Chapter 21
It feels good to boss Eben around.
The kitchen is my domain, and Christmas cookies are my Mona Lisa, my Sistine Chapel. I’m the emperor of this Christmas Palace, and Eben is my humble, easily distracted servant.
I unload groceries like a general counting munitions—flours, sugars, sprinkles, candied toppings, nuts, and frosting. Eben tears open a bag of walnuts and nabs a handful. I smack his hand, grinning.
“Hey, those aren’t for you.”
“Oh, come on. I’m starving,” Eben protests.
“We can order takeout once the first batch is in.” I scorch my hands under near-boiling water because Mrs. Claus is nothing if not sanitary. Eben sighs dramatically and slides in beside me at the sink, warm shoulder to warm shoulder. Unhelpful. Distracting.
Adorable.
I try to shake him out of my head and dry my hands on my embroidered gingerbread village towels.
I start flinging cabinets, rummaging in my chaotic pot-and-pan graveyard for a rolling pin and cookie cutters.
A cascade of pot lids ambushes me, but I pop back up, victorious—and nearly collide with Eben.
He’s wearing my Rudolph apron, the ridiculous red pom-pom nose perfectly centered on his chest.
“Reporting for cookie duty, Mrs. Claus,” he says, saluting.
He’s so cute, my heart pole vaults to the North Pole.
I tie on my own apron—a flirty, red-and-white striped number with a flared skirt. Eben’s eyes crinkle as his fingertip grazes the ruffled strap.
“You’re the sexiest little candy cane I’ve ever seen,” he says.
Heat races up my neck. Focus, Melody.
“Preheat to four hundred,” I order.
“Yes, ma’am.” The wink should be illegal.
I’m whisking flour and baking soda when his arm hooks at my waist and tugs lightly at my apron string.
“What’s next?” he asks, his breath warm against my ear.
Still all business, I shove the bowl and mixer into his hands. “Mix.”
His fingers brush mine as he takes the bowl. I watch him stir—focused, taking my directions without protest. I stare at his hands as he mixes dutifully. Big. Just the right amount of calloused.
I wonder…
No. Don’t think about it.
I kneel to retrieve my old recipe tin. The vintage Santa on the lid is faded and softened by time. After my grandma died, this was the one thing I asked to keep. All her magic lives in this little box.
When I stand, Eben is staring—and not at my face.
“Hey!” I scold, pointing at the bowl. “Focus.”
He just grins and nods toward the tin. “What’s that?”
“This was my grandmother’s,” I say, softening. “A wedding gift to commemorate their first Christmas. She kept every recipe in here.” I flip the lid and thumb the cards, the paper edges worn soft with time.
“Go back one,” he says, gently catching my wrist.
I flip back. The card is written in that familiar looping script that makes my heart ache.
Italian Lemon Drops.
I smile at the card, then up at him.
“My favorite.”
His eyes meet mine, then drift down.
“You’re supposed to be mixing,” I murmur—but I lick my lips.
“Just a taste,” he says, and kisses me.
He tastes like stolen chocolate (caught!) and he smells like cookie batter. Flour sticks to the stubble on his jaw, where I grab him roughly, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I kiss him again, harder this time, my tongue tangling with his in a delicious swirl of sugar and heat.
It takes every ounce of willpower I have to pull away.
“You’re distracting me,” I whisper against his lips.
He brushes my chin with his mouth—one soft, devastating nip—and returns to the bowl with fake innocence. “I’ll behave.”
We fall into a rhythm. I call for sugar, zest, and eggs; Eben’s an excellent sous-chef and an even better mixer when the batter gets too heavy for my tired arm. The timer ticks away. The kitchen smells like lemon, butter, and something reckless and masculine. Him.
While the first batch browns in the oven, I whip up the lemon frosting. I dip my finger in the bowl and scoop a dollop.
He seizes my wrist, eyes darkening.
“Hey now.” That smug grin. “That’s my job.”
He sucks the sweetness from my finger, eyes locked on me. I watch, mesmerized, a slow, warm ache building deep in my stomach. My knees go weak. His hand steadies me. My body betrays me—I want him. I want him more than kids want toys at Christmas.
It’s my time to shine. When it comes to tricks I have in the kitchen, there’s one more I know he’s not expecting.
“Actually, Mr. Claus,” I murmur, setting the bowl aside, “I do have a very particular set of skills…”
My hands slide up his chest and loop around his neck.
“Oh?” His voice is rough, barely audible.
“Skills I have acquired over a very long career as an active member of Heaven’s Heralds.”
“Are you quoting Liam Nee—”
“Shhhh.” I press a finger to his lips. He smirks against it.
“Skills that make me a fantasy for people like you.”
He swallows, pupils blown wide.
My fingers tangle in his mess of dark blond hair, pulling him down until I can kiss his neck—soft at first, then with a teasing tug of my teeth that draws a low growl from his throat.
“According to that timer,” I whisper in his ear, pressing closer, “we still have ten minutes.”
I smile, slow and dangerous. He gulps.
I steer him backward, out of the bright kitchen and into the dim laundry room. A thin blade of winter light stripes his cheekbones. I pull his mouth down to mine, hungry.
I break the kiss to whisper in his ear. “Tell me if you want to stop.”
“Don’t,” he says, immediate and certain.
“Good answer,” I say, teeth grazing his ear.
He shudders, and my lips find his again, kissing deep and wild. I press into him. His breath stutters. My pulse sprints. Even through this ridiculous Rudolph apron, I can feel the hard length of him pressing against my low belly. My mouth waters. My thumb grazes him—just a tease.
“Mel—” His voice is breathy, my name tucked between deep, desperate moans that tell me I’ve got his full attention.
I drag my tongue down the side of his neck until I find the top of his collarbone. I bite gently. His hands squeeze my shoulders and then slide down my back until they settle on my waist.
My fingers trail down his t-shirt, lower, teasing him again through the apron. He sucks in a breath.
I’m literally cockblocked by Rudolph. But we can fix that.
I sink to my knees, running my hands down his torso, past his hips, using his legs to steady myself. I keep my eyes locked on his.
“Shit,” he whispers, watching me through half-lidded eyes.
The word comes out husky. Panicked. Needy.
I lick my lips.
When you’re raised in a cult obsessed with what young people are (or aren’t) doing behind closed doors.
Purity culture. The shame of losing your virginity.
You get really (and I mean really) good at oral sex.
For some reason, blowjobs and getting eaten out didn’t count as “sex.” And you know horny and repressed young adults—we’ll find any loophole to get some.
Not that the head honchos of the church would have agreed that BJ’s were an acceptable purity “loophole.”
Before he can ask me if I’m sure, I run my hands under the apron and unbuckle his belt—swift, one-handed. Very few things get me hotter than the metallic clink of a man’s belt unbuckling.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” He’s breathless. I smirk.
“There are a few perks of being raised in a cult,” I say with a smug glimmer in my eye. “This is one of them.”
Eben reaches behind him to untie his apron, and I stop him.
“Leave it,” I whisper.
He doesn’t argue. Just leans back helplessly against the wall.
I dip my head under the apron, and my eyes nearly bug out of my head. Even in the dim lighting of my laundry room, I can see through the velvet that he’s big and already hard as a rock.
I stroke him once through the velvet, and his hips buck in response.
“Jesus,” I hear him whisper. “Melody, I—”
“Is this okay?”
“Yes. God, yes,” he pants.
I pop the button on his pants and tug the zipper down to reveal his tented boxer briefs. I can’t help myself and run my tongue the length of his cock over the fabric.
His groan sends a shiver of pleasure through me. That sound is everything. I want to hear it again.
I peel his boxers over his hips and gasp.
I try to catch my breath as I admire the beauty of this man’s cock.
It’s the perfect size—in both length and girth.
I take a moment to admire the thickness, the hardness, how he’s straining for me.
I’m suddenly feeling smug—with lust, desire, control.
For right now, he’s mine, completely at my mercy.
I don’t touch him. I don’t kiss him or take him into my mouth. I just gently blow up and down the length of him.
I hear his gasp. My smile is wicked, even though he can’t see it.
“You like that?” I ask.
His response is inaudible, but I don’t need to hear him. I don’t even need to see him. His body responds obediently by tightening; his cock swelling as I wrap my fingers around it.
I shift my weight from one knee to the other. One hand grips his thigh, my nails scratching lightly into his skin. While the other hand is wrapped firmly around his length. For a second, I don’t move. I barely breathe. We’re both still, quiet, panting.
There’s no sound, no motion, no friction. He can’t see me, I can’t see him.
Eben is the first to break the silence.
“Are you—“
Before he can finish his sentence to ask me if I’m okay, I plunge my mouth around the length of him, taking all of him in one swift motion. I choke slightly as my mouth adjusts to accommodate all of him.
“Oh, fuck.”
He moans, and I hear his hands grapple for the wall behind him.
His cock responds beautifully to the way my mouth tightens around him.
I wrap my fingers around the base, gripping him firmly.
I let the warm wetness of my mouth glide up and down the length of him in a steady rhythm.
Occasionally, I switch it up by adding the pressure of soft sucking.
It’s the art of give and take, stimulus and response.
One person can move only if the other sets the rhythm.
He and I are in perfect sync. I let a whimper escape, a small release from the weight of needing him inside me.
My muffled whimper earns an equally needy response from him.
“Fuck, Melody. You’re so good.”
I nod, letting out a soft hum of acknowledgement. The vibration makes him jolt, his cock pulsing against my tongue. He picks up the pace—hips twitching, thrusting—fucking my mouth. But my hands on his hips restrain him. Steady him. Control him. A whimper indicates that he’s desperate. Needy.
Ready for release.
“I’m so close—” One of his hands searches for me under the apron, finding my hair. “Melody, please. Can I see you?”
With his cock still in my mouth, I reach behind him for the apron string and tug it loose. The whole thing falls, and he pushes it to the side, letting it drop to the floor.
I look up at him, and he gazes down at me, a pink flush dusting his cheekbones. His eyes are hazy with desire.
He reaches down to tug the apron from around my neck, and I pull away from him just long enough to slip out of it. And then I take it one step further. I undo the belt around my Santa jacket and shrug out of it, giving him a perfect view of my tits in the red lace bra I wore for him last night.
“Oh, God,” he whispers. “You’re so beautiful.”
He reaches down to cup one of my breasts through the lace, swirling his thumb around my nipple. I lean forward and take him in my mouth again. He buries his hands in my hair, every inch of him trembling as he hurtles toward the edge.
“Melody, I’m going to—”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, swirling my tongue around the tip.
Before he can say anything else, I take him deep, all the way to the back of my throat and back again. I match the rhythm his body is begging for, moan softly, letting little whimpers vibrate across his cock.
“Holy fuck.”
He tightens his grip on the back of my head—firmly, but with care. I let him have this last bit of control to take him over the edge.
One final thrust, and I feel his warmth fill the back of my throat. After one last kiss, I pull away.
I sit back on my heels and look up at him, smiling sweetly.
“Melody, that was—”
I gaze up proudly at Eben’s hazy, blissed-out face. Before I can say anything smug about blowing his mind, the smoke alarm yanks us back to earth.
“Oh my God—the cookies!” I shriek, scrambling to my feet. Eben yanks his pants up, and we pinball off each other as we sprint to the kitchen.
“We forgot about the cookies!”