The Omega’s Beary Special Christmas (A Bear Under The Christmas Tree)

9. Ferris

NINE

FERRIS

I got a message to my parents and wished them Merry Christmas. As much as I loved them, I was pleased their wifi was lousy because I would have had to hide Hugo—and I didn’t want to start our relationship with a lie—or launch into an explanation of how it was love at first sight for both of us.

My parents were both very human, and I could see them getting off the boat at the next port and flying here. And if I told them Charlie had fallen for Hugo’s friend, both sets of parents would have invaded our Christmas vacations.

While my ankle would take a while to heal, it was improving. I could put a little weight on it, but I was fearful that if I did too much “bounding about” I might injure myself further.

I so wanted to have more sex with Hugo. Blowjobs, tongue and finger-fucking were great, but I wanted his cock in my hole again. All day, every day.

But it was time to cook the turkey and all the trimmings.

Hugo positioned a comfy chair at the kitchen table. Sitting at the island would have had my legs dangling, not advisable for a sprained ankle.

“Where do we start and how can I help?” I wasn’t much of a cook, and while I’d helped my family prep for Christmas in the past, it was more the peeling vegetables, pouring wine, and getting things from the cupboard and fridge kind of help.

But now it was just me and Hugo. Me and my mate. The man I wanted to get naked with.

“Our first Christmas meal. We’ll always remember this.” My mate put his head on my shoulder, and I snapped a pic. Just like the meal, the first of many.

I eyed the ingredients laid out on the island and grabbed the honey. Maybe this was to put on toast we’d nibble at during the day while we cooked. I dipped a spoon in the velvety, syrupy substance and flipped my head back, allowing the honey to drip and drool from the spoon, twirling through the air until it fell into my mouth.

“Ferris!”

I shot my mate a glance. “Sorry, I only took a little.” Hugo’s face was pink, as were the tips of his ears.

He wiped his brow, and I side-eyed the bulge at his crotch. “You can’t do that now.”

Oh. Ohhh. He was hot and bothered, and I intended to get him even more turned on. I stuck out my tongue and licked around my mouth, capturing the remnants of honey. Holding out the spoon, I whispered, “You want some?”

“You’re talking about the honey, right?” he croaked.

Hugo ignored the spoon and kissed me, shoving his tongue between my lips and curling it around my own. “Mmmm,” he moaned into my mouth, and my body tingled. “Your unique taste combined with sweet sweet honey.” He pulled away. “Perfection.”

He smacked his lips together and picked up the honey, measuring out half a cup and combining it with mustard, rosemary, and some spices. He let me have a taste “Yum.”

But he made a face as he put a drop of the mixture on his tongue. “Needs more honey, I think.”

“Are you sure?” It was quite sweet already, though the spices evened out the sugaryness.

“You can never have too much honey.”

That might be true for a bear shifter, but then I looked the turkey in the eye and he agreed with me. You could definitely have too much honey.

We made the stuffing, and I got Hugo to pose beside the turkey while I took a photo. We got the bird in the oven which was a feat because Hugo kept eying the honey, and I grabbed the jar and refused to let him add any more to the glaze.

“And for dessert?” The gleam in Hugo’s eyes told me one thing: he had something with honey planned for after the main meal.

“What are we having?” I asked, hoping I was wrong and he’d say chocolate or citrus or anything but honey.

“Honey balls!”

“Yay!” I was mated to a bear shifter, so I had to get used to all things honey, but I made a mental note to get a dentist appointment after the holidays.

Hugo showed me a pic of a tower of tiny dough balls that had been dipped in a mixture of honey and orange zest. It looked complicated, and I wondered if we’d be in the kitchen for hours trying to make the dessert match the one in the recipe.

Hugo beat eggs, butter, and sugar while I measured out the flour. He poked a finger in the flour and bopped me on the nose. “You’re cute.” I did the same to him but tapped his cheeks as well.

“You’re more cute.”

“Never. Impossible. My mate is cuter than anyone else on the planet.” We kissed, and I could still taste the honey in his mouth.

We made the dough balls, lots and lots of them, both of us rolling them in our palms. As they had to be deep-fried, Hugo did the honors, as I couldn’t stand, but I made the honey-and-orange-zest glaze.

When they were done, we piled them high like a pyramid, or a Christmas tree, and sprinkled nonpareils over the top. It did look amazing. We set the phone on a stand and took a pic of us holding the dish.

Hugo went to grab the one balanced on the top, but I smacked his hand away. He poked out his tongue and called me a meanie.

I was pleased to see some greenery in the vegetables. Everything was a little brown so far, thanks to the honey. I peeled carrots and chopped onions and grabbed some Brussel sprouts. I kept them away from the honey, but Hugo was busy peeling potatoes, so they were safe from the overwhelming richness of honey.

“I thought we’d try this recipe.” I had hopes it didn’t have honey; they were dashed when I saw the ingredients.

“But this is for sweet potatoes, Hugo.”

“Yes, the addition of honey makes them sweet.”

The recipe did contain honey, but he had the wrong potatoes. “Sweet potatoes are not the same as potatoes.”

“No, because they have honey in them.”

We were getting nowhere. It was interesting that a man who said he grew vegetables in his garden in spring and summer had somehow missed that they were two different vegetables.

I pulled up pics on the phone and did a comparison.

“Oh.” His small voice tugged at my heart. Despite the honey overload, I wanted him to be happy, so I did a search and found a recipe for mashed potatoes drizzled with honey. I could eat them without the drizzle, and Charlie too, because unless he’d developed a sweet tooth overnight, he wasn’t a fan of honey.

I sent my friend a text with honey emojis. Lots of them. But his response was, I’ve been warned .

Hector and Charlie were due in thirty minutes, so we finished setting the table with wreaths of holly entwined with silver ribbon, red candles, crisp white linen napkins, and some additional bear baubles strewn over the table that didn’t make it onto the tree.

We stood back and admired our work, and I took more photos.

“Ummm, I think we forgot something.” Hugo looked down at his sweats, covered in flour, flecks of sugar, and honey drippings.

“No problem. It’ll just be the four of us,” so I texted Charlie. Luckily they hadn’t left the house.

“Get naked.”

Hugo's brows shot up. “We’re eating Christmas dinner naked?” He added more wood to the fire and turned up the thermostat.

“No. Let’s eat in our bathrobes. Who says we have to get dressed? For what?”

At the beach, we often ate the main Christmas meal outside while wearing shorts and flip-flops.

“We’re starting a new tradition.”

My mate got a red one for me and white for him. Unlike me, he had a selection of bathrobes.

The doorbell rang and Hugo opened it, letting in a flurry of snow along with Charlie and Hector. They took off their coats to reveal robes dotted with dancing bears.

Hector held up a basket of cookies and asked if he had to pull dinner together from whatever Hugo hadn’t burned. My mate harrumphed, telling him everything was perfect.

Our guests oohed and ahhed over the honey balls tree, and they were impressed when my mate pulled out the turkey from the oven. Despite all the honey, the food was delicious, and we toasted the dinner, our new mates, and the future.

Later as we lay in bed, Hugo suggested we alternate Christmases. “Next year we can barbecue by the beach and watch the sunset as we sit on loungers and eat shrimp and drink cold beer.”

That sounded perfect, and I was happy to spend one year surrounded by snow and the other by a warm breeze and the ocean lapping against the shore.

“Wait, are there shrimp recipes with honey?” He grabbed his phone and scrolled. “Ahh yes, all's right with the world.”

If bears had such a thing for honey, why were they eating porridge in the Goldilocks tale? Ahh, it had to have been laced with honey. Now I understood.