I finish the last few bites of food, setting my empty plate in the sink. When I turn back to her, I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. It feels foreign on my face—I don't smile often, if ever. But watching her arrange cookies on a plate, humming softly to herself in my kitchen, wearing my clothes...
“You're dangerous like this,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended.
She glances up, eyebrow raised. “Like what?”
“All soft and domestic and fucking tempting.” I move toward her, unable to stay away any longer.
She reaches up, her thumb brushing the corner of my mouth and beard. “You had sauce...” she explains, her voice trailing off as I catch her wrist.
I press my lips to her pulse point, feeling it jump beneath my touch. Her breath catches as I drag my teeth lightly over her skin.
I can't fucking take it anymore. I slide my hands under her thighs and lift her effortlessly back onto the counter in one smooth motion. Her surprised gasp turns into a pleased hum as I step between her legs, forcing them wider to accommodate my body.
But instead of ravaging her like every cell in my body is screaming to do, I cup her face between my palms and press my lips to hers in the gentlest kiss I've ever given anyone. Soft. Sweet. Fucking terrifying in its tenderness.
My thumbs stroke her cheekbones as I pour everything I'm feeling into this kiss—all the shit I can't say out loud yet. How she's turning my life upside down. How I've never wanted anyone to invade my space before her. How fucking scared I am of what she's doing to me.
When I finally pull back, her eyes are wide, lips parted in surprise at the unexpected gentleness.
“What was that for?” she whispers, fingers curling into the front of my shirt.
I step away before I can do something stupid like tell her I might be falling for her. “Just felt like it,” I mutter, turning to the sink and running hot water over the dirty dishes.
“You're cleaning now?” She sounds disappointed. “I thought we were about to...”
“We will,” I promise, squirting dish soap into the water. “But first I'm gonna clean this kitchen like I said I would.”
“Such a man of his word,” she teases, still perched on the counter. “It's kind of hot watching you do dishes.”
I snort, scrubbing at a mixing bowl. “You have weird fucking turn-ons.”
“Says the man who got hard watching me bake.”
She's got me there. I focus on the dishes, trying to ignore how she's swinging her legs, occasionally brushing against my thigh. Each touch sends tension up my spine.
“So,” she says casually, “I was thinking about Christmas.”
I tense immediately. “What about it?”
“Relax, I'm not asking you to wear a Santa hat or anything,” she laughs. “I just wanted to know if you had plans.”
I rinse soap off a measuring cup, placing it in the drying rack. “Don't usually do much. Might catch a game, have a beer.”
“Alone?” she asks, her voice softer.
I shrug, not looking at her. “Used to it.”
“Would you want to spend it with me?” Hennessy asks, her voice hesitant in a way that's unusual for her. “Christmas, I mean.”
I glance over at her, hands still deep in soapy water. “Won't you be with your family?”
She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “We're Mexican. Christmas Eve is our big thing—the whole extended family comes over, we do midnight mass, open one present at midnight. It's chaos.” She pauses, looking down at her swinging feet. “But I'd really like to spendChristmas Eve sleeping here and waking up Christmas morning with you. Is that okay?”
I stop, hands full of suds, something tightening in my chest. The thought of waking up to her on Christmas morning—something I never thought I'd want—suddenly feels like the only fucking thing that matters.
“Yeah, baby. That's more than okay.”
Her face lights up like I've just given her the best gift possible, and, fuck if that doesn't do something to me. She hops off the counter and wraps her arms around me from behind, pressing her cheek between my shoulder blades.
