Depends On Who's Asking (SWAT Generation 2.0 12)

Walking back to the area where there was no furniture and the ceilings were tallest, I placed the stand down, widened the screws in the base, then walked back for the tree.

Five minutes and a little leveling later, it was up.

“The ceilings are too short,” she grumbled as she looked up at the tree.

The top six inches were bent over due to it being too tall.

“I’d normally just trim the tree up there, but I don’t have anything to do that with,” I admitted.

She walked back over to the boxes and bags and started to bring everything over.

She pulled out lights, not-cheap glass ornaments—what the hell did my mother do? Go to fuckin’ Dillard’s and buy this shit?—and all kinds of things that I didn’t have a name for.

Carolina, though, obviously knew what they were.

And she spent the next hour directing me on what to do with the lights, the ‘tree picks’ that were stuck in the tree for decoration, and the garland.

About halfway through her tree decorating, she’d paused to go get her phone and had turned on her favorite Christmas station on Spotify.

It was around the time when we started hanging up ornaments that she brushed her backside against my front, and I realized that there was no way in hell she didn’t know how fucking hard she made me.

But she didn’t say a word, and in the end, we finished the tree without anything too awkward between us. Other than my raging erection that wouldn’t fucking go away.

It didn’t help that she did the entire damn tree dressed in only my t-shirt.

“What is in the other boxes?” she asked after a while. “And weren’t they supposed to come with food by now?”

I looked at my watch to see that it was well past nine.

“Yeah,” I grumbled. “They were.”

There was a knock at the door between our two rooms.

“Have they brought you your food yet? We’re really hungry.”

Brielle, her friend. Or non-friend.

I wasn’t quite sure what the two were to each other.

“No,” Carolina called out. “Nothing.”

Brielle said something more, but it was covered up by the enthusiasm in which Carolina ripped open the boxes.

“It’s a… washing machine.” She frowned. “Like, a tiny, baby washing machine. What the hell?”

In the end, the large box ended up being a washer/dryer combo that people put into RVs.

“Nice,” I said. “No more itchy clothes.”

She went on to the next box while I moved the washer/dryer into the living room in the opposite corner of the tree.

When I got back, she was holding up more clothes.

These looked to be actually hers.

“They’re mine,” she said as she showed me. “I bet that box is yours.”

Sure enough, the other box was mine.

And inside were some running shoes.

She wrinkled her nose when she pulled out her own. “I was kind of hoping that these weren’t in there.”

I snorted and put my box of shit next to my other box of shit.

Her gasp of excitement had me turning toward her to see her holding up a ratty-looking orange bear that might’ve, at one point, been brown.

“That ‘the’ bear?” I asked.

She grinned huge.

“When Connor was born, I got him this bear. But he never used it, and apparently, I took it back. In the end, I was the one using it after that. I love it,” she admitted as she tucked it under her arm and walked it to the bed. “Now, let’s figure out this breakfast thing, because I’m starving after doing all this work.”

• • •

I watched, again, as she dressed behind the sheet.

It was like an erotic show.

The room behind her was bright, making it to where I could see her shadow through the sheet.

And what a shadow it was.

She had hips for days, great full ones that would be awesome to hold on to as I…

“Hey, have you seen White Christmas?” she asked casually as she slipped on some type of clothing over her head.

That didn’t bother me. I wouldn’t allow it to.

“Um, yes,” I said. “A long time ago. Why?”

“Because my mom just sent me a text message saying that it was on, and we watch it every year together. I thought I could watch it in spirit with her,” she explained. “It’s on USA.”

I turned the television to her movie, grateful for something else to do that didn’t have me staring at her breasts swaying, or her hips…

“You found it, good,” she said as she came into the room.

She had a black camisole on with black silky pajama shorts.

She probably felt like a soft fucking dream.

Her long, wet hair hung heavily down her back and front, causing parts of her black camisole to appear darker in spots where the water had met the fabric.

Planting one knee in the bed, she crawled up onto the bed, and the movement made her tits sway under her shirt.