Holiday Dessert

The air in our house was thick enough to chew, a heavy, glorious blanket of aromas I had cultivated all day. It was a symphony of scents: the deep, savory notes of the turkey, its skin blistered to a perfect mahogany, the earthy perfume of sage and thyme from the stuffing, and the sweet, comforting whisper of cinnamon and nutmeg from the pies cooling on the counter.

I had outdone myself, and the dining table was my altar. At its center sat the magnificent bird, a testament to hours of careful basting. Surrounding it were mounds of creamy, buttery mashed potatoes pooled with rich, dark gravy; a glistening casserole of sweet potatoes crowned with a crunchy, caramelized pecan topping; vibrant green beans tossed with toasted almonds; and a bowl of cranberry sauce, so jewel-like and red it looked like a treasure. For dessert, a flaky-latticed apple pie and a silken pumpkin cheesecake awaited their turn, a promise of sweetness to come.

We ate with a primal sort of joy, our conversation punctuated by groans of satisfaction. Every bite was a celebration, a testament to the comfort and abundance of the day. Eventually, the infamous tryptophan haze began to descend, a pleasant, heavy fog that settled over our minds and limbs. My husband’s eyelids started to droop, and my own head felt wonderfully fuzzy.

“Nap,” he mumbled, his voice thick with gravy and contentment. It was the only logical conclusion.

We abandoned the battlefield of dishes and stumbled upstairs, our bodies full and our spirits light, collapsing onto the cool, welcoming sheets of our bed and sinking into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I woke to the quiet hum of the house an hour later, the sun beginning its slow descent and painting the room in hues of gold and amber. The food coma had been replaced by a different kind of ache, a slow, simmering heat that had nothing to do with the oven.

I slipped from the bed, my movements fluid and deliberate in the drowsy silence. I peeled off my clothes, letting them fall to the floor, and stood for a moment, enjoying the feeling of the cool air on my bare skin. A mischievous idea—a delicious little secret just for him—began to form. I tiptoed to the kitchen, the cool tile a shock under my feet, and retrieved the can of whipped cream from the refrigerator, its metal cold against my palm.

Back in the bedroom, he was still sound asleep, a peaceful look on his face. I settled onto the bed, lying on top of the covers, my body a pale canvas in the soft light. With a soft hiss, I sprayed a small, perfect white swirl onto each of my nipples. The immediate cold was a shock, making them pucker into tight, sensitive beads. I leaned in close, my lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

“Wake up,” I whispered, my voice a low, husky murmur. “I have an idea of how you can properly thank me for that amazing meal.”

His eyes opened slowly, first with confusion, then with a dawning, wolfish appreciation as his gaze took me in. He didn’t say a word, just pushed himself up on one elbow, his eyes darkening with intent. He lowered his head, and the first touch of his warm, wet mouth against the cold cream was a jolt of pure electricity that shot straight through me. He didn’t rush. He took his time, his tongue tracing the outline of the whipped cream before slowly, deliberately, sucking it clean.

The sensation was almost too much—the contrast of temperatures, the gentle scrape of his teeth, the firm pressure of his lips. He lavished the same attention on my other breast, and by the time he was done, I was panting, my back arched, a deep, throbbing ache of pleasure building in my core. It was a nipple orgasm, so close I could taste it, a powerful, pulsing wave that left me breathless and desperate for more.

He watched me, a smug, satisfied smile playing on his lips as I trembled beneath him. He saw the raw need in my eyes. He dipped his finger into the nozzle of the can, collecting a single, perfect bead of cream. His eyes never left mine as he trailed his hand down my stomach, his touch leaving a path of fire in its wake. He placed that little dollop of white exactly where I wanted it most, right on my throbbing, sensitive area. The cold made me gasp.

Then he moved, positioning himself between my thighs, and the first broad, flat stroke of his tongue was pure, unadulterated bliss. He didn’t just lick it off; he worshiped it. The sweetness of the cream mingled with my own saltiness as his tongue worked with a passionate, relentless rhythm. The pleasure coiled tight and deep inside me, a magnificent spring winding down, until it finally snapped. My orgasm crashed over me, a violent, shattering wave of release that stole my breath and made my entire body convulse. I cried out, my hands fisting in the sheets as the world dissolved into pure, blinding sensation.

We lay tangled in the aftermath, the room filled with the scent of sex and sweet cream, our bodies glowing with a soft sheen of sweat. I turned my head to look at him, a lazy, sated smile spreading across my face.

“You know,” I said, my voice still a little shaky, “all that . . . activity has worked up an appetite.”

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound in his chest, and leaned in to kiss me, his lips still tasting faintly of whipped cream . . . and me.

“Pie?” he asked.

I nodded vigorously. “Oh, definitely more pie.”

Hand in hand, we rose from our nest and headed downstairs, one kind of hunger temporarily sated, but still ready for dessert.