Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,134
back, urging me hotter, higher, and making me cry for more. My panting and moaning spilled out as the pleasure filled me. I arched against him as he fucked me, not even bending over the table anymore.
Even in this web of clothes and lust, he was still finding more ways to please me and make me his. His finger on my clit added a whole new spike of bliss with every sinful stroke of his cock inside me.
I heaved, nibbling on my lip to endure this a little longer, desperately afraid of screaming out for him and having the whole street listen in and hear what was going on.
As I approached the edge, Jonathan grabbed my chin, turned me to face him, and looked into my eyes as if I was the most beautiful thing in the world. He kissed me, hard and strong, as if I was the last woman he was ever going to enjoy, the last woman that would ever be his.
And Jonathan would be the last man to ever be mine.
Love made me feel the strangest things.
I loved it.
I loved him.
The orgasm seared through me and shook me as my screams of bliss were muffled by his kiss. His ecstatic groan followed my own, proof that he was completely loving this every bit as much as I was.
Warmth flushed through my body. My heart was racing but steadily slowing as our kiss broke.
We shared another long, knowing gaze in the intense afterglow, grinning broadly at each other.
Jonathan kissed me.
“I would go again,” he said, “but I need to figure out the best way to order Waffle House delivery.”
I glared at him. “We’re not serving Waffle House on Christmas.”
72
Jonathan
“It’s almost Christmas!” I said happily.
Morticia smiled up at me in bemusement as I parked at the high-end grocery store.
“How many people are coming to your holiday party?”
“Not that many,” I said as I grabbed a cart. “Just my family and then all the Svenssons that are in town.”
“So that’s like fifty of them.”
“Yeah, that sounds right.”
“Are they going to come after your sister stole their business?” she asked me.
“She stole Greg’s business,” I corrected. “And a lot of them find Greg aggravating, so I’m sure even some of the Harrogate Svenssons will come in for the party just to see the fireworks.”
“Lordy,” Morticia said.
I followed her around the store, detailing my party plans. “And then,” I said, “I think we should play Christmas movie trivia. Or name that Christmas carol. I’m not sure which.”
“Aren’t you going to have a bunch of drunk Svensson brothers in attendance?” she commented.
“You’re right. We’d better do a drinking game so they participate.”
I watched her in confusion as she loaded cans of Italian tomatoes into the cart. “Uh…”
“What?” Morticia challenged. “I’m Italian. We’re having Italian food at Christmas.”
“Lasagna?” I asked hopefully.
“And ravioli,” she added, reaching for a huge bag of flour. I beat her to it and put it in the cart. She looked at it for a moment. “Better grab another one.”
I ran to fetch a second cart then met her back at the fish counter.
“Fried baccalà or salted white cod,” she said as the fish monger handed her a huge wrapped package. “Battered and fried. It doesn’t get more Italian than that.”
Then the fishmonger handed her another armful of wrapped packages.
“Since it is Christmas Eve,” she explained, “traditionally, you’re supposed to eat fish. But with the way everyone in our friend circle drinks, we should serve some red meat too. But I’m still making spaghetti with clams and swordfish with a creamy anchovy sauce.”
My mouth was watering.
“Oh!” She snapped her fingers. “Octopus. I need to make an octopus salad.”
I grinned at her. “For someone who claims not to like Christmas, you sure are going all out.”
“My grandmother loved Christmas,” she said. “Though it was more of an open-house friend affair that lasted Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and Santo Stefano or Boxing Day.”
We headed to the next aisle.
“Mimi, my sister, and I baked enough cookies to bury you alive, and we wrapped them up in little boxes to give out as gifts for people who came by.”
“That’s a nice dessert idea.”
She gave me a look. “The cookie boxes were not dessert; that’s what people take home. Dessert is tiramisu, of course, so we need ladyfingers. Plus I’m making cakes. Which reminds me, I need more chocolate.”
I fetched a packet and returned to join her at the meat counter.