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They’re staying in this New Years Eve. It’s not that he doesn’t like fireworks—he enjoys them as much as the next person—but it’s been a hell of a year, and he doesn’t really take to the idea of huge crowds so much these days.
Apparently she’s equally as interested in venturing out, and when she changes into her festive pyjamas (the comfy ones she bought; not the sexy set he’d gifted her) at early o'clock, he knows she genuinely means it.
Honestly, he’s more than content to spend New Years Eve at home, watching the fireworks on television from the comfort of his sofa, with Carter’s head resting on his shoulder and her legs thrown over his lap. It’s sort of perfect. Plus, he decides that there’s something oddly appealing about the sight of the almost-too-cheap-bubbly-something, poured into the mismatched champagne glasses, set out on his coffee table; in a domestic sort of way he never thought he’d find with anyone again.
When the clock on the wall edges closer and closer to midnight, and her voice takes on extra edge of brightness as their glasses get emptier and emptier, she tilts her head to look up at him. There’s a spark of something he’s learned that he likes in her eyes.
“Are you going to kiss me at midnight?” she asks with a coy smile playing on her lips.
“Yes, Samantha, I’m going to kiss you at midnight,” he says, his voice lightly teasing. “I hear that’s still a thing people do.”
“Mmm, I hear that too,” she hums, slowly sliding her hand beneath his sweatshirt and tracing small circles with her fingertips against his belly. “But you know what I’d rather do instead?”
Her low tone and increasingly adventurous hands give him a clue. Or ten. And suddenly, somehow, the little happy reindeer faces on her flannels inexplicably add an extra layer to her appeal. It’s a confusing mix of cute and sexy that he’s more than happy to buy into.
“What would you rather do instead?” He feigns ignorance, even though he’s sure the look he’s giving her—along with what’s stirring down lower—is a dead give away.
She smiles again. Then she shifts in his lap, brushing herself against the part of him that’s all-too-interested in what she has to say, and grazes her lips along the edge of his jaw.
“I want to start the New Year with you inside me,” she finally whispers against his ear.
The warm tendrils of arousal that she’s entirely responsible for creating quickly spread through him, and whatever tiredness had creeped in over the course of the evening is easily chased away.
“Bit of a spin on the old tradition,” he murmurs, slipping his hand under the waistband of her pyjama bottoms to cup the curve her ass. “But I like it.”
Suddenly he’s eternally grateful they decided to stay home.
It’s not long before he has her naked in his bed, her thighs high around his waist, and her body writhing beneath him. She’s hot and wet and wanting. And when the clock on the nightstand finally—mercifully—ticks over to 12:00am, he fills her.
A soft perfect sigh of satisfaction escapes her. And he groans out her name against her lips.
Then together they ring in the New Year seeing fireworks of their own making.