“I’ll save you a waffle,” he says playfully.
I graze my lips against the line separating his chiseled pectoral muscles. A deep inhale provides more than the clean smell of soap. It’s Dexter’s essence, a sensual aroma I’ll crave from now on. I bury my face deeper into his chest.
“Keep doing that and I’ll need to finish what we started,” he rasps.
Rushing past him, I feel Dex track my every movement till I enter the bathroom.
Last night, he warned me that being intimate would be a mistake. It doesn’t look like it’s one he regrets.
Closing the door and leaning my forehead against it, I can’t deny that Dexter Whitby is not just a great guy and a convenient husband.
There’s never been a more loyal and generous friend. Being around him inspires me. Most of my joyful memories include Dexter in some way. But this is another part of me he’s claiming as his and only his. No man has ever been more important in my life. Last night ensured that no man ever will be.
Despite the realization, my brain continues to snag on the disturbing question: what now?
Apparently, it’s hand kissing and morning cuddles, sexy-smelling soap and Christmas Eve waffles. Sharing our bedroom feels normal, despite last night’s mind-blowing sexcapade. That is, if by normal you mean ridiculously affectionate and endlessly seductive. My heart clenches at the possibility of this being our new routine: waking up together and cuddling before we begin the day.
My phone rings, interrupting my gallop toward an unknown future.
It’s my mother. She’s never had a conversation she didn’t want to extend so I consider sending the call to voicemail in case the Whitby family is tired of waiting for me downstairs.
But I can’t ignore my own mother at Christmas.
I realize later that, for once, maybe I should have.
Chapter 11
Dexter
The same thirty Christmas songs play on a loop and, surprisingly, the repetition doesn’t drive me nuts. Not when I’m the middle of the best holiday break ever.
I’m hosting Christmas with my wife. There are presents under our tree and pies cooking in our oven.
Sabrina was hesitant when she moved in, asking me where things go and such. Now, she’s joyful and confident, entertaining our family and enchanting me by simply being herself. She looks like she belongs here, because of course she does.
From the corner of my eye, I watch Sabrina laugh at something my sister says. Earlier, they both helped Mom make enough desserts for the hockey team.
Now, it’s the men’s turn in the kitchen. Dad and I will prepare the feast for tonight. He’s famous for his prime rib roast recipe, perfected by serving it for every special occasion this past decade.
“Stop ogling your wife and chop the potatoes, son. Dinner will not cook itself.” My dad nudges me.
“I’m not ogling,” I mutter.
He snorts. “Not saying there’s anything wrong with checking out your wife every two minutes. Just don’t do it while you’ve got a knife suspended over your fingers.”
We work quietly for a while, marinating meat and prepping vegetables.
“So, what did you get Sabrina?” my dad asks. “First Christmas together as a married couple is a big deal. I learned that the hard way.”
“What happened? Did you give Mom a vacuum cleaner or something?”
“It was a Dyson!” he exclaims, and we both laugh.
We’re alone in the kitchen, so I answer him.
“Remember that picture of her in the paper? When the Buffalo Blazers won the championship? I had it framed professionally.”
“Good one,” he says with a nod. His approval encourages me to say more.
