightly down the underside, then sucked again, deeper, worshipping it in a way she’d never bothered with Hank’s cock or any man’s. Serena whined around her own tongue, eyes rolling back, hips never losing the rhythm.

Rose pulled off just long enough to growl against her mouth. “You close, baby?”

Serena nodded frantically, blonde hair sticking to her sweaty forehead, bow crooked, mistletoe berries bouncing.

“Want my fingers?”

Serena’s grin was huge and stupid and perfect, a half-laugh, half-moan spilling out. “Yeeahhh… please… fuck yes…”

Rose didn’t wait. She shoved her hand down the front of Serena’s tights, past the ruined crotch panel, and sank two fingers straight into slick, molten heat. Serena’s pussy clamped down instantly, sucking them in. Rose added a third, curling them hard, and pinned her hand tight between Serena’s cunt and her own kneecap so every grind fucked the girl deeper onto her fingers.

Rose drove her fingers deeper, twisting hard, thumb grinding rough circles over Serena’s swollen clit while her knee kept slamming up to meet every desperate drop of the girl’s hips. The hallway echoed with wet slaps, tights ripping at the seams, Serena’s ass bouncing off the arch frame with every thrust.

Serena’s head fell back, mouth wide open, spit shining on her chin. 

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuck… ohhhshiiiit… Rose… harder… fuuuuuuuuuck meeeee…”

Her voice cracked into a scream on the last word, thighs shaking like she was electrocuted.

Rose leaned in, teeth grazing Serena’s ear. “You like that?”

“I fucking love it… love it… don’t stop…”

“Feel good having my fingers stuffed up your tight little pussy?”

“It feels so fucking amazing… ohmygod…”

“Anything ever felt this good, baby?”

“No… never… nothing… fuuuuck…”

“Anyone ever fucked you this good?”

“No one… never… nobody’s fucked me like you… please…”

Serena’s nails clawed down Rose’s back, ripping the houndstooth. She bounced faster, pussy sucking loud and sloppy around Rose’s three fingers, juices running down Rose’s wrist, soaking the top of her stocking.

Rose grinned against her neck, drunk on the power, on the way this perfect little blonde was falling apart because of her. She always needed control; this was control dialed to eleven.

Serena’s voice pitched higher, frantic. “I’m gonna come… I’m gonna come… Rose, please… fill me up… I’m gonna come all over you…”

Rose shoved deeper, curling her fingers hard against that spot inside, knee pressing brutal pressure on Serena’s clit. “Do it, baby. I love it. You’ve earned it. Come for me, my sweet girl… my naughty little Christmas treat…”

Serena’s whole body locked. Her back arched off the frame, breasts shoving into Rose’s chest, thighs clamping down so tight Rose couldn’t move her fingers anymore.

Then she shattered.

“FUUUUUUUUCKKKKKK”

****

Serena’s body snapped like a live wire.

Her pussy inhaled Rose’s fingers greedily, then started pulsing in brutal waves, gush after gush of wet heat flooding Rose’s hand, running down her wrist, dripping off her elbow onto the hardwood. 

Serena’s legs buckled and her feet gave out; only Rose’s knee and the arch kept her upright. A high, broken scream tore out of her throat, raw and animal, louder than the music, louder than the party chatter.

Nothing in her 22 years had ever felt like this. Not Jordan’s polite missionary, not the basketball forward who jackhammered her in a dorm bunk until the frame cracked, not the TA who ate her out for forty-five minutes just to prove he could, not even the philosophy professor who bent her over the back seat of his Volvo and fucked her raw while quoting ignoring calls from his wife. 

Those orgasms had been good. This one was a fucking earthquake. 

Colors exploded behind her eyes, red and white and gold, her ears rang, her skin burned everywhere Rose touched her. She couldn’t think about Jordan, couldn’t think about anything except the woman wrecking her with three fingers and a knee.

Rose felt every spasm, every squirt, and it went straight to her head like the strongest drug. She latched her mouth to the side of Serena’s neck, sucked hard, skin popping between her teeth until a dark purple bruise bloomed under the blonde jawline. 

‘Mine,’ the mark said. Not my son’s. Mine.

Serena’s next cry got swallowed whole. Rose crushed their mouths together again, sucked that long pink tongue back in and worked it like before with slow pulls, hard suction, swirling around it. Serena whimpered into it, legs shaking, aftershocks still ripping through her.

Rose grabbed Serena’s delicate right hand, nails painted cherry red, and shoved it down the front of her houndstooth dress. Past the neckline, under the black lace bra, pressing those trembling fingers straight onto her bare breast. Serena’s palm closed instinctively, squeezing the heavy, firm flesh, thumb brushing over a rock-hard nipple. Rose groaned into the kiss, hips jerking forward. Serena squeezed harder, marveling at how different and perfect it felt—soft skin, hard muscle underneath, the weight heavier than her own.

The climax finally started to ebb. Serena’s knees sagged, her pussy still fluttering around Rose’s fingers, thighs slick to the knee. Rose slowed the thrust of her hand, easing the girl down, but kept their mouths sealed. She sucked once more on Serena’s stiff tongue, then let it go with a wet pop and giggled low, filthy, delighted, right against her lips.

Their eyes met, glassy and wrecked and shining with the same stunned, happy high.

****

The last tremor left Serena’s thighs and she collapsed forward. Rose caught her weight, fingers still buried deep, mouth frantic across every inch of the younger woman’s cheek and jaw and neck, nibbling on it like it was candy. They were both breathing through their noses, wet and ragged, lost in the afterglow.

Then the silence hit.

No music. No chatter. No clinking glasses. Just a wall of quiet so thick it buried them.

Rose felt it first. She pulled off Serena’s chin and turned her head slowly. Serena turned with her, blonde hair sticking to damp cheeks, bow crooked, mistletoe barely clinging to her tangled weave of blonde locks.

Forty people stood frozen in the living room and foyer like someone hit pause. Mouths open. Eyes huge. A couple phones half-raised, forgotten.

Jordan was front and center, two glasses of mulled wine in his hands. The one in his right slipped, hit the hardwood, and shattered. Dark red splashed across his shoes. His mouth hung so wide open Rose could see his molars. His face turned white, then red, then white again.

Ashley stood two steps behind him, a Solo cup crushed in her fist, silver dress askew. Her pupils were blown, cheeks flushed, thighs pressed tight together. She looked like she wanted to throw up and come at the same time.

Jordan found his voice first. It cracked like a twelve-year-old’s.  “Mom… what the fuck.”

Rose didn’t even glance at him. She wiped her wet fingers on the side of her dress, wrapped an arm around Serena’s waist, and raised her voice calm and cold.

“Party’s over. Everyone leave. Now.”

A few people blinked, started moving like they’d been shocked awake. Someone’s aunt muttered “Jesus Christ.” A golf buddy of Hank’s rose from his seat without a word.

Rose’s eyes swept the room, flat and deadly. “I said everybody get the fuck out.”

Coats were grabbed, purses snatched, boots shuffled. The crowd funneled toward the front door in a stunned herd.

Jordan took one step forward, glass crunching under his shoe. “Mom. Serena. What the f—”

Serena cut him off, voice hoarse and lazy, still grinding absentmindedly against Rose’s hip. “Your mom said everybody, Jordan. Unless you wanna stand there and watch us go again, I suggest you leave.”

Rose laughed low, dipped her head, and started licking the sweat off Serena’s neck in long, deliberate stripes. Salty skin, coconut lotion, sex. She dragged her tongue up to Serena’s chin, lapped a bead that had rolled there, then higher to her cheek. Serena moaned, reached back into Rose’s dress and yanked the neckline down hard. Black lace bra spilled out, one full breast popping free into Serena’s waiting hand. She squeezed, thumb flicking the nipple, kneading like she was made for it.

Ashley grabbed Jordan’s arm with both hands and physically dragged him backward. His mouth was still moving but no sound came out. Ashley’s eyes were locked on Serena’s fingers working Rose’s bare breast, on her mom’s tongue sliding over the girl’s jaw. 

She wanted to scream, ‘I told you so,’ wanted to call Serena every name in the book, but the words stuck. All she could think about was the way Serena’s face looked when she came—eyes rolled back, mouth wide, screaming Rose’s name. It was burned into her brain and it made her panties soaked and her stomach flip in ways she didn’t dare analyze.

Jordan stumbled over the threshold. Ashley shoved him out onto the porch. The door slammed behind them.

The house went dead quiet except for the wet sounds of Rose licking Serena clean and Serena’s amused little moans every time she pinched Rose’s nipple.

****

Serena sagged against the arch again, chest heaving, skirt still twisted around her waist.

“I thought they’d never fucking leave,” she panted, voice hoarse from screaming.

Rose crushed their mouths together again, fierce and claiming. “Me neither,” she growled against wet lips. “I was two seconds from grabbing the shotgun just to clear the room.”

She pulled back an inch, eyes raking down the red sweater, the soaked tights, the trembling thighs. “I need to get you upstairs right now and see what this perfect body looks like under all these fucking layers.”

Serena’s eyes went wide and dark. “What’d you call me earlier? A little gift?”

Rose smirked, thumb brushing the girl’s swollen bottom lip. “My perfect Christmas treat.”

Serena bit that thumb, winked. “This treat is ready to be unwrapped.”

Rose slid her hand free from the ruined tights with a wet sound, brought her fingers to her mouth, and licked them clean, slow, deliberate, staring Serena dead in the eye while she tasted her.

“Upstairs,” Rose said, voice rough. “I want to introduce you to my rabbit.”

Serena laughed, low and filthy. “I can’t wait. But first I’m introducing you to my tongue and my fingers.”

Rose reached up, straightened the crooked green bow, and tucked the heavy mistletoe sprig back in so the berries nestled against blonde.

“Can’t lose this,” she grinned.

They slammed together again, mouths open, tongues sliding messy and loud, spit trailing down chins. Hands were everywhere—Rose grabbed fistfuls of Serena’s ass, Serena yanked Rose’s breast fully out of the bra and pinched the nipple hard. They groaned into each other, long and shameless.

“Nnnnnngh… fuck you taste good…”

“Mmmmmmph… love your fucking mouth…”

“Yesssssss… squeeze harder… like that…”

Rose broke first, grabbed Serena’s wrist, and pulled her toward the stairs. “You’re my favorite of Jordan’s girlfriends yet,” she tossed over her shoulder.

The word ‘girlfriend’ pinged weird in Serena’s head, already feeling wrong and incongruent with the depraved act they’d just committed in front of the entire neighborhood and the Callahan extended family. But anything coming out of Rose’s mouth right now sounded like gospel. 

She followed, heels clicking, thighs sticking, pussy still throbbing, mistletoe bouncing with every step.

They hit the landing, turned the corner, and disappeared into the master bedroom. The door shut with a solid click.

Down the hall, the bathroom door creaked open.

Hank stepped out, face flushed, zipper still half-down, dick finally soft again after twenty minutes of frantic jerking to whatever fantasy had hit him under that weird-smelling mistletoe. He tucked himself away, washed his hands quickly, and shuffled into the foyer.

Empty.

One shattered wine glass on the floor, a dark red puddle spreading into the rug. A couple abandoned coats and poorly hung garland now dangling from one surviving nail. There was no holiday music, no voices of friends and family, no sight of the kids or his wife—just the Christmas tree lights blinking like nothing had happened.

Hank scratched his head, looked around slowlyslow. “What the hell happened?”

The last nail gave out, and the garland fell to the ground behind him with a thud.