Chapter 23
Iswear, Eben and I are giving Santa’s elves a run for their money with the sheer volume of cookies we’ve baked for this pageant.
After our sexy little detour, I take the world’s fastest shower while Eben deals with the overdone batch (nearly breaking a tooth in the process).
I throw on an off-the-shoulder sweater and jeans, pairing them with my finest matching bra and lace underwear set (phew), just in case things heat up again.
I twist my hair in a clip to keep any fallout far from our batter.
Eben’s eyes keep drifting to my collarbone as we stir and measure. Flour, sugar, and sticky dough cling to us both. We’re careful not to touch—public cookies do not need any extra ingredients.
Cue the TikTok classic “you can’t eat at everybody’s house.”
No, but really, we keep it G-rated with R-rated eye fucking. I consider it a win.
We prep tray after tray—Italian lemon, thumbprints, Mexican wedding or Italian snowball cookies (depending on who you ask). My fingers ache from rolling dough, and Eben’s biting his lip so hard from focusing that he finally draws blood.
I’m used to baking alone. My grandma baked every year while she was still able, but I was never allowed to help. Ally’s hopeless in the kitchen (though she’s always happy to “assist” with the eating part), so it’s usually just me: me and my cookies.
Today, it’s me and Eben. And even though he allegedly hates Christmas, he’s working his butt off to help me—which is… something.
Maybe a mutual love of Christmas isn’t the dealbreaker I thought it was. Maybe he doesn’t have to love it like I do—maybe he just has to be there while I love it. Maybe that’s enough.
All afternoon, we’ve been a team. And for a split second, I can imagine myself… belonging. With him. Here, or anywhere. Making cookies and memories and sharing kisses and—
I’m getting ahead of myself. Our first official date was literally yesterday. We’ve known each other for a few weeks—nowhere near long enough to start ringing wedding bells.
God, Melody. Dial it down. El desperado vibes at a 10.
Must be the trauma.
“You okay?” he asks, nudging me with his elbow. I glance down—my cup of flour runneth over.
I dump it back in the bag and measure again. “Fine,” I say, shaking it off. But when I meet Eben’s eyes, the tenderness there makes my stomach do somersaults. I try not to read into it. My heart does anyway.
Bad heart. Bad. Heart.
We Tetris seven trays of sweets into my freezer after a “strategic purge,” which means tossing anything that looks like it’s been in there since the Ice Age. So… everything.
Eben opens a fossilized pizza box that’s been in there since Thanksgiving. He gives it a cautious sniff and recoils. “How old is this?”
I snatch it from his hands and slam-dunk it into the trash. “Less judging, more cleaning.”
Two trash bags later—full of rotted girl-dinner condiments and ancient takeout containers fermenting with Listeria—my tiny fridge miraculously has room for seven cookie trays.
“Whew,” he says, wiping his brow. “I’ve worked construction sites less labor-intensive than cleaning out that fridge.”
I cross my arms and scowl. His grin drops to my mouth, then—
“You’ve got a little powdered sugar,” he says, tapping his own cheek.
“Where?”
Before I can touch mine, he catches my wrist and tips my chin. He leans in and—God help me—licks the sugar away.
He skims his tongue over his lip. “I’m not done with you yet.”
I may not survive the night.
He lowers his mouth to my ear, fingers tracing the bare cut of my collarbones. “You wore this sweater just to torture me for three hours while I wasn’t allowed to touch you.”
“I did not,” I protest, heart pounding. “I literally grabbed it off the floor.”
He bends, teeth grazing the notch above my collarbone. My knees buckle.
“Whoa,” he says, catching me at the waist.
The counter is a disaster—flour, sugar, a crime scene of sprinkles—but he lifts me anyway, sets me on the edge, and steps between my legs.
“Eben!” I yelp, half laughing, half warning.
He looks up through his lashes. His hands slide under my sweater, tracing slow circles on my skin. “Say the word, Mrs. Claus,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over mine, “and I’ll be very, very good.”
My breath stutters. I nod, suddenly shy.
He tightens his grip. “Say it.”
“Yes,” I whisper—and that’s all the permission he needs.
He kisses me—greedy, ravenous—like all that cookie baking worked him up into an appetite. His hands slide higher beneath my sweater, cupping my breasts, fingertips grazing the stiff peaks of my nipples. I groan into his mouth, raw heat surging through me.
“More,” I whisper. His grin is wicked against my lips. Now I’m the greedy one.
He flicks open my jeans with a sleight of hand—one second they’re snug, the next they’re peeled down past my hips. The chill of the counter on my bare skin makes me shiver.
He doesn’t bother with my sweater. Not yet. Instead, his hands roam my thighs as he kisses me, licking deep. The hard length of him presses into my inner thigh. I brush him with the back of my hand, feel the heat and the damp through the fabric, and we both groan.
His hands cup my ass, and he freezes mid-kiss. “Damn,” he breathes. “You’re covered in sugar.”
He lifts me by the hips, sets my feet down, and turns me, bending me over the countertop, palms braced on the faux marble.
“Can I have you like this, sweetheart?” he asks, sinking to his knees behind me.
Fire pools low in my belly, hotter than ever. He can have me any way he wants.
“Yes,” slips out on a whimper.
I brace on my elbows, breathing hard, not sure what he’ll do first.
Then I feel it—his tongue, hot and wet, licking sugar and flour from my skin like I’m some decadent, sugar-dusted beignet.
The sensation is a dizzying mix of ticklish and sinful.
My hips buck, but his hands steady me as he licks me clean.
Each stroke is a slow torment, and my thighs part on instinct, aching for more.
“Where do you want me?” he murmurs, hands sliding up my thighs and between them. He strokes me through the lace, and I whimper. “You want me here?”
“Please,” I say, folding over the counter.
His fingers twist into the thin strip of lace between my cheeks and tug it aside. “This is in the way,” he growls.
And then his mouth is on me again—flicking, licking, teasing my core. Something about being ass-up over the counter, half-naked and sticky-sweet, makes his tongue feel electric. I’m panting, squirming—trying not to scream. I don’t need to scare the neighbors.
His tongue circles my clit, hands cupping my ass, holding me open. He sucks gently, and I nearly come apart.
“Fuck, Eben,” I gasp as he licks a hot stripe from front to back.
“You still okay?” he asks, kissing the back of my thigh. A shudder rolls through me.
“More than okay,” I pant. “But I need you.”
He rises behind me, fingers sketching slow circles down my spine as he leans in, his erection pressing into my ass. Kisses trail along my neck to my ear. “Do you have condoms here?”
“I got some this morning.” I nod toward the untouched pharmacy bag on a barstool, handles peeking over the counter.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, patting my ass. He reaches for the bag; his hands shake as he fumbles the box. Good. I’m not the only one falling apart.
A belt clinks; foil rips. A heartbeat later, he’s behind me again, the tip of his cock—hard and insistent—pressing at my entrance. My toes curl, and the tight squeeze reminds me it’s been a while.
It was certainly worth the wait.
He eases in—inch by glorious inch—stretching me to take him. It’s that perfect edge of pleasure and ache until, with one steady thrust, he’s buried to the hilt and I’m breathless, pulsing around him.
My fingers curl around the edge of the counter, knuckles white as I grip for dear life. “I’m going to die,” I rasp. “I’m actually going to die.”
His lips brush my ear. “You okay?” Concern threads his voice.
I nod hard, hair tumbling from its clip. “Fine. Totally fine, just… fuck.”
He sweeps my hair over one shoulder and kisses just behind my ear—a sweet, wordless promise.
A subtle shift of his hips and fresh sensation crashes through me. “Jesus,” I moan, every nerve ending lighting up.
His hands slide under my sweater, nails skimming. He peels it over my head and tosses it aside. He reaches around to pinch my nipples through the lace, then returns to my hips for leverage. In and out, deeper and deeper—he finds a perfect, punishing rhythm that makes me see stars.
I fear I may never walk again.
Not mad about it.
“Can you come like this?” He asks, voice wrecked.
I nod, breath coming in ragged gasps. “But I don’t want to—yet,” I murmur between whimpers, desperate to make this moment last.
He pulls out slowly, turns me to face him so he can see my eyes.
“Me neither,” he says, kissing me. He lifts me easily, and I loop my arms around his neck as he guides my legs around his waist. He looks down, arranges us, and slides back into me.
A few deliberate thrusts—and then I realize we’re moving, leaving the kitchen for the bedroom, still joined.
I glance down—my bra is gone. My panties, too. I don’t even remember when that happened.
“A little Christmas miracle,” he murmurs, smiling into a kiss. He sits on the edge of my bed with me straddling his lap. His red velvet pants are somehow still on his lower half, even though I’m totally naked.
He notices me clocking his wrinkled Santa pants and arches a brow. “A new way to sit on Santa’s lap, huh?” His eyes sparkle.
I giggle and push at his bare shoulders, fingers tracing hard muscle. I’ve never had this much fun during sex. The few men before Eben were predictable—silent grunts, zero creativity. But this? This is something else entirely.
Once will not be enough.
His hands return to my hips. He leans back and—
Oh God, that angle.
“Eben,” I pant. “I want to come like this.”
He nips at my bottom lip, smiling against it. “Your wish is my command, Mrs. Claus.”
We find a perfect rhythm—our bodies in sync as he pumps into me while I grind down on him.
I watch, mesmerized, as his muscles ripple and flex.
His gaze is locked on my face, making sure I’m okay, waiting for me to fall.
Color rises high on his cheekbones as I ride him.
It’s too much, it feels too good, and this time, I can’t help it as raw, primal sounds escape my lips—to hell with the neighbors.
Pleasure roars through me like the Polar Express. I cry out, clenching around him as I come. His eyes squeeze shut, head tipping back. He groans, hips pressing into mine, hands stroking my sweat-slick sides as he shudders through his release.
He collapses back onto the bed, taking me with him.
I pillow my cheek on his warm, glistening chest, both of us panting like we’ve just run a Holiday Half Marathon.
His arms band my waist; he kisses the top of my head.
Aftershocks ripple through us as our jelly-limbs remember how to be bones again.
When I finally look up, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are heavy with quiet bliss.
“Damn, Melody,” he rasps. “That—”
“Yeah,” I breathe. “That.”
We lie there a long while, just breathing, melting into each other. I could stay like this forever—weightless, warm, deliciously wrecked in the soft glow of after.
But he’s a furnace, and eventually I roll off before I expire from a cuddle-induced heatstroke. He snags a stray towel from the floor and tidies up while I slip beneath the duvet, hoping he’ll join me for some well-earned naked cuddling.
As always, he reads my mind. He shucks off his Santa pants. Somehow, he’s still hard (should I be surprised my Mr. Claus is superhuman?), and for the first time, I get the full view of him, naked in the low light: post-sex glow, lean muscle, long everywhere. I want to lick him from head to toe.
“Come on, give us a spin,” I say, twirling a finger.
His brows dip, amused. “What?”
“I’ve been naked twice tonight, and somehow you kept most of your clothes on. So.” I motion again.
He sighs, resigned, and starts to turn.
“Wait—wait.” I dive into the nightstand and produce a Santa hat. “In this,” I say, tossing it.
He catches it against his chest, squinting. “You can’t be serious.”
“Now, Mr. Claus,” I say, giving him the universal move-it-along gesture.
Another sigh. He plops the hat on—crooked—and does the slowest spin known to man.
Lo and behold… his perfect ass. I let out a theatrical sigh and lean forward to deliver a ceremonial smack.
“Hey!” he yelps, jolting. The hat tumbles off his head—
—and lands squarely on his dick, perfectly tented.
I lose it, laughing so hard I nearly roll off the bed.
“Oh, you think that’s funny?” he says, flinging the hat aside.
I squeak and yank the duvet over my head. He climbs onto the bed, rips the covers back, and pins me—then tickles without mercy.
“Eben!” I squeal, writhing. “Stop!”
But then bodies graze in exciting ways—warm skin, hard muscle, hard… other things—and suddenly we’re not laughing.
His hands slow. Mine stop trying to push him away. Our eyes lock.
We go still. The only sound is our breathing.
And then—
We’re kissing again.