I've Got Your Sugar if You'll Show Me Your Spice, part 1

"Cosima."

One eyelid cracks open, as though she were not entirely sure whether she had dreamed or imagined my whisper. The bedroom is darker than usual at this hour because I had drawn the blinds in anticipation of her condition. Thin stripes of too-bright light slice between the vertical slats covering the wide windows. She mumbles incoherently as her eye flutters shut again; almost immediately she drifts back into a doze.

"Cosima," I say a little more loudly this time. She burrows deeper into her pillow, a tiny divot of a frown dimpling between her brows. I can't help smiling — she really is even cuter than usual when she's grumpy. Most mornings, she awakens far earlier than I, so I rarely get to see her actually asleep. The normally precise lines of her eye makeup are blotchy and smudged; that she had not bothered or remembered to remove it serves as yet another telltale that she had overindulged at our party last night.

Snuggling closer to spoon her from behind, I drape my arm over her and settle my hand at the curve of her ribcage just below her left breast. I revel in the feeling of her skin melding with mine, the soft-firmness of her in my embrace. "Cosimaaaaaaa..." I croon into her ear, nibbling and tugging at the lobe with careful teeth.

She grunts, clutching her pillow more tightly.

Gently I brush aside the curtain of her dreads so that I can leisurely kiss my way along her upper back to the nape of her neck, tickled by the wispy baby fine hairs there. I breathe in the spiciness of her scent mingled with the sour vestiges of her debauchery, the jumbled potpourri intriguingly magnified by the warmth cocooning us. Grabbing the edge of the duvet, I fling it down toward the foot of the bed.

At the sight of her beautifully exposed body, I let out a long breath released on a drawn out sigh. A grin steals across one corner of my mouth. Scattering kisses down the knurled ridges of her spine, I linger at the elegant curve of the small of her back, nuzzling at the tender skin. She is all heat and velvet over lean muscle beneath my lips. "Bonjour, chérie," I say brightly in a sing-song cadence when I feel her reluctantly stir.

"Since when are you so revoltingly perky at the ass-crack of dawn, Dr. Cormier?" she croaks.

I smile, kissing and nipping all over each of her smooth firm buttocks in turn. "I'm not, and it's not. It's nearly 10:00. Our guests will be here in about an hour."

It takes her a moment to process that. "Guests."

"Yes. For brunch." Scooting back up, I wrap her in my arms once again just in time to hold and coupage her through a series of hacking and finally productive coughs. No hemoptysis so far, I am relieved to see.

With considerable effort, she turns over to face me. Using her momentum to continue the movement, I roll us together so that I wind up on my back with her ragdoll frame draped sprawling over me. "Brunch?" she says at last.

I notice with amusement that her eyelids are still squeezed tightly shut. "Are you going to keep repeating everything I say? Yes, guests for brunch. About twenty of them, possibly more if some of them bring extra people along as they said they might."

"Twen — shit." She scrubs at an eye with a knuckle, unthinkingly smearing her makeup even more messily. "Um. Not that I mind having people over, especially if it involves omelettes and those awesome little cheesy poof thingies you make but, like, dude, what possessed you to invite half the world the morning after we have a blowout Christmas party?"

"I didn't invite them, chérie."

"What?"

"You did. After your fourth or fifth shot of tequila. I believe you were playing a game called 'Never Have I Ever.'"

An agonized groan reverberates against my neck, buoyed by an all but visible cloud of boozy fumes. "Fuck. And you didn't stop me?"

"You made it quite clear that it was neither my responsibility nor my business. After all, you're... how did you so eloquently put it? Ah, yes. You're a grown ass woman and you don't got the time to play high school."

Lifting her head, she squints blearily at me. "I quoted a Kelly Rowland song?"

"You made up a whole dance routine to go with it as well. It was quite creative. I don't think I could do it justice but there may have been a series of highly revealing and entertaining Snapchat videos documenting the process, courtesy of Sarah and Felix."

Cosima groans again and tucks her face back into the curve of my shoulder.

I press my lips to her forehead. Slowly I glide a hand down the long planes of her back, letting it come to rest just above where her ass flares into its delightful curves. With a single fingertip I dabble into the cleft at the very base of her spine until she shivers.

"I can feel you smiling. You're enjoying my pain and suffering just a little too much, Dr. Cormier."

"Self-inflicted pain and suffering," I remind her. "And yes, I am." I slip my other hand up to knead the back of her neck, prompting a rasping sigh.

"Mmmnnph. Okay, you can feel all virtuous and superior as much as you want as long as you keep doing that. Shit, I can feel my pulse in my hair."

"You're dehydrated. If you like, I can bolus some saline."

"Oh, god. I will love you forever if you do."

Laughing softly, careful not to jolt her too much, I kiss a path to her temple. "By that criterion, you must also love your infusion nurses, the rad techs, the anesthesia team..."

"What can I say, I have a lot of love to give. Unggk," she says as I slip out from beneath her and roll to my feet. Scooting her unresisting body closer to the edge, I pull the covers back up over her, kiss her on the tip of her nose and go to my medical supply cabinet in the bathroom.

I set up the IV pole and hang a 500-ml bag of normal saline, adding 8 mg of ondansatron and 40 mg of pantoprazole; on further consideration, I also add half a ml of vitamin B complex, which turns the solution a cheery yellow. Attaching and bleeding the air out of an infusion line and an extension set, I wheel the whole thing back to the bedroom, where Cosima is once again snoring lightly. Quickly I apply a tourniquet above her elbow and prep a small area on her forearm, slipping a 20g butterfly catheter into her median antebrachial vein and securing it with a Tegaderm dressing. Releasing the tourniquet, I connect the infusion line and adjust the valve on the clamp, mentally calculating the drip rate to run out the bag over 15 minutes.

After about half of it has gravity-dripped in, I bend to place my ear to auscultate her chest, attuned to the usual high-pitched wheezing of her inspiratory stridor and listening for but not hearing any evidence of fluid overload. Careful not to lean too heavily on her, I stay still until the bag is empty.

A hand winds into my hair, scratching slowly and delightfully over my scalp. "You know, if you wanted to cop a feel of my boobs, you could have just asked."

Turning my head, I press a kiss to the center of her palm, nibbling lightly at the fleshy mound at the base of her thumb. Straightening up, I remove the butterfly and drop it into the sharps box on my nightstand, then place a light pressure bandage over the venipuncture site. I smile down at her as I discard my gloves. "You look like you're feeling better."

"Way. I may actually live." Color flushes her cheeks. Her eyes are bright and fully open at last. "Thanks, babe."

"Of course, chérie." Sliding into bed next to her, I hold her close, loving the simple contact of her body against mine.

A small frown tugs at the corners of her mouth. "Wait, you said people would be here in less than an hour. Shouldn't we, um, be getting ready for them? Like, cooking or something?"

"Don't worry, everything's taken care of."

"What? I mean, you're a fucking amazing cook but even you couldn't pull together brunch for twenty-and-possibly-more at the last minute on Christmas morning."

"I didn't have to. The cleaning service was in earlier this morning and the caterers should be here at any minute. I left explicit instructions for them as well as a guest list with the concierge, so we don't even need to leave the bedroom unless we want to."

Quiet for a while, she nuzzles against my throat. "Will there be waffles?" she asks hopefully.

"Sweet potato waffles. Also eggs Benedict, omelettes, croissants — all your favorites."

"Holy shit. You really do think of everything."

She tries to kiss me but I stop her with a finger against her lips. "Ah, ah, ah. Not until you brush your teeth. I love you, Cosima, but right now your breath smells and probably tastes like a distillery. A condemned one."

Sniffing under her arm, she makes a face. "Not the only thing that reeks. Sorry, babe."

I laugh at her expression. The distant sounds of clanging metal and clinking dishes catches my attention. "They're here. Why don't you go clean up while I make sure they have what they need? I'll be right back."

"K. Take your time. I have to pee like a racehorse, and I really need to take a shower."

Leaving Cosima to totter off to the bathroom, I pull on my dressing gown and go down the hall. In the living room and entranceway the catering team are swarming around setting up tables and equipment, working quickly and efficiently and obviously needing no prompting or supervision. At one station stands a pretty young redheaded woman in a black apron discreetly printed with the company's logo over a sleeveless black dress, showing off intricate tattoos nearly covering both of her nicely toned arms. She is busily making waffles, a half-sheet pan almost full of finished ones waiting ready to go into a warming oven. As I approach, she looks up at me with a smile. "Dr. Cormier?"

"Yes. Those smell wonderful."

White teeth flash in a friendly grin. "Hope they taste even better. Here, try one while it's fresh." Picking up a just-cooked waffle out of the iron with a pair of tongs, she sets it on a plate and points out the array of accompaniments. "Nutella ganache, maple syrup, frozen bananas, berry-rhubarb compote and smoked Chantilly cream."

My stomach growls in response. I try a bite with a drizzle of the ganache and a dab of Chantilly cream and nearly swoon. "Oh, wow." Perfectly crisp on the outside, meltingly tender on the inside, the earthy sweetness of the waffle mingles beautifully with the chocolate and hazelnut and the faintly bittersweet smokiness of the cream. "Could I have another one on a separate plate? Otherwise my girlfriend is going to steal the rest of this."

One eyebrow flickers reflexively in surprise but the woman is a pro and in less than a minute I have another fresh waffle, ramekins of butter, cream, ganache and warm maple syrup and a selection of condiments on a tray. I stop by the omelette station for a couple rashers of thickly sliced bacon and then the coffee station to fill two big cups, taking a detour to the kitchen to add a large slug of heavy cream to Cosima's before going back to the bedroom.

I hear the hiss of the shower. No singing, though — evidently she is still feeling a little fragile. Setting down the tray on a small table in the sitting area, I open all the blinds and then relax into an armchair. Remembering our impending invasion of guests, I reach for my phone and scroll through our various playlists, finally setting it to completely random selection. As it happens, the first piece is from Kasarova's recording of "Orfeo ed Euridice"; her dusky lower register intensely conveys longing and loss as she sings "Che farò senza Euridice" over the sound system while I sip my coffee and slowly savor bites of my bacon and waffle.

The scent of her shower gel and a waft of steam precede her return. She caresses my cheek, turning my head so she can bend to capture my mouth in a long kiss that starts out gently undemanding but steadily increases in intensity until my breath suddenly seems far away. "Hello, you."

Smiling against her lips, panting lightly, I slip a hand beneath the thick fleece of her robe, resting it on the flat of her belly. "Hello, yourself."

"You taste amazing."

"You taste of nothing but cinnamon and cloves, thank goodness. Do you feel well enough to eat something?"

Cosima flops into the other armchair, eagerly inspecting her plate. "Oh, fuck yeah." Smearing butter over her waffle, making sure to get some into every crevice, she cuts off a piece with her fork and dips it into the syrup, then pops it into her mouth. "Holy shit, that's good." Hungrily she devours the rest, trying different combinations of the accompaniments and finally scraping every bit of Chantilly cream and ganache out of their ramekins with her finger.

I swat away her fork when she stealthily reaches it toward the last bite of my waffle. "There is actually more food out there, chérie," I say wryly, spearing the piece and eating it to forestall theft.

"Yes," she says, hopping up to perch sideways on my lap, one slender arm wrapping around my neck, "but it's out there, and we're in here, and if we were out there I couldn't do this." Kissing me deeply, her free hand slides down to the tie of my gown, deftly loosening it so that the heavy silk falls open. With her fingers she traces a slow, meandering trek over my upper chest, approaching but not quite touching my breasts. I feel my nipples tightening at her touch in the cool air.

Untying her robe as well, I slide my hand beneath the edge of the thick fabric, stroking the silky inside of her smoothly well defined thigh. "An excellent point." Her current position places her own breasts in advantageous proximity to my mouth. I break our kiss and capture a springing nipple between my teeth, licking and biting at it until she arches toward me with a soft moan. Diligently I pay loving attention to her other breast as well, going back and forth until the tender flesh is flushed pink and marked all over with scarlet half-moons.

My lips once again finding hers, my tongue delicately traces their shape until they part. Slipping between them, my tongue dances lazily with hers. Her hands tangle in my hair, urging our mouths together more intensely. Almost unnoticed, my hand at her thigh moves higher, to tease at the dampening silky curls covering her mound. Instantly her hips begin to undulate, seeking more than my elusive touch and lurching when my fingers explore more deeply.

Dipping into her cunt, I paint her distending folds with her wetness, enjoying her involuntary movements and deliberately avoiding her clit even though she not so subtly pulses her sex toward my hand. Instead I touch her lightly and teasingly, circling the impatient little swell and timing my movements to the motion of her hips. I glide a finger along either side of her clit, pressing and retreating until she breathes out on a shuddering moan. "Please... "

Immediately my middle finger finds the thrumming center of her pleasure, sending a jolt through her body. With careful teeth I bite down gently over the pulse point in her neck, making her groan. Fucking her ever-swelling clit between my index and ring fingers, I dance my middle finger over the straining little shaft, circling, flicking, pumping it from side to side. Just before she can ride the rhythm to release, I break away. Her frustrated whine segues into a moan as I slide two fingers inside her incredibly hot, wet cunt. Beckoning and sweeping my fingers within her helplessly grasping channel, she squeals when I ply my thumb over her abandoned clit, slithering over around across the bursting little nub until she shudders slowly and deeply, twitching uncontrollably for minutes on end and finally quivering in my embrace, her small body heavy and liquid against mine.

With a quiet sigh, I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of her come, the traces of her shower gel, the sharp tang of clean sweat. I am unbelievably aroused by the gyrations of her buttocks against my sex but for now I am content to hold her, feeling the wet clasp of her cunt around my fingers.

Pressing a kiss to her temple, I smile against satiny skin. "Merry Christmas, Cosima."

We are startled by a booming pounding on the door. "Oi, geek monkeys! Do you two ever stop shagging? If you don't get your arses out here soon, me and Fee are going to eat all the waffles and cream puffs."

"Sounds like quite a party out there," I say after a while when there are no further interruptions, listening as the rasping of her breath gradually deepens and slows.

"Yeah, well, I prefer the party in here. But I guess we should make an appearance since we're hosting and all. Besides, those assholes are probably getting my spider drunk on bloody Marys." Tipping up her head to kiss me, she smiles against my lips. "Shit, Dr. Cormier. Last minute catering job on Christmas morning? I almost hate to ask how much that cost you to set up."

I nip at the tip of her nose. "Not a penny."

She pulls back, frowning. "Someone owe you like a huge favor or something?"

"In a way, yes."

Up goes one sculpted eyebrow. "Anything I should know about?"

I kiss the eyebrow at the peak of its arch. "I didn't pay for it, you did. I used your credit card when I made the booking."

The parade of expressions flitting across her face is comical. "Let me guess. I paid for the cleaners, too." I nod. "With, like, a ludicrous gratuity for both of them." I nod again. "Okay, okay, I guess I deserved that. But as soon as we get rid of everybody, I reserve the right to open and eat out my favorite present under the tree."

An involuntary shiver works its way through my body. "I can think of no better way to celebrate the holiday, chérie."

To be continued... after all, it's Christmas and it wouldn't be fair to leave you guys (not to mention poor Delphine) hanging... ;)