"Speaking of magic..." His voice was husky. "We have half an hour before the lasagna and bread are done. I've already got salad waiting in the fridge."
"Half an hour—so precise?"
Instead of responding, Alex kissed me—deep and certain.
The kitchen counter pressed against my back as his kisses grew more intense. His usual calculated grace gave way to something raw and urgent. I slid my fingers under his sweater, exploring the lean muscle beneath and feeling his breath hitch as I touched his ribs.
"The lasagna," he gasped between kisses.
"Has half an hour." I nipped at his lower lip. "According to your expert timing."
His laugh caught in his throat as my hands roamed lower, thumbs hooking into his waistband. "Maybe closer to twenty-five minutes now."
"Plenty of time." I pulled him closer, reveling in how perfectly we fit together. The scents of herbs and Alex's citrusy cologne mingled with the heat rising between us. He raked his fingers into my hair, tugging gently, and I groaned against his mouth.
I reached for his hips, pulling him flush against me. The friction made us both gasp. Alex's head fell back, exposing the line of his throat, and I couldn't resist pressing my lips there.
"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."
