Author's Note: The title is taken from the song "A Merry Little Christmas," music by Hugh Martin, lyrics by Ralph Blane. Kwanzaa is a week-long celebration that honors African heritage in African American culture. The holiday is observed from December 26 to January 1. The section headings of this story are drawn from the seven core principles of Kwanzaa, with the Swahili terms in parentheses.
Together, If the Fates Allow
The squat candleholder, the kinara, was fashioned of raw wood, its grains boldly etched in black. Six candles - three green, three red - balanced on its two flanks, a black one presided in the middle. The kinara occupied a place of honor in the deep sill of the front window in their apartment, to the right of the twinkling tree. On the day after Christmas, as his mother and John Reese watched, Taylor Carter lit the first candle on the first day of Kwanzaa.
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Unity (Umoja)
Harold Finch was a generous employer.
He excused Danvers from regular duties for the week between Christmas Day and New Year's. He assumed his cook, though without a family, would not want to spend the time tied to a kitchen stove if it could be avoided.
But he wanted to do something festive for his little company, his tiny team of colleagues, to mark the holiday season.
He wanted to commemorate a successful year of work together, a remarkable period which surprised him every time he contemplated its dangers and quiet moments, its trials and unexpected revelations.
They had come through a lot together.
And he owed them a debt.
So he invited Mr. Reese and Detectives Carter and Fusco to join him for dinner on the evening following Christmas. The secluded French restaurant was far from his residence and many blocks from the library.
Inconvenient to everyone, in fact; but he knew Henri the owner; he could reserve a private dining room off the main salon even in the busiest week of the year, and the detailed planning of the menu with the chef was a delicious pleasure he gave himself as a holiday gift.
With everyone assembled, Finch felt anxious as the dinner began. He sensed the nervousness and suspicion radiating off of the others as well.
"I don't have a formal agenda for this little gathering, in case you were wondering."
He sounded pompous, he feared. But the relaxation on their faces was notable from that point onward.
The wine from Henri's impressive cellar helped considerably; Detective Fusco's free-flowing jokes helped even more; the fact that Mr. Reese could touch the shoulder of Detective Carter in a public establishment without hesitation or fear of exposure helped too.
After the cheeses and fruit were cleared from the table and the bread crumbs swept up by waiters in long white aprons, Finch proposed a toast.
"I am grateful for your presence here with me tonight." Could he call them friends, all of them?
He raised his glass and bent his torso toward each one of them in turn.
"You are the palpable assurance I carry in my heart that the world, as dangerous and deceitful as it remains, will be a slightly safer place tomorrow than it was yesterday."
He sat down as abruptly as he had risen.
His eyeglasses needed polishing, so he removed them from his nose and shined them with one of the richly figured burgundy handkerchiefs Mr. Reese had given him the day before.
As he looked out bleary-eyed upon the company, their glittering goblets seemed to him like fantastical ornaments fallen from some hidden tree, dancing in a warm and hazy landscape of friendship.
He wouldn't offer a toast to the uncertain future of their mission or to its cloudy past, no one could.
The fragile present was all they could count on together.
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Self-Determination (Kujichagulia)
Reese wondered why the landlord had not carried his mail order package all the way to the door of his apartment, as was the usual practice.
But when he stooped to pick it up by the lobby mailboxes, he had his answer: the carton was heavy as hell.
The leaden weight strained his arms when he hoisted it and by the time he had made it to his loft his biceps were trembling with the effort.
He knew exactly what was inside the cardboard box.
Dutch oven was what his grandmother called this deep sided cooking pot. Oval in shape, the black cast iron pot was fitted with a tight lid and had grooves on the bottom. Round handles protruded like Mickey Mouse ears from either side.
His grandmother had one just like it when he was growing up.
Reese had ordered his pot from an online cookware company on a whim during a three a.m. bout with insomnia at the end of the Melchior forgery case one week ago.
He didn't need the huge pot, perhaps, but he sure did want it.
True, the loft's blazing white kitchen was outfitted with all sorts of cooking contraptions, several of which he had never seen before. Finch had been meticulous and extravagant in picking out the dishes, glasses, silverware, serving pieces, utensils, table linens, dish cloths, oven mitts, and knives.
Even the cheese grater, ice cube trays, sponges, and dish washing liquid were already in place when Reese moved in to the apartment.
All of it felt alien; none of it was his.
But now ripping through the cardboard and packing popcorn that encased the oven gave him a giddy satisfaction, like opening a gift at Christmas or Easter or birthdays.
Only this was even better because he knew this was exactly what he chose, what he wanted.
No surprises, no guilt to hide with a quick grin. No stowing the expensive tie under the bed, or the fussy watch in a crate in the shed, or the elaborate construction set on a shelf in the garage.
His aunts and uncles meant well, he knew, giving him gifts his own mother could never afford on her waitress wages.
Now here in this stark new kitchen, staring into the murky depths of his Dutch oven, he remembered his grandmother, May-May.
When he was eight or nine or ten her yellow-tiled kitchen was the refuge where he spent evenings waiting for his mother to get off work.
He remembered the stained index cards covered with May-May's hand scrawled recipes; the dented green tin canisters holding flour and sugar; the cracked wooden spoons, the excitement of igniting the ancient stove's treacherous pilot light with a long matchstick; the warm collusion of baking sugar cookies with her to give as Christmas presents to the aunts and uncles.
He couldn't recall any of his grandmother's recipes any more, another casualty of his nomadic life.
But now he had his own Dutch oven, just like May-May's.
He would season this new pot carefully, just as he remembered watching her do it.
First, scrubbing it inside and out with hot soapy water to remove the manufacturer's anti-rust sealant. Then letting a golden stream of vegetable oil dribble over the inside, tipping the pot from side to side to make sure the oil clung to every pore of the interior surface.
He would set the coated pot inside the oven, keeping the temperature low, gently baking the new surface on. He would check frequently to make sure the oil reached, but didn't exceed, its smoke point.
When the heat had done its work, he would leave his seasoned pot on top of the stove until it cooled off. He already had cleared a place in the crowded pantry that would hold his new gift perfectly.
Branded by scouring and cured by fire, this seasoned Dutch oven would belong to him alone.
He had no idea yet what he would cook it in.
But he knew that whatever he prepared would be for him, his choice, and his pleasure alone.
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Collective Work and Responsibility (Ujima)
Carter's knee fit snugly into the space between the scrawny shoulder blades of her perp.
She pressed her weight into his spine and was gratified to hear the crunch of the driveway's fine gravel as it dug into his cheek. She bent first the right then the left arm back, gripping his flannel-covered wrists with authority. But she couldn't reach the cuffs which were dangling from her belt. If she released one wrist, she was sure he would jerk away, flip her over, and charge off toward the street.
She looked around for her partner.
There was Fusco, hustling up the driveway, scattering stones as he plowed forward.
He was clumsy most of the time, but at this moment, she thought he looked just like one of those bull rhinos in a Nat Geo documentary: bulky, but surprisingly agile. He bent gracefully over her shoulder, snatched the bracelets from her belt, and in an instant snapped them over the wrists of her perp.
When she got off his back, the man struggled to his knees and cursed both of them, strings of saliva dangling from his lips as he swung his head back and forth between them. His green eyes glittered with rage when he saw the two drawn guns trained at his temples.
"Thanks, Fusco. You're the best."
She rarely admitted that she worked better in tandem than solo. But she was glad to have this man at her side. She knew she was lucky and she lost nothing by sharing that thought now.
"Anytime, Carter. You know I got your back."
She watched as his open face shifted slowly from warm to slyly calculating.
"But, you owe me one now. So you write up the report when we get back. I'll count that as your Christmas gift to me."
She sputtered in good-natured outrage and hoisted their prisoner to his feet. As she duck-walked him to the curb, she grinned at Fusco waiting there to shove him into the sedan.
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Cooperative Economics (Ujamaa)
The knock at his door sounded like none other in the world.
Reese knew this wasn't Harold or Joss or the landlord or the neighbor or the plumber or Mr. Han or anyone else who knew he lived in this air-tight loft.
This three-part knock, so abrupt and full of authority, could only be from Mrs. Soni, the landlady who leased him a room above Pooja's restaurant.
His heart lifted at the thought that she had followed him here to his new apartment.
He didn't have any idea how she found out where his other residences were; he believed he was careful in covering his tracks. But no matter how she did it, he was thrilled that she had sought him out.
When he flung open the door to admit her, Reese was startled to see Mrs. Soni had brought an entourage.
Behind her in the hallway were her four grandchildren, each holding up a corner of a gigantic netted bag filled with oranges. After a quick exclamation, Reese stepped forward to relieve the children of their burden which he slung onto the marble counter next to the refrigerator.
Cloaked in an immense brown overcoat and a crimson scarf that wound three times around her neck, Mrs. Soni stepped unbidden into his apartment, for all the world like she owned this space too. The children, in matching navy blue dress coats with brass buttons, filed in after her in order of height and age: Avani, Bijal, Leena, and Hari, the lone boy.
His guest stood in the middle of the vast space, turning around slowly in a complete circle to take in every corner. He felt small, exposed, nervous waiting for Mrs. Soni's judgment, like a school boy at the blackboard after completing a long division problem.
"This is a lovely place you have here, John. So clean and white. I hope you are comfortable and that you sleep well here."
Her warm brown face smiled up at him and he felt as though iron bands were sprung from around his chest.
"I do, Mrs. Soni. But never as well as when I'm with you at Pooja's." Her smile broadened and he knew he had passed the examination.
She accepted his offer of hot tea and, still in her coat, stood right behind him in the kitchen as he prepared it the way she had taught him: warming the teapot with a swish of boiling water, letting the Darjeeling leaves steep for five minutes in the dark, lifting the lid to sample the fragrance to determine if they had been immersed long enough.
He poured the steaming liquid through a metal filter into a blue and white tea cup nestled on a matching saucer. He knew she would never deign to drink tea out of a mug. He placed the carton of milk and another one of sugar cubes next to the cup.
Without his suggesting it, Mrs. Soni lifted each grandchild to sit on one of the aluminum stools at the island. They were out from underfoot that way, easily supervised, and still able to watch the grown-ups at the same time.
Reese retrieved four blue and white porcelain bowls from a cabinet over the sink and served vanilla ice cream topped with chocolate syrup to his youngest guests. Their wide eyed approval suggested that this was a rare treat and he felt proud to have surprised them in such a delicious way.
While the children ate their mid-afternoon desserts, Reese carried the cup and saucer as he escorted Mrs. Soni to the sitting area next to the double height windows.
Late afternoon sun streaming into the apartment had warmed her enough that she was finally willing to take off her huge coat, dropping it on the unused bed as she passed it.
He liked the colors of her sari, deep pink and gold, with a bright blue cardigan sweater fastened tightly across her bosom. She kept the long red scarf around her neck, but her feet were bare except for the braided leather sandals she always wore. Her heels, the same color as the sandals, were cracked and ashy from the cold.
After some minutes of sipping the tea in silence, Mrs. Soni spoke.
"You may be wondering about the sack of oranges I brought, John." He was, but didn't say anything.
"This is the first installment in repayment of a debt I owe your employer, Mr. Burdett. Or Mr. Peacock or Mr. Wren. Or whatever he may call himself."
Reese chuffed in amusement but wouldn't answer her implied question. He kept to the main line of discussion with a question of his own.
"And why do you owe him anything, Mrs. Soni?"
"Your employer was kind enough, truly generous enough, to offer to my fourth son, Kiran, a scholarship which will permit him to attend graduate studies in engineering next fall. At the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. It is a miracle, John. An astonishing thing, indeed."
Her eyes were shining as she spoke, whether in wonder at Finch's generosity or with pride in the academic accomplishment of her son, he couldn't tell.
She unwound the scarf from her neck and let it fall in her lap.
"I wanted to give Mr. Burdett something, a token really, but something concrete, to show that we appreciate his kind support. So I ask you to convey to him these oranges as a first down payment from my family to him."
"Well, Mrs. Soni, I'm sure Harold doesn't expect anything in return. This is a gift. There's no need for you to do this."
"Ah, but there is, John. I want him to know that we intend to fully repay him for this scholarship. Over years, decades if necessary. But we will repay."
The determination on her face turned down her mouth as she said this, making her look stern to Reese. There was no way he would ever dream of crossing her.
"John, you know, I would have taken the oranges directly to him at the library where he works."
Her ferocity had been replaced by playfulness now.
"But I didn't think Mr. Finch would be happy to learn that I know where that is."
Reese couldn't suppress the little gasp that escaped him at this casual, but calculating comment.
"How do you know, Mrs. Soni? How could you possibly know?"
"Oh, John, you know my methods." He didn't really, but he nodded all the same.
She returned the tea cup to its saucer on the glass table between them. And leaning back in the chair, she made her hands into a little steeple, fingertips against fingertips before her face, now shining with mirth.
"There is not a neighborhood in this city that doesn't embrace at least one of my people, John.
"Sometimes it's a nephew or niece; sometimes a waiter or busboy; sometimes an in-law or a customer or a vendor; sometimes a cousin or neighbor from my village back home; sometimes a member of one of the several clubs and cooperative societies I lead.
"Sometimes I owe them a favor. More often they owe one to me. A vast network of mutual aid, you might say."
Reese inclined his head toward Mrs. Soni, inviting her to continue.
"In this case, it was the husband of Bijal's first grade teacher. Aaron is a building inspector for the city. One day he mentioned that he had observed a curiosity in his sector: an immense structure, though apparently abandoned, was using an inordinate amount of electricity and water every month. I asked Aaron for details, which he provided.
"I explored further and reached the conclusion that your Mr. Finch occupies the upper floors of this derelict library."
The old woman leaned forward to take up her tea again, blowing on it although its steam had long since dissipated.
"Well, Mrs. Soni, you never cease to amaze me." Reese was surprised and a little frightened too.
"It is good to be astonished every once in a while, I think. It keeps the brain agile and alert." Her smile was warm and inviting once more.
"And I think it is time to go, John. The children are getting restless and I would not want them investigating that closet over there where you store your guns and ammunition."
He blinked and shook his head, but refused to ask her how she knew about the hidden arsenal.
"Mrs. Soni, I'm glad you stopped by. It was good to talk with you and learn about Kiran's scholarship."
She bowed slightly in his direction.
"Please tell Mr. Finch that we are humbled by his generosity and grateful for his kindness."
"I will tell him when I deliver the oranges."
With great rustling and considerably fidgeting, Mrs. Soni buttoned her grandchildren into their coats. Then she wrapped the crimson scarf around her neck three times.
Reese held out the heavy brown overcoat and patted her shoulders when she slipped it on.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Soni."
"Good night, John. Please stay safe."
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Purpose (Nia)
Finch squinted up at the swarthy young man in the food truck who brandished the ice cream cone like a torch.
"I always save one for you, Mr. Harold. Every day, even when you don't come to the park for weeks, I save one for you."
Smiling broadly, the vendor leaned forward through the window of his truck and presented the vanilla treat even before Finch requested it.
"Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Amahl."
He felt embarrassed to learn that his absence had been noted. He was more comfortable with the idea that he had been forgotten after all these months.
"At first, I fear you had found a better food truck, better ice cream."
Amahl laughed at that preposterous thought. Finch smiled thinly, but said nothing.
"Then I realize that was impossible. Here is the best. Everyone knows so."
Finch clasped the pristine cone in his gloved hand and with the other fumbled for his wallet.
"No, no, Mr. Harold. This one is on me. In honor of your return."
Finch offered a slight bow and turned to go, raising the ice cream to his mouth.
"And in honor of the return of your beautiful friend with the red hair. She came to see me just two days ago."
Finch paused with his back to Amahl, not wanting to reveal just much how this news pierced his heart.
"Mr. Harold, she tell me she miss the ice cream too. So I gave her one free, just like you. Maybe next time you and she come together to have ice cream again, yes?"
Finch couldn't turn his head, so he had to rotate on his heel to face the young man straight on.
"Yes, Amahl, perhaps we will."
"Mr. Harold, may the New Year bring you prosperity and good health, Inshallah."
"And the same to you, Amahl. The same to you."
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Creativity (Kuumba)
Fusco arrived at the rehearsal late.
Captain Lynch had insisted on crowing on and on about the successful wrap-up of the Vargas murder investigation in front of the visiting brass from headquarters.
Normally Fusco didn't mind getting a little positive attention once in a while; another embossed certificate of commendation was always nice. And he knew the public recognition was a kind of invisible life vest he could wear when the waters got choppy later on, as they surely would.
Such official appreciation didn't come often in the career of a cop like him who churned back and forth from the dark to the light side of the blue line.
No doubt, next week he would be swimming with the slime-bags in HR all over again.
He had to stay on his toes every day to make sure no one caught him out in this little performance he was pulling. His life depended on successful play acting.
So no way was he going to tell Captain Braggadocio to wrap it up so he could get away to catch Lee's rehearsal.
When he finally arrived at the auditorium, the choir was bouncing through the fourth selection on the program. He nodded at another lone dad watching from an aisle seat and scooted across the folded chairs to a position in the middle of the last row.
Lee, with his rusty red hair and round cheeks, was easy to pick out, even from this far back.
As he settled into the threadbare seat, Fusco could see his son in the first line of the group. Lee was crowded together with boys who were taller, slimmer, and harder looking than he. Fusco thought most of them must be in middle school. But Lee, with the baby fat and open expression, looked immature next to the other kids.
In their hoodies, baggy jeans, zebra-striped tights, neon pink turtle necks, plaid mini-skirts, and biker boots, these kids looked like they had been rounded up on any street corner in the five boroughs. Cool kids, nerds, jerks, goths, jocks, trust fund babies, baby gangsters, all gathered together and singing like angels.
Fusco knew this motley collection of boys and girls had passed through a rigorous competition to be selected for this annual gathering of talented singers who would perform in a concert at City Hall on New Year's Day.
The musical program was mixed and it seemed pretty hodge-podge to him, but what did he know about concerts? Christmas hymns, Hanukkah songs, Negro spirituals, sea chanteys, pop tunes, and one long wandering atonal piece that made Fusco cringe every time Lee practiced his part at home.
But he loved seeing the shine on Lee's face as he clutched the sheet music and went into his room to sing by himself. He loved the fact that sometimes he had to call three times to get Lee to put down his music and come to the table for dinner.
The kid got some special charge out of this, something worthwhile. Even more now that he had been asked to substitute for another boy who came down with the flu the week before.
Sure, the solo was brief, but who cared. Lee's voice, so bright and confident, was perfect for the part.
Fusco had come to the rehearsals every afternoon of this week between Christmas and New Year's. And each time he heard his son's voice rising with stirring clarity above the choir's massed sound, he felt his heart turn over in his chest.
Tonight after rehearsal, he would take Lee shopping for the white dress shirt and scarlet tie he needed for the performance. Last year's black trousers were a little short maybe, but they would do fine as long as he wore black socks.
But Lee deserved to have a brand new tie, in honor of his star turn as a soloist. Maybe he would even buy himself a new red tie to match his son's and wear it to the concert.
Fusco slumped down in his seat and closed his eyes to let the swelling sounds wash over him.
Without warning, a low voice invaded his ear.
"Lionel, your son is good at this." Reese folded his long legs into the narrow space between the rows of seats and angled his shoulders toward Fusco.
"Yeah, well thanks for noticing. I didn't know you was a music lover."
"Lots of things you don't know about me, Lionel." The lines around Reese's eyes crinkled, but his mouth remained straight and tight. "And let's keep it that way."
"Fine by me, pal." Fusco didn't want to chat. He turned his eyes back to the stage where the choir master was issuing instructions as the kids ruffled through the pages of their notebooks.
"You remember, Lionel, a few weeks ago when you asked me if you didn't deserve a private life? And I said no."
"Yeah, I remember. What of it?"
"I was wrong."
The two men, both surprised perhaps, let that blunt declaration hang in the air as the choir's buoyant rendition of an old spiritual rolled over them.
When the song ended, Reese rose from his seat and swept out of the auditorium without looking back.
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Faith (Imani)
Reese thought Joss's admonitions to Taylor bordered on hectoring.
She fluttered around her son like he was a newborn instead of a young man going out with his buddies to a New Year's Eve party.
Reese winced in dismay as he listened to her recommendations about the best subway route to take across town, her insistence that Taylor wear a heavier sweater, her nagging about alcohol consumption, and her warnings about how to avoid falling into the clutches of the wrong type of girl.
"Girls like that, they only want one thing." She was pursing her lips and about to wag her finger in his face.
Reese was ready to intervene on behalf of all his sex, when Taylor spoke up for himself.
"Mom, this isn't the first party I've been to, you know. And the other ones had girls at them too."
"I know that, but New Year's Eve is different. Everything – and everybody – looks different after a little too much Champagne."
She sighed and seemed to give up the fight.
"I just want you to have a good time, Taylor. But stay safe."
"I will. And you too, Mom." He kissed her firmly on the side of the head.
"Happy New Year, Mom. Happy New Year, John."
The two men shook hands and Taylor flew out the door before his mother could launch another volley of suggestions.
"I thought he would never leave." Reese sighed in mock relief. "You gave him a pretty rough time there, Sheriff."
"I'm just looking out for him and thinking about what's best for him, that's all."
"Maybe he has to find that out for himself. You've got to trust him, Joss. That's how he grows up to be a man."
"I can't see how any of you manage to grow up at all." She was mollified and teasing now, her attention re-focused on him alone.
"Some of us do. Some of us don't. Luck of the draw who you end up with, I figure." He quirked up one side of his mouth.
"I just don't get you men. A father, a husband, a son and now… whatever this is." She slanted her eyes over to him. "And you all are still a mystery to me."
"Trust is a tangled thing, Joss. But what you have to do is just believe. That's all. Plain and simple. And hard as hell."
Reese let that challenge hang in the air as he retreated to the kitchen.
He carried a chilled Champagne bottle and two crystal flutes to where she sat curled up on the living room sofa.
He placed them on the coffee table next to the copy of The Art of War he had given to Taylor. The book's spine was broken and two pages already dog-eared, which made him feel good.
He was happy that an altogether different gift book was safely hidden in Joss' bedside table.
He had given her Libelous Roses, a collection of erotic poems by the late social justice lion, Andrew Austin, a former client. He liked how laughter had bubbled up from her throat as she ripped off the pink tissue paper wrapping to expose the book. And seeing the way she pressed the slender volume to her chest made him shiver with unexpected pleasure.
Now he could see consternation rise in Joss' face as she looked at the perspiring Champagne bottle resting on the polished wood coffee table; he knew she wanted to object, to fuss and ask him to get a coaster, to fly to the kitchen herself for a dish towel to wipe up the moisture.
But she swallowed down her fastidiousness and stayed quiet. He felt relieved and irrationally proud.
This constant disruption he brought was becoming an accepted part of her life now, he could tell. Her reflexive resistance to disorder was diminishing every day they spent together.
Whether it was good for her or bad for her, he wasn't sure. But it was changing her. He hoped she thought it was for the good.
He filled the glasses half full and watched as she relaxed into the sofa's deep cushions. She held a flute up before her face and the yellow flames of the kinara glinted through its facets.
As she turned her head, he liked the way the candlelight flickered off the rubies in the small gold hoops he had given her.
She tipped the glass toward him in a silent toast and took a long drink of Champagne.
Joss looked beautiful to him tonight.
He didn't have much to say, as usual. He felt weary and foot sore; his back ached and the left shoulder was tender.
She looked beautiful to him every day. But he could never think of the words to make her know that.
He took the glass from her hand and placed it next to his empty one on the table.
With only a slight effort he shifted their positions so that she was flat on the sofa beneath him; her legs open to accept him, her face, golden and serene, turned up to welcome him.
He passed his hands over the surface of her fluffy white sweater, over her chest and along her ribs.
"What's this?"
"Why, John, they're breasts. I thought you knew!" Her wide eyes were teasing him now.
He buried his face in the plush halo of the sweater and inhaled her faint jasmine scent. "I mean. This."
"It's angora."
"From rabbits?"
He looked up to see the little vertical frown line deepen between her eyes. "Yes, or maybe goats, I forget which."
"Feels like rabbits to me."
With his left hand he kneaded the contours of her breasts, a slow squeeze for each syllable: "Soft, round, full, generous, friendly, warm bunnies." He felt her nipples rise up to meet his touch.
"Bunnies who like you." She kissed the top of his head.
"I like bunnies." When he said that, she raised his chin and dropped more kisses over his eyelids.
He shifted forward a bit, careful to prop most of his weight on his own arms. The ache in his shoulder throbbed dully, but he didn't care.
He reached back to trail his fingers over the rich black fabric covering her thighs.
"And what is this?"
"The pants? They're velvet." She was sighing now, tremors gently cascading through her body as his strokes grew firmer.
"Ah, velvet. Feels like your skin, only not exactly." The long muscles of her legs tensed around his hips. He slipped a hand to grasp her lush ass, feeling the powerful bunching of muscles there.
She felt so solid, so relentlessly alive as she moved under him.
He lifted her hips so that they aligned with his and then reversed the steady strokes, now running his hand toward her knee, now back again to her hip. The soft napped fabric flowed under his caress, as warm and firm as her skin.
He took her hand and brought it to his lips, fondling each finger with his tongue before he spoke again.
"I want to introduce you to denim."
He pulled her hand, still wet from his mouth, to the space between their bodies and pressed her fingers against the firm ridge at the fly of his jeans.
He cupped her hand within his, molding her palm to fit his surging erection.
"Hello, denim." Her voice was light, but her eyes were soft and serious. "Denim needs to go."
Guiding her hand down the solid length, he hitched a breath when she squeezed and held him tight.
They lay like that on the sofa for a long time, first clothed, then naked. First clasped to each other, then entwined. First embracing, then dissolving in each other.
Midnight sounded, the New Year came; they noted its arrival as a passing inevitability.
The future, fragile and shadowy, was coming whether they welcomed it or not.