Peter has never been fond of
Christmas. Perhaps that is
something of an understatement of the type Peter claims I am given to, but it
suffices. He has never succumbed
easily to sentiment and the spirit of hope in the season.
Childhood lessons taught him that trust and hope were two things better
ignored if one wanted to survive with a soul more or less intact...childhood
lessons that Raymond, Winston, and I have spent years trying to discredit.
We have had some success. Peter
gains more enjoyment from the season now, but still approaches it with caution,
ready in case someone or something should blindside him and open old wounds.
His attitude has improved,
but not to the extent that he throws himself entirely into the spirit of
Christmas. So when I heard a voice raised in song coming up the stairs
to the lab, I thought at first that Raymond had come home early from his aunt's.
But no--that voice belting out a cheerful refrain of that most egregious
ditty concerning a grandmother's unfortunate demise at the hands of St. Nick was
not Raymond's. It was Peter's.
From where I lay under the
lab table, reaching far in the dusty back corner for the stoppered test tube
that had rolled away from the row of four dozen I had spaced in groups on the
floor, I heard him burst into the lab and stop dead, only to explode with
laughter, no doubt at the sight of me. Sighing, I squirmed a little further,
straining to reach the test tube. I
had nearly gotten my fingers around it when a warm weight settled gently on my
legs and, indulging in a teasing thrust against my posterior, asked, "Is
this an invitation, Dr. Spengler?"
I lifted my hips, bucking
under him in a half-hearted attempt to push him off.
"Please do not be vulgar, Dr. Venkman," I countered patiently,
then sneezed.
Peter snorted with laughter
and slumped over my back, sliding his hands under my shoulders.
"What are we looking for? I
didn't hide any of your Christmas presents under there, Spengs."
I caught one end of the tube
with an outstretched fingertip and rolled it near enough to retrieve.
"I've already found all of my Christmas presents, Peter.
But since you had the wisdom to wrap them in advance this year, I was
limited to shaking the boxes and making educated guesses as to the
contents."
"You are such a bad
liar, Egon." He peered under
the table. "Did you get
it?"
"Yes, but I cannot get up until you remove one hundred and sixty pounds of
Venkman from my spine."
"One hundred and
fifty-seven pounds." He
settled himself more comfortably atop me. "Mmm,
you're nice and warm.…" He
buried his face against my shoulder. "Do
you know how cold it is outside, Egon?"
I rested a hand against his
chilled face. "Allowing for
the time you've been indoors, I would hazard an estimate of twenty
degrees...Peter, what are you doing?"
He had wormed his hands into my pants pockets.
"I didn't hide any of your Christmas presents in there."
I wriggled more determinedly to dislodge him and he acquiesced, slipping
to the floor beside me to let me slide out from under the table.
As I sat up, I found him sitting cross-legged, his hands tucked under his
arms. He grinned at me, green eyes
shining from a face flushed with the cold.
"Love your dust bunny
look, Egon." He took a swipe
at my hair, sending minute particles flying.
"Peter."
I brushed my hair back with my hands and ran a sleeve over my face.
Then I eyed him up and down with definite suspicion.
Seizing his wrists, I pulled his hands free and wrapped my fingers around
them. "You should be wearing gloves in this weather," I
said reprovingly. "Your hands
are ice cold."
"Gloves are for
wimps--"
"You lost another
pair." I raised an eyebrow and he acknowledged the statement with a
snort and a roll of his eyes. "Peter--"
"Egon, I kept my hands
warm enough." He pulled off
his woolen scarf and wrapped his hands in each end of it.
"See? No problem."
He leaned toward me and slung the scarf over my shoulders to pull me
close for a kiss. He had a definite
air of confidence when it came to lovemaking, honed from years of dating...and
yet he could press his lips to mine in such a way as to leave the impression
that he had never found it as pleasurable as he did with me.
Breathing an appreciative sigh as we separated, he rested his forehead
against mine. "God, Spengs," he said quietly after a moment.
"Has it already been eleven months?"
"A little more than
eleven." I disentangled his
hands from the scarf and, cradling them in mine, lifted them to my lips to warm
them with my breath.
Peter drew back and watched
with a small pleased smile. "Guess
we have an anniversary coming up," he commented.
"Want to do anything special?"
"Everything I do with
you is special, Dr. Venkman. But if
you'd like to do something we don't ordinarily do, I am not averse to the
idea--provided it does not involve transdimensional trips or bowlhopping."
His hands were warmer but I was loath to release them.
I lifted the edge of my sweater and slipped his hands between my sweater
and shirt. "Better?"
He closed his eyes and smiled
in dreamy satisfaction. "You
could melt glaciers with that body heat, Spengler."
He leaned into me, untangling his legs to get up on his knees, and his
hands circled under my sweater to lock behind me.
His lips were on mine again, insistent, as he eased me backward to the
floor.
"Peter…." On my
back, I cocked an admonishing eyebrow at him.
"Peter, what is today?"
Propping himself on elbows
planted on either side of my head, he gave me a curious grin.
"Monday, December twenty-third, nineteen eighty-five."
A wicked sparkle overcame the curiosity.
"Do I win what's behind door number one?"
He slid his arms under my head and began to nuzzle behind my ear. Highly
distracting.
"Peter," I said
again, injecting a firmer note, "when is the deadline for my paper?"
A soft groan rose close to my
ear. "Egon." He
lifted his head and looked at me mournfully.
"You can't spend the next three days working.
How often do we get the fire hall to ourselves?
Ray and Winston won't be back until tomorrow night. Can't
you start working on it again...then...?"
He trailed off, looking even more dejected. "Guess not on Christmas Eve, hmm."
He chewed on his lip and I could see the Venkman synapses firing with the
proficiency he always showed when he wanted to maneuver a situation to his
advantage.
I wrapped my arms around him. "Peter, I'm sorry.
I promised I would deliver the paper before the weekend.
Professor Campbell is going back to California Saturday morning--"
"Hey, it's okay."
Peter eased up gently and rolled off me. His glance took in the rows of test tubes and the
disappointment he was attempting to hide flared brightly for an instant before
he could squelch it. He drew his
knees up and clasped his hands over them, giving me a morose smile. "You
fall asleep on the lab sofa tonight, Egon, and I'm taking all your Christmas
gifts back tomorrow."
I sat up and gave his knee a
reassuring squeeze. "We'll
have dinner together," I promised.
He made a face.
"How about lunch?"
"Peter, I've had lunch. I thought you were going to eat while you were out
shopping."
"If I'd gotten in one of
those lunch lines, I'd still be there," he groused, pushing himself onto
his feet. He extended a hand to
help me to mine. "All of New
York is out shopping today."
"You didn't eat
breakfast either," I said in realization.
"I had a donut."
Peter stepped gingerly past the test tubes and turned in the doorway.
"And two cups of coffee."
At my expression, his lips twitched.
"Okay, okay. I'll have
some lunch. You've gained way too
much power over me the past eleven months, Spengler."
"As you are clearly in
need of a keeper, that can only be a good thing, Peter."
He lingered in the doorway,
watching me as I sorted the remainder of the test tubes.
"Anything I can help you with?" he asked after a moment, doing
an admirable job of hiding his dislike of lab work.
Knowing how much he disliked
it, I appreciated the offer all the more. I
gave him an affectionate look. "I
wish I could say yes. There are few
things I enjoy more than observing Peter Venkman at work in the lab. Never are your natural gifts in starker contrast with your
wholehearted disinterest in utilizing them."
Peter rubbed a hand over his
mouth, then bent his head, feigning an itch somewhere at the nape of his neck. I noted with amusement of my own the smile he was attempting
to conceal. "It isn't that I
don't want your help, Peter. Analyzing
the data requires an extensive knowledge of mycology—and the only familiarity
you have with it is the fungi you are able to grow in the musty confines of your
locker--so I think you will have to leave this to me. "
He gave a shrug, a
mischievous light in his eyes. "And
you said sleeping through those science classes wouldn't pay off."
"You are welcome to
bring your lunch up here. I shall
have the samples put away by the time you're back, so as not to ruin your
appetite."
"You're letting me bring
food and drink onto sacred ground?" Peter
blinked in disbelief.
"I believe you have
gained equal power over me since January, Dr. Venkman."
I sighed, gliding a light hand over the pristine lab counter.
He snorted and, scooping up
two small green shopping bags, disappeared downstairs.
Off-key whistling on the stairs caught my attention and I emerged from
the piles of papers to note that nearly an hour had passed since Peter had gone
downstairs for lunch. He reappeared
in the doorway, something cradled in his hands, and moved to my side.
With care out of proportion necessary to the task, he lowered a small
crystal cup of what appeared to be eggnog to the table in front of me.
I looked from the cup to his
flour-dusted features and the equally dusty
state of his dark green tee-shirt. "Peter,
what have you been up to? You did
have lunch?"
"Nope."
He dismissed that necessity with a wave of his hand and, setting himself
on a lab stool beside mine, a grin of anticipation on his face. "Go ahead,
Egon. Taste it."
"You're covered in
flour--"
"I'm making
cookies."
"Ah."
I brushed gently at the layer of flour along his jaw. "I am surprised you had enough flour left for the
dough." I gave the cup a
dubious glance. If Peter had made
it, no doubt it was something more than mere eggnog.
"What, may I ask, is in it?"
He exhaled an explosive
breath. "Come on, Egon. I've
been working on this thirty...," he glanced at the clock, "forty
minutes to get it just right. I
can't tell any more." His grin
grew, eyes twinkling impishly. "Please?
One taste."
"Peter, I am hardly an
expert on--"
"That's why you're so
perfect. I'll know from your face
whether it's right. Hell, whether
you can even taste it. It tastes
just like eggnog to me."
Reluctantly I picked up the
cup and sipped. To say that it was
strong did not do it justice. I
felt fairly confident that it would have an entire fraternity down for a long
nap if they imbibed more than a few cupfuls.
I eyed Peter with some concern. "How
much of this have you had?"
"Oh..." He shrugged
and slipped the cup out of my hands. "Pretty
potent, huh?"
"Quite potent," I
replied gently. "And, I think,
what I needed."
What I had in reality needed
was a good swift kick. And Peter
had delivered it unwittingly. The
realization that he had spent the last hour making eggnog and cookies alone down
in the kitchen made me feel altogether reprehensible.
I was not just absent-minded, as everyone so often accused me; I was
dense...obtuse...a complete idiot. I
knew better than anyone how vulnerable Peter felt at Christmas.
Normally those vulnerabilities stood out, with his various grumblings and
complaints about the weather and the crowds and the commercial aspects of it
all. But this year he had seemed to
find new magic in the season. An
almost childlike enjoyment that I was fast in danger of squelching with my
thoughtlessness.
I took the cup back from him
and placed it on the table. "Enough
eggnog, Dr. Venkman. Come on, let's
get some food in you."
He made a face.
"Jeez, Egon, I'm full." As
I grasped his wrist, he slid his other arm around my waist and playfully danced
me in a circle.
"Peter," I said
firmly, maneuvering him in the direction of the door.
"Egon," he
retorted, with an unerring imitation of both the humor and exasperation in my
voice as he shouldered me in the opposite direction.
I gave up the tug of war and looked at him with a patient smile.
"Peter, you are going to
eat something if I have to carry you downstairs and--"
I got no further before his
arms firmed around me and the floor vanished from under my feet.
But I was a little too heavy for a marginally inebriated Peter Venkman to
support, and we both tumbled sideways onto the
sofa. He slumped on top of
me, helpless with laughter. "Oh...Spengs.…"
He couldn't go on. I sighed and sat up, nudging him up alongside me.
"Why don't you wait here
and I'll go down and prepare a sandwich for you," I suggested, starting to
rise. Two arms around my waist
prevented it.
"Don't go."
He pulled me down onto his lap and buried his face against my neck in
such a manner that the argument I was about to put up completely fled my
thoughts. His hands slipped under
my sweater and untucked my shirttails to roam across my stomach.
I tried to steel myself
against that touch. "Peter,
you've been consuming alcohol. I do
not wish to take advantage of your intoxicated state.…" I broke off with
an involuntary intake of breath as he employed his tongue rather creatively up
one side of my neck and nuzzled just under my jaw.
"Why not?" The
question was matter-of-fact. He
sounded very nearly sober. "I'm taking advantage of the fact that I know
exactly how to turn you into silly putty."
He ran his fingers lightly through the shorter hair behind my ear.
"Take a thirty minute break, Dr. Spengler, and I can make it worth
your while."
I turned in his lap and
slipped my arms around his shoulders. "You
always make it worth my while, Peter."
From his expression, I knew
he had expected me to extricate myself so that I could get back to work. I shook
my head gently. "Work...when I
could be with you? I do not know
what I was thinking."
He looked at me guardedly,
not quite willing to believe he was being put ahead of my work.
"Your paper--"
"Can wait until after
Christmas." I combed the dark
hair that fell over his forehead and let it slide back down through my fingers.
"It was foolish of me to agree to try and finish it by Saturday.
I'm sure Professor Campbell will understand."
At the faint glimmer of guilt that showed in his eyes, I immediately
shook my head again. "I want
to spend the rest of the day with you. I
hope that is acceptable, Dr. Venkman."
The guilt vanished and the
look I wanted to see took its place. He
slid down sideways onto the sofa, taking me with him, and wrapped a leg around
mine. His mouth covered my mouth
with warm eager passion. He crawled
on top of me and tucked his arms comfortably under my back, lips and tongue
delving between my lips, tender, unhurried, as if he were quite prepared to wile
away the rest of the day kissing me. I
placed my hands at his waist, sliding fingers up under his shirt to skim gently
over ribs and up behind him to settle over his shoulder blades. I loved having him this near.
I pulled him down closer and returned his soft kisses with a kiss imbued
with full-fledged desire, lifting my hips against his.
He drew back and grinned down at me, eyes shining with affection.
"You're so easy,"
he whispered teasingly, and thrust back, holding his awakening erection against
mine with a pressure that made me catch my breath.
"Considering
the...fact...Dr Venkman...that you are the only one I want...."
I sucked in a breath as he rotated his hips hard to mine, and I wondered
if I could quite melt into the sofa cushions.
"That you are the only one I have ever wanted...I cannot possibly be
what you would term, 'easy'."
"I'm that
irresistible?" he asked softly, lowering his head to brush his lips over
mine.
"I don't believe I will
answer that. You are quite vain
enough."
He looked exultant at that
and, freeing his arms, burrowed both hands under my shirt.
As warm palms grazed my skin, he surged his hips downward again.
In that moment of contact, it was all I could do to breathe.
He nuzzled at the base of my throat, thumbs moving lightly, maddeningly
over my nipples. "Do you know
how irresistible you are?" he murmured, tenor a warm vibration against my
skin.
"No," I said
hoarsely, barely comprehending the question.
He lowered his mouth to mine,
our breaths mingling. "Do you
see me resisting?" The soft
kisses had vanished, and his lips were firm, devouring mine with seemingly
unquenchable need. He had
pushed up my sweater and shirt, and now lowered his head to set a searing kiss
above my breastbone, gliding lips and tongue in a moist trail to my stomach, to
nuzzle there. I felt his hand drift
from my hip to caress my cloth-covered erection...cupping with a light
touch...then settling solidly, firmly, possessively.
The sound I made spurred him to begin a slow rhythmic push with the palm
of his hand. I lifted my hips to
meet the thrust of his hand, conscious only of that pressure, and the feel of
his mouth moving back up to melt warmly at the base of my neck.
I found a grip on the cushion under me, my other arm wrapped over Peter's
shoulders.
He lifted his head and I felt
his warm breath on my face. I
opened my eyes just enough to see him watching me, a certain fascination mingled
with the love in his face. He must
have seen a sliver of blue under my lashes, for his smile deepened and he leaned
closer. "Thinking about test tubes, Dr. Spengler?" he
murmured.
Though he was not serious, I
gave a breathless shake of my head and leaned toward him to bury my face against
his shoulder. I felt his lips drop
to my jaw to leave a searing kiss on my skin.
His mouth nibble at my ear. "What are you thinking," he asked,
tenor a low intimate sound so close to my ear.
He released my erection and wrapped his arm around me, pulling me hard
against him. I felt a solidly
muscled thigh take the place of his hand and I shivered at the substantial
increase in pressure. He heard my
intake of breath and he bent his head to capture my mouth and kiss me. When he
drew back, we both gasped for air. Green
eyes blazed heatedly into mine. "What
are you...thinking...'gon," he breathed.
I swallowed, trying to catch
my breath. "How...much I love
you." I pressed forward, my
erection crushed against his leg as I pinned him to the back of the sofa and
kissed him. "How much I want
you," I added in a passionate whisper.
I climbed over him and rested my hips against his, thrusting against him
only half-consciously as I covered his lips with mine.
Perhaps I was not as skilled
a kisser as Peter, but the joy of expressing my love for him in that manner made
up for lack of expertise. There
were moments when it seemed almost unreal to me that we had taken this step;
that I had kissed him and he had kissed me and it had felt so right. Nothing
brought the reality of it home to me more intensely than his mouth on mine. I had seen him with the women he had dated, dozens upon
dozens of them; but I did not recall clearly that he kissed them often, no more
than a brush on the cheek when he was seeing them out. I had assumed, though it seemed unlikely, a certain reticence
when it came to a more public display of his feelings for them. But then we
became involved and I discovered that he had no reticence at all about
displaying his feelings outside the bedroom.
He never hesitated with me. Indeed,
there were times when we must have borne a strong resemblance to a pair of over
stimulated teenagers. I imagined
Ray and Winston deserved some sort of award for putting up with us.
And Peter was equally
culpable for all those times we had been caught in a kiss.
He gripped my hips and arched
under me, lips parted, eyes a half-lidded murky green as he lost himself to the
sensation. I thrust against him and
held him down while I found my way to that hollow behind his ear which, nuzzled,
invariably woke him when he was too sleepy and made him crumble when he assured
me he was not in the mood. I kissed
him there, nuzzling softly, and I heard him whisper, "oh, Jesus.…"
He arched up again, clinging to me fortunately, or I would have been thrown off
the sofa by the energetic twisting.
"Clothes, Egon," he
managed to get out, tenor rough with arousal. "Clothes. Off."
It was at approximately that
moment that I smelled it. Something
was burning. I jerked my head up to
scan the lab counter, thinking I had left a burner on.
"Peter...."
"Come on, Spengs,"
he pleaded breathlessly, hands pulling at my sweater to tug it over my head.
"It's Christmas and I've been a good boy this year."
"You haven't, but that's
beside the point." I sniffed
the air, and glanced down at Peter quizzically.
"Don't you smell that?"
Peter groaned aloud and
dropped his head back to the cushion. "Yeah,
I smell something. I smell a
physicist who's in danger of being tied down if he doesn't cooperate--"
I covered his mouth with my
hand and frowned at him. "Use
your nose, Dr. Venkman, and tell me I do not smell something burning."
Peter peeled my hand off his
mouth and exhaled in exasperation. He
leaned on his elbows and gave a dubious sniff.
Then his eyes went wide. "Oh
shit. The cookies."
His instinctive surge off the
sofa sent us both tumbling to the floor. He
was on his feet first and flying downstairs.
The smoke alarm in the lab went off, and I wondered why the one in the
kitchen had not alerted us.
I caught up with Peter in the
kitchen doorway, to see smoke seeping out of the oven.
Peter opened the oven door, and more smoke billowed out.
I tugged an oven mitt over his hand and he retrieved the tray of
blackened cookies, grimacing at the sight of them as he dropped the tray onto
the stovetop. "Ah hell.
Ray's never going to let me hear the end of it."
He cast me a rueful smile.
"Nor Winston," I
agreed, gazing at the cookies with a twinge of guilt.
If I had not gotten so involved with the project, Peter would not have
had to come upstairs looking for me. I
should have been with him. "Peter...,"
I turned to him just as he turned to me. "I'm
sorry--" I stopped in surprise as the identical sentiment came from his own
lips. He looked initially surprised
as well. Then a puzzled look came
into his eyes.
"Why are you sorry?
You didn't leave them in there to burn." He picked up the cookies and dumped them into the sink.
"You didn't practically burn down our home," he added in
disgust.
"You did not practically
burn down the fire hall, Peter." I
slipped my arms around him and pulled him close.
"The lab smoke alarm would've alerted us in plenty of time." I
glanced up at the kitchen alarm and noted the layer of dried green slime on it.
"As for the cookies," I continued hurriedly, "we can
certainly make some more--"
"Don't bother, Egon.
My eyes are better than yours. I
saw the slimed alarm the minute I came through the door."
He tossed the oven mitt on the counter.
"Know a recipe that'll make small green ghosts violently ill?"
he inquired caustically.
Without a word, I took his
hand and pulled him out of the kitchen. I
did not head back upstairs to the lab but down to our bedroom.
Peter followed without protest, though he was still scowling.
"I'm more in the mood to
do a little busting than anything else, Spengler."
I did not respond.
Guiding him to the bed, I sat him down, closed and locked the bedroom
door and shut off the light. Late
afternoon sunlight streamed over the quilt and shone softly on Peter's mussed
hair. He folded his arms and looked
at me stubbornly. "Let me bust
him. It'll take me five minutes,
tops."
I sensed I would do better to
shift him out of this mood before attempting to reignite the one we'd lost. I bent to the box of gift-wrap and bows that Peter had left
out earlier and extracted a length of blue satin ribbon. Encircling my waist, I tied the ends in a neat bow.
Peter watched me suspiciously, then tilted his head to take in the total
effect, a reluctant smile pulling at his lips.
"Early Christmas
gift?" he asked.
I moved toward him and
wrapped my forearms over his shoulders. "Yes,
but you cannot shake it."
"How about if I just
jostle it a little bit?" He
ran a hand lightly up the inside of my pant leg, grazing his knuckles over the softened
erection.
I drew in a breath.
"Jostling is acceptable."
His arms circled me and pulled me closer. "It might be more expedient to simply unwrap me, of
course."
A grin appeared.
"So I've been a good boy after all." He caught the ends of the bow and untied it.
I traced a long finger down
his cheek, drinking in the sight of him...the quirk of his mouth and the boyish
gleam in his eyes...everything about him that I so loved.
"You've been a very good boy, Peter. A veritable angel. It's
quite disturbing."
"Love'll do that to a
guy." He wrapped the ribbon
around my wrist. "But it's
your fault, Egon. There I was,
living a happily idle existence, apart from the occasional death-defying bust,
and you had to come along and spoil it all."
Taking my other hand from his shoulder, he bound my wrists together, then
pulled on the dangling ends of ribbon to maneuver me down beside him.
"Kissing me," he went on with a snort, shifting onto his knees
to straddle my lap. "Even though you were my best friend, that took balls,
Spengler."
"I'm quite aware of
that, Peter. I could well have
ruined everything between us."
"You trusted your
feelings." He set a hand on my
chest and gave a push. I lay down
and he stretched my arms above my head, keeping them there with a firm grip on
the ribbon. "You trusted your
ability to read my feelings," he continued, with such uncharacteristic
seriousness, I could not say a word to interrupt.
He bent and laid his lips over mine, the barest movement of his mouth
even indicating that it was a kiss. He
simply seemed to be breathing me in. The
touch of our lips brought it all home to him as intensely as it did to me.
He drew back a little, eyes closed, and shook his head.
"I loved you, Spengs. When
we were only friends, I loved you. But now, it's...it's just...,"
he opened his eyes and looked into mine, saying what words could not.
"I know," I
whispered. "It is just that. Everything."
I swallowed and closed my eyes. "And
I very nearly ruined our first Christmas. How
I could have been so thoughtless, I do not--" Warm lips back on mine
silenced me, and he did kiss me this time, with a soft quiet passion.
When he drew back, I opened my eyes to see him smiling with boundless
affection.
"Nothing could
ruin this Christmas, Egon." The
deep green of his eyes in the darkening room was suddenly brightened with
emotion. "Not even goddamned
Charlie Venkman." He sucked in
a breath, blinking. "No
six-year-old on the planet's happier than me today.
Just being here with you, hell, that was all I wanted. Didn't mind you working...not too much. The eggnog...,"
he made a face. "I wasn't working on getting pasted, Egon, swear to God.
I just got a little carried away with testing it."
Regret flickered in his eyes. "I
wasn't trying to make you feel guilty about working."
I could feel the regret
reflected in my face. "Peter,
I am sorry.…" Lifting my arms to hold him, I realized I was still neatly
tied up with blue satin. Amusement
bubbled up inside me and I extended my wrists.
"If you would be so kind as to release me."
A slow smile curved his lips
and he folded his hands over my chest and settled his chin on them.
"I don't know, Spengs. I
haven't had my way with you yet." He
wriggled on top of me, stomach muscles all too firm against my still soft and
overly sensitive erection. Gasping
for breath, I clenched my fingers in two handfuls of his tee-shirt.
Peter's lips twitched.
He leaned his forearms on mine and began to tug at the knots.
"Glad you kissed me eleven months ago," he murmured, eyes
riveted to tangled ribbon. Freeing
me, he rubbed my wrists gently, then wrapped his arms around me.
"I am, too, Peter.
Very glad." I lifted my
head to kiss him. I could still
taste flour on his skin. "You
haven't finished unwrapping your gift."
"Mmmm...yeah, Spengs,
you know how I usually rip the paper right off my gifts every year?"
He settled down comfortably, his body aligned with mine, chest to chest,
and he resumed the slow leisurely kisses, his fingers threading into my hair.
"I'm taking my time with this one."
I slid my arms around him,
rolled him to the side, and linked my leg around his.
"Merry Christmas, Dr. Venkman," I whispered.
"Damn straight," he
answered, and kissed me again.