I made quick work of the dishes while Alex moved into the living room, where a single strand of Christmas lights added tothe 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 upand 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 yourgrandmother'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..."
