Chapter 10 - Ben #2
"Ben," he breathed.
I walked him backward until his shoulders hit the wall beside the stove. He fumbled with the buttons of my flannel, finally succeeding in pushing the shirt off my shoulders. Cool air hit my skin for a moment before his palms spread new warmth, tracing the muscles of my chest and stomach.
A loud pop from the oven startled us apart. Alex immediately yanked the oven door open to check, then raced to a cupboard for aluminum foil, spreading it over the top of the pan.
"Damn. See what happens when you distract me from proper technique?" He grinned.
"Proper technique?" I moved behind him again, letting my hands settle at his waist. "Is that what we're calling it?"
He closed the oven door with one hand while the other covered mine. "Among other things."
We kissed until the timer buzzed.
I offered to set the table—until Alex gave me a look that suggested I'd be committing a mortal sin by misaligning the silverware. He folded cloth napkins into tidy triangles while I arranged mismatched plates with solemn concentration.
"Should the salad worry about being overshadowed by your legendary sauce?" I teased as we sat down.
Alex raised an eyebrow. "The sauce is the star. The salad's just here for moral support."
The first bite confirmed he wasn't exaggerating. The lasagna melted in my mouth. I let out an involuntary moan.
"That good?" Alex tried to hide a smug smile.
"If this sauce were a person, I'd propose to it." I immediately kicked myself for the implications.
Alex smirked, leaning back. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Our conversation flowed as easily as the wine, peppered with jokes about the theater's "off-off-off-Broadway" charm and my admittedly dragged-out attempt to refinish the Santa throne. Alex laughed so hard he nearly choked when I recounted Jack's infamous "corporate romance" lines.
By the time we finished, the plates were clean and the wine bottle suspiciously light. Alex started stacking dishes, but I stopped him.
"You cooked. I'll handle cleanup."
He narrowed his eyes playfully. "Are you angling for more sauce points?"
"Obviously."
"Fine." He waved a dish towel like a flag of surrender. "But no broken plates. They're vintage."
"Yes, your highness."
I made quick work of the dishes while Alex moved into the living room, where a single strand of Christmas lights added to the cozy atmosphere. When I joined him on the worn leather couch, he was already waiting, eyes bright with anticipation.
He leaned in, voice dropping to a murmur. "You know, there's still dessert."
"Lasagna counts as dessert," I replied, inching closer.
"I meant the peppermint bark." He pointed at a plate on the coffee table, his smile turning mischievous. "But I suppose there's something sweeter."
That was all the invitation I needed. The peppermint bark remained untouched as the distance between us disappeared, replaced by a kiss.
It quickly became the kind of moment that makes you forget your own name.
Time slipped away, leaving only the heat of Alex pressed against me.
"Is this what you meant by sweeter?" His voice was low, rough with want.
I chuckled softly, letting my hands drift to his waist, fingers slipping beneath his sweater to find warm skin.
"Close enough, but I might need a second opinion. "
He kissed me again, slower this time, rolling his hips in a deliberate rhythm that made us both groan. His fingers tightened in my hair, and the slight tug sent electricity straight down my spine. When my tongue swept along his lower lip, he opened them for me with a soft sound.
All hesitation was gone, replaced by pure need.
Alex's hands began to explore, fingers tracing my collarbone before slipping beneath my shirt.
The touch of his fingertips against my bare skin sent a shiver through me.
I mirrored his movements, feeling the smooth ab muscles jump and tense under my touch.
When my thumbs brushed over his nipples, he gasped against my lips and ground harder.
The sound sent desire crashing through me.
I pulled him closer, our bodies pressed tightly together, and he rocked against me.
His hands roamed higher, pushing my shirt up and over my head, and then his mouth was on my neck, my collarbone, and my chest, leaving a trail of heat everywhere he touched.
Our kisses grew more desperate, each one deeper than the last. I tasted the faint sweetness of wine on his tongue. It was intoxicating, and I craved more—more of his touch, taste, and the breathless sounds he made when my fingertips found sensitive places.
His hips moved against mine again, more urgent this time, and the friction was almost too much.
I gripped his waist harder, guiding the rhythm, matching each roll of his hips with an upward thrust of my own.
His head fell back with a gasp, and I took the opportunity to press my lips to his throat, feeling his pulse hammering beneath my tongue. I couldn't get enough.
"Ben," he breathed, my name half-lost in a moan.
My hand slid between us, pressing firmly against where he was straining against his jeans, and he practically came apart in my lap. I rubbed him through the denim, feeling him throb under my palm, and his movements became more frantic, less controlled.
"Please," he gasped, and I wasn't sure what he was asking for, but I wanted to give him everything.
I fumbled with his belt, got it open, and popped the button of his jeans. His hand covered mine, guiding me, helping me find the rhythm he needed. The sounds he made—desperate and needy—were the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard.
Time lost all meaning. We stayed like that, lost in each other, our breaths mingling and hearts beating in sync.
The world had narrowed to just us—the slide of skin against skin, the taste of his mouth, the sounds we drew from each other, and the way our bodies moved together like we'd been doing this for years instead of minutes.
When we finally pulled back, both flushed and breathless and thoroughly wrecked, Alex rested his forehead against mine. "We should..." He trailed off, seeming to lose his train of thought as I pressed a kiss to the corner of his jaw.
"Should what?" My hands traced lazy patterns on his lower back, slipping just beneath his waistband.
"Something. I forget." He laughed shakily, then kissed me again, softer this time.
Eventually, we untangled ourselves enough to return to the kitchen for water, both of us still adjusting our clothes and trying to catch our breath.
The lasagna dish sat empty on the counter, forgotten in the aftermath of a meal that had fed more than just hunger.
The warmth in the room wasn't just from the old radiator or the soft glow of Christmas lights strung along the windows.
It came from Alex, and it lingered in the air like his laughter.
I stepped up behind him and let my fingers trace idle patterns along his arm, marveling at how natural it felt to be with him in his grandmother's home.
"You're thinking", Alex spoke quietly, his fingers finding the woodworking calluses on my palm. "I can see it in how you hold your shoulders."
I hesitated, studying our intertwined hands. "I'm thinking about craftsmanship."
"The house's woodwork?"
"No. Well, partly." I searched for the right words. "When you work with wood long enough, you learn to read it. Every piece has its own character, its own story in the grain. You can't force it to be something it's not."
"And what story are you reading now?"
"That sometimes the most precious things are built slowly. Layer by layer." I touched his face gently. "Like your grandmother's lasagna. Like this house. Like..." I swallowed. "Like us."
"Deep thoughts for a weeknight."
"I've spent years focusing on restoration, bringing beautiful things back to life. But this is different." I cupped his face, feeling the slight tremor in his jaw. "This feels like we're creating something entirely new."
"That scares me." His vulnerability showed clearly. "I came here to hide and escape into something familiar. Instead..."
"Instead?"
"Instead, I found you, something entirely new. And you make me want to stop performing and start living." His fingers wove tightly with mine. "Even if it means risking everything I thought I wanted."
"Alex, I need you to know—all those hints Holly drops about my family, about our connection to Christmas magic..."
"Are they true?" He stared into my eyes.
I thought about generations of Blitzens, about craftsmen's marks shaped like hoofprints, and about sleigh bells that rang on windless nights.
"Yes. And someday, when you're ready, I'll tell you everything.
But right now..." I drew him closer. "Right now, I just want to be here, building this with you. "
"Layer by layer?"
"Like your grandmother's lasagna."
He laughed. "That's quite a commitment, Ben. Four generations have worked to perfect that recipe."
"I'm good with long-term projects, especially ones worth waiting for."