Page 31 of Blood Orange Christmas
I fold the card. I do not show it to Serena. I hand it to Harrison. “Burn the card. Keep the words.” He nods. Luca watches us both and pretends to be a man who counts spoons.
“Change of plan,” I tell Serena. “You do not move without Harrison. Not to the pantry. Not to the window. If someone tells you Dante said, you ask them to say it to your face again with my voice.”
“I have a kitchen to run,” she says.
“You have a life to keep,” I say.
Her eyes stay on mine. “If someone makes me choose,” she says, “I will throw the whole dinner into the courtyard and call it art.”
“Then we will feed them bread and salt and send them home hungry.” I step in close and lower my voice again. “This ends soon.”
“You are sure,” she says.
“I am tired,” I say. “That makes me efficient.”
She is still for a heartbeat. Then she reaches for me the way she always has when the night gets thin. The fight is not gone, but it lives next to something older. She comes into my space and I take her. My mouth finds hers and her hands are in my shirt in a second, pushing it open, pulling me down. The taste is not sweet. It is us. It is the one place the world cannot follow.
I walk her back two steps until the backs of her legs touch the prep table. Copper bowls rattle above us. Flour tins crowd our hips. I lift her onto the wood, shoving the bowls aside with my forearm until they settle in a new order. Her apron loosens under my fingers and drops to the floor. The door swings and clicks shut behind us.
14
SERENA
The door clicks shut behind us, sealing the kitchen into a world of our own, thick with the scents of lemon zest and warm butter clinging to the air like a secret. My heart hammers in my chest, not from fear anymore, but from the raw pull of him, his hands already working the ties of my apron free, letting it pool on the tiled floor like spilled milk. I don't care about the summit or the cellar or the mole lurking in the shadows. Right now, all I feel is the heat of his body pressing into mine, his fingers rough and urgent as they slide under my shirt, grazing the soft skin of my waist.
I grab fistfuls of his shirt, yanking it open with a rip of buttons that scatter across the prep table like tiny hailstones. "You think you can just order me around and then kiss me like this?" I whisper against his mouth, my voice low and edged with the fire we've been stoking all morning. My lips brush his, teasing, before I bite down on his lower lip, hard enough to make him growl. His hands are everywhere—sliding up my thighs, pushing my skirt higher until the cool air hits my skin, contrasting the fever building between us.
He lifts me onto the table without a word, his strength effortless, like I'm weightless in his grip. The wood is smooth under my ass, still dusted with flour from earlier, gritty against my bare thighs as he shoves my legs apart. I hook one ankle behind his knee, pulling him closer, feeling the hard length of his cock straining against his pants, pressing right where I ache for it.
"Fuck the plans," I say, my breath hitching as his mouth finds my neck, sucking at the pulse point that betrays how fast my blood is racing. "Right now, I want you to fuck me like you mean it—like you've been dying to bury yourself inside me since the moment I walked back into your life."
His response is a deep, rumbling chuckle against my throat, his teeth grazing my collarbone as he unbuttons my blouse with deliberate slowness, exposing my breasts to the warm kitchen air. The nipples harden instantly, peaking under his gaze, and he doesn't hesitate—he leans in and takes one into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it while his hand cups the other, pinching just hard enough to send a jolt straight to my core. I arch into him, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. The sensation is electric, wet heat and the faint scrape of his stubble, making my skin tingle like it's been starved for this.
"God, your tits are perfect," he murmurs, his voice rough, laced with that commanding edge that always makes my pussy clench. "So full, so fucking sensitive. I could suck on them all night, make you beg for my cock." His words hit me like a spark to dry tinder, and I grind against him, feeling the dampness soaking through my panties. I reach down, fumbling with his belt, the leather warm from his body heat, and I free his cock in one swift tug. It's thick, heavy in my hand, the veins pulsing under my fingers as I stroke him from base to tip, smearing the bead of pre-cum over the head with my thumb.
He groans, thrusting into my grip, his hips bucking once before he grabs my wrist and pins it above my head against the flour-sack backdrop. "Not yet, Serena. I want to taste how wet you are for me first." Before I can protest, he drops to his knees, the tile cool against his skin, and yanks my panties aside. The first swipe of his tongue is devastating—flat and broad, lapping from my entrance up to my clit in one long, deliberate stroke. I gasp, the sound echoing off the copper pots, my free hand flying to the edge of the table to steady myself. He smells like clean sweat and the faint spice of his cologne, mixed with the earthy tang of arousal that's starting to fill the space between us, and his breath fans hot against my inner thighs, making the fine hairs there stand on end.
He devours me like a man possessed, his tongue circling my clit with firm, insistent pressure while two fingers slide inside me, curling just right to hit that spot that makes my toes curl against the wood. The stretch is exquisite, his knuckles brushing my slick folds, and I can hear the wet sounds of him working me, obscene and intoxicating in the quiet kitchen. "You taste like sin," he growls against my pussy, the vibration sending shivers racing up my spine. "So sweet and salty, dripping for me already. Tell me how much you want my tongue deeper, Serena."
I moan, low and throaty, my hips bucking up to meet his mouth as pleasure coils tight in my belly. "Deeper," I gasp, my voice breaking on the word. "Fuck, yes, just like that—lick my clit harder, make me come all over your face." He obliges, sucking my clit between his lips with a pop that makes my vision blur, his fingers thrusting faster now, the heel of his hand grinding against my mound. The pressure builds relentlessly, a tidal wave of heat and friction, until I'm trembling, my thighs clamping around his head as the orgasm crashes over me. It rips through me in waves, my pussy clenching around his fingers, juicesflooding his mouth as I cry out, the sound muffled against my own bitten lip to keep from alerting the house.
He doesn't stop, not until I'm shuddering and oversensitive, then he rises slowly, his chin glistening with my release, eyes dark and feral as he licks his lips. "That's one," he says, voice gravelly with need. "But I want you screaming my name before we're done." He hauls me off the table in one fluid motion, spinning me around so my back is to him, my hands braced on the flour-dusted surface. The cool air hits my exposed ass as he shoves my skirt up to my waist, and I feel the thick head of his cock nudging at my entrance, teasing me with shallow dips that make me whimper.
"Spread your legs wider," he commands, his hand cracking down on my ass cheek with a sharp smack that stings like fire and blooms into heat. I obey, arching my back to present myself, the vulnerability making my pulse thunder in my ears. He grips my hips hard enough to bruise, and then he thrusts in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. The fullness is overwhelming—his cock stretching me wide, the ridges dragging against my inner walls as he bottoms out, his balls slapping against my clit. I cry out, the sensation raw and perfect, every nerve alight with the burn of him filling me completely.
He doesn't give me time to adjust, pulling back only to slam in again, setting a punishing rhythm that has the table creaking under us, copper bowls rattling like distant thunder. "Fuck, your pussy's so tight," he grunts, his breath hot on my neck as he leans over me, one hand sliding up to wrap around my throat—not squeezing, just holding, a reminder of who has the power here. "Gripping me like you never want me to leave. You love this, don't you? Being fucked like my dirty little secret in the middle of your own kitchen."
"Yes," I pant, pushing back to meet his thrusts, the slap of skin on skin echoing wetly, mingling with the scent of sex and citrus that's overpowering the kitchen now. "Harder—God, fuck me harder, make me feel every inch of that thick cock ruining me for anyone else." He growls in response, his free hand snaking around to rub furious circles on my clit, the dual assault making stars burst behind my eyelids. Sweat slicks our bodies, his chest sliding against my back, the coarse hair there abrading my skin in the best way.
But he's not done innovating. He pulls out suddenly, leaving me aching and empty, a whine escaping my lips before he flips me onto my back on the table again, my legs dangling off the edge. "Wrap your ankles around my neck," he orders, and I do, folding myself nearly in half as he steps between my thighs, hooking my legs high over his shoulders. The position exposes me completely, my pussy splayed open for him, and he slides back in with a groan, the angle deeper than before, his cock hitting spots that make my breath stutter. It's wild, almost acrobatic—the stretch in my thighs burning sweetly as he folds me like this, pounding into me with relentless force, his pubic bone grinding against my clit with every thrust.
I can feel everything—the veined length of him dragging inside me, the way my walls flutter around him, the cool wood under my shoulders contrasting the fire building in my core. His hands pin my wrists to the table above my head, his eyes locked on mine, dark and intense. "Look at you, all bent and open for me," he rasps, his thrusts erratic now, chasing his own release. "Your cunt's milking me so good. Tell me you're mine, Serena. Say it while I fuck you into oblivion."
"I'm yours," I gasp, the words tumbling out as another orgasm builds, coiling tighter with every deep plunge. "All yours—fuck,don't stop, I'm going to come again." He angles his hips just so, hitting that perfect spot over and over, and I shatter, my pussy spasming around him, pulling him deeper as waves of pleasure crash through me, my cries sharp and unrestrained. The kitchen spins, scents of our mingled sweat and arousal thick in my nose, the taste of salt on my lips from where I've bitten them raw.
He follows me over the edge with a guttural groan, burying himself deep as he comes, hot spurts filling me, his cock pulsing against my sensitive walls. We stay locked like that for a breathless moment, his weight pressing me down, our hearts pounding in sync. Then he eases my legs down gently, pulling out with a wet slide that makes me shiver, his release trickling down my thighs. He doesn't let me go far, drawing me up into his arms, our bodies spent.
But even as the aftershocks fade, I know this isn't over. The fire between us simmers, ready to ignite again at the slightest spark. He kisses my forehead, a rare tenderness amid the wildness, and I lean into him, tasting the salt of his skin, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse under my fingers. We stay like that for a small infinity before resuming our duties, me to my kitchen, he to his guests.
