8. “If this kitchen was your castle, I’d be the jester…in an apron.”

Chapter 8

“If this kitchen was your castle, I’d be the jester…in an apron.”

TWYLA

S omething soft and hot thwacks my tender ass the moment I shut the oven door.

I swing my head, spinning around, brows scrunching. But Krampus merely sits on that stool, smiling away as he’s done this whole time. Acting all innocent.

That dastardly demon! I know that was his tongue smacking my ass.

At least he doesn’t berate me when I help myself to a bit of raw cookie dough. I enjoy rolling it out and forming the cookies more than anything. The stars remind me of him, of us. Eventually, I move onto another cookie cutter, debating what to choose next. At first, I pick up the Santa one, noting how my husband’s shoulders stiffen.

I toss it over my shoulder, smirking at him when it clatters in the sink.

I love that monstrous beam, which makes me glow all over.

As I set to work on the next round of dough, selecting the bell cookie cutter, I make it halfway through them when something wet and coarse flicks along my pubic lips.

I jump, squealing, “Red fucking ribbons!”

Once again, there is Krampus, smiling away. But this time, he traces that tongue all around his lips, licking, sampling, enjoying. The wicked gleam in his eye suggests mischief. And I’m often on the receiving end of such mischief. It might ruffle my feathers a bit, but I can’t help but love how he looks about now.

It reminds me of the time he bound me naked to his dining table, placed Norwegian dessert delicacies on my ass, and read monster smut to me.

The timer dings. He circles a finger, and I jerk, sliding across the floor to the oven, grabbing the mitt dangling from the nearby hook. I make the fatal mistake of brushing one finger across the burning baking sheet as I set it down.

“Ow!” I yelp, shaking my left hand out.

“Twyla!” Krampus shouts, materializing at my side a moment later.

I screw my brows, eyeing him up and down. “Did you just use your power to fucking ‘Tween travel all because of a little, red spot?”

I hold up my wounded pinky, tilting my head to the side. My affection for my husband grows all the more. Snowflakes, I love how protective he is. My nipples pebble at his closeness. All those monstrous muscles rubbing against me.

“Get those cookies off the sheet before they burn,” he orders, glaring down at me.

“Apparently, my culinary skills are the key to true love.” I roll my eyes and grab a spatula to scoop the cookies onto the nearby rack.

He snorts, picks up a cookie, then bites off the head. “Or the key to feminist rebellion. You used far too much clove, little one.” He taps my nose.

I wrinkle mine. “Your expectations of my cookie-making skills are taller than your ego, my husband. Besides, I like clove.”

“Hmm…” he growls low, his eyes descending to my breasts. “Your little pinky might be red, but your tits aren’t red enough.”

“What?”

It’s all I get out before he yanks the apron down to free my breasts. “Merry, elfin Krampus!” I shriek as his tongue dances across my breasts, twirling around my nipples. He wraps an arm around my waist to steady me as that wondrous tongue coils all the way around and tugs at the erect buds. I inhale a sharp breath at how he splits his tongue at the tip into threadlike extensions to torment my sensitive nipples, tickling them like soft antennae.

Liquid heat surges to my pussy, tightening my womb.

It lasts all of a few seconds before Krampus snaps his tongue back into his mouth, rights my apron, and grins at the sight of my now-wet nipples poking through the fabric.

“If this kitchen was your castle, I’d be the jester…in an apron.” I sniff and set to work on the next batch.

“A jester with a sexy little body and wet nipples like the most succulent cherries I love to taste,” he adds before returning to his seat.

Ugh…I bite back a groan. Between his dirty talk and the butt plug in my ass and how he’d stoked my blood with the nipple thing, I knew it would take next to nothing to make me come.

As the cookies cool, and I finish rolling out the last batch, Krampus finally stands and makes his way toward me, a knowing smirk tugging at his mouth. I lower my brows, suspicion creeping along my spine, along with eager heat.

But my husband doesn’t advance toward me. Instead, he gathers up a bowl, takes some powdered sugar and vanilla from the pantry, then conjures milk so he may mix them all. Curious, I tilt my head to the side and observe the King of Yuletide beating gingerbread cookie frosting. He knows the exact amount of pressure and quantity to combine. While I’d have powdered sugar puffing all around me, not one speck seems to get on his fur.

He stares back at me the whole time, eyes never forsaking mine, making me smolder all over.

Agitation prickles my nerve endings even more, and I find myself slamming the baking sheet into the oven and thudding the door closed.

Dismissing my little protest, Krampus dips one thick finger into the bowl and holds it out to me. “Care for a taste, min kjaere?” A dollop slides off his finger, dripping into the rest.

Well, I’m not going to say no, but I do take an extra moment or two to suck harder upon his finger and nip the tip. But my playfulness turns to a moan of appreciation because the frosting is so fucking flawless. Perfect texture and consistency with a hint of cinnamon and orange extract.

“You look so bed?rende - adorable - when you’re all hot and bothered under the apron with flour smeared along your cheek, min engel,” he tells me while rubbing a thumb across my cheek.

I make a face. “I’d rather have eggnog smeared there.”

Krampus kisses me. My mouth bows beneath his, and I’m ready to melt against him, wondering if he’ll finally put me out of my misery. But his tongue doesn’t invade. No, it’s a sweet kiss, the kind that caresses my lips but takes no prisoners. A kiss of a monster’s love and not a kinky demon’s spicy searing kiss that can cook my blood as surely as his hand cooked my ass raw.

After the final round is out of the oven, Krampus hands me a piping bag so we can get started on decorating cookies.