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Lots of people had ham instead of turkey.
I had to bite my lip to stop my whimpers when his finger stroked deeper between my legs.
Chris leaned down and captured one straining nipple in his mouth-evidence of which side was winning. He moaned and pulled back, gently holding the sensitive point in his teeth.
I reached out to Chris who handed me the bottle I'd left on the counter by the sink.
I'd been half-wishing I had a cigarette because something I'd read recently said smoking helped you relax. My tears had dried up by then, but they threatened to return at just the sight of my boyfriend.
When I felt the tension in his arm over me lessen, I shot out from under the covers and streaked down the hall. I skidded to a stop at the kitchen island where a blackened ham sat in my mom's heirloom roasting pan-which had also turned crusty-black inside.