“There’s not enough room for all of it, sir,” said Steve-Bret-Stan. He pointed at the rolling cart and said, “There’s a pot of coffee, a carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice, and a pint of milk. A bowl of sugar. Some desserts. Please call down if you run out of everything, Mr. Westmore.”
“Thank you,” said Alex, Mr. Manners. “I appreciate it, especially on Christmas Eve.”
“My pleasure, sir,” said Steve-Bret-Stan. And then he quietly left himself out.
I was all alone and in Alex’s godlike hands, warm from the glow of him, his handsome face. His lovely smile. He was still dressed in his robe, though, and looked a little frazzled.
“Get in bed with me,” I said, inhaling something that smelled amazing. “Join me.”
“I will,” he said. “But first I need to get this going.”
Getting this going meant turning on the simply enormous smart TV and clicking a few times to find what I guess was the Christmas Channel.A Christmas Carolwas playing, because ofcourseit was.
“Which version is this?” asked Alex, though I figured he was talking to himself.
Squinting at the screen, I said, “I think it’s an old one. Alistair Sim stars as Scrooge. Nineteen fifty-one. It’s calledScrooge, but it’s really justA Christmas Carol.”
“How do you even know all that?” Alex asked me this as he let his robe drop and he got into—wait for it—a gray t-shirt and some gray sweat pants. Which told me that I was wearing his pajamas and he was left wearing his ultra sexy gym clothes.
I’d have felt a whole lot guiltier as he climbed into bed with me (from the other side, so as not to upset the covered dishes on my tray, or the roses in the little vase), but it was fucking hard to do anything but goggle and stare at him, his lushness, the way his muscles pressed against the gray sleeves and the front of that t-shirt. The way his dick bounced around in those freaking sweatpants cause, yeah, he wasn’t wearing no underwear.
“Let’s eat,” he said, scooting close to take the lids off those dishes.
There was, of all things, freshly made BLT, and a bowl of tomato soup, and a grilled cheese sandwich, cut along the diagonal. Cups of coffee in thin china mugs.
“The BLT is for me,” said Alex. “Unless you want half?”
“I haven’t had a BLT in ages,” I said.
“Let’s trade halves, then,” said Alex.
On the TV, Alastair Sim acted his heart out in black and white, and Alex and I chowed down on all that great food. From time to time, he’d get up to refill my coffee cup (making sure there was plenty of milk and sugar in there), and then he found two slices of pie, one pecan (with a dish of ice cream on the side), the other pumpkin (also with a dish of ice cream).
We stuffed our faces until finally the 1951 version ofA Christmas Carolturned into the Mr. Magoo version ofA Christmas Carol.
“We can change it if you want,” I said, because while I loved this version, I figured Alex had more sophisticated tastes and would want something different.
“No,” he said. “I like this one. It’s the best version.”
“It is, really,” I agreed, licking some ice cream off my spoon.
But maybe it was a mistake to watch this version, and maybe I still had some drunk left in me, because by the time the movie got to the part where little Ebenezer was singing as he languished in his boarding school, all alone, I was undone.
“Jim Backus is the voice of Mr. Magoo,” I said right out loud, though nobody had asked me, in an attempt to distract myself from that viciously sad song. “He played Thurston Howell the Third onGilligan’s Island,you know.”
“What’s that now?” asked Alex. He turned to look at me, flush from the warmth of the room, his lips sticky with crust from his pie. I wanted to kiss his mouth clean and then devour the rest of him.
“This is my song,” I said, my throat closing up as little Ebenezer sang and wondered where the voice was to answer him back, or the shoes that would click to his clack. Damn it.
“Beck,” he said, his voice soft and low. “I think we’re done eating. It’s time for cuddles.”
I kind of like being waited on hand and foot, as the staff had been doing to me from the second I arrived at The Anchorage.
Even better, I liked Alex taking care of me. Maybe that would be too much to ask for, but the thing was, I’d never asked for this. Not Alex slipping off the bed to take the bed tray away and to kiss me as he removed my cloth napkin and brushed the crumbs from the bedclothes.
The best part was when he tucked me in, then climbed over me, grabbing the remote as he went. He eased himself into bed, sidling up to me, wrapping his arms around me, making himself my pillow. Strong and muscled and handsome. Best pillow ever.
“You can rest now,” he said. “Okay if I fast forward past this part?”
