Star Trek and its characters are the property of Paramount. This not-for-profit piece of fan fiction is not intended to infringe on that ownership. The author's copyright applies only to the creative content and her original characters.
This story is one in a series about the relationship between James Kirk and Suzanne Brandt. The Kirk-Brandt Chronology lists all the stories, both in order of occurrence and order of creation.
"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Brandt, lying on the rug.
Seated on the sofa, Kirk closed his book and studied the scene at his feet. Suzanne and the dog lay on their stomachs, sprawled before the fireplace. With a sad expression calculated to tug at the coldest of hearts, she snuggled closer to Luke and laid her head against his back. Kirk smiled, wondering how far she would go with this act. Obviously, she hadn't thought it through very well. The cheery red of her sweater and the glow from the fire didn't exactly enhance the effect of the heartfelt sigh he knew was meant to carry to his ears.
"There are plenty of presents," he said. "They're just in--"
She sat up and drew the poker out of the fire stand. For several moments, Kirk watched her jab at the burning log, sending a series of sparks up the chimney. Then he joined her on the floor, sat down behind her and closed his hand around hers, ending the half-hearted assault on the lively blaze.
"Along with cookies," he said. "And eggnog. And Christmas carols. And--"
She turned to him and said, "But they're all your mother's! And they're not here!"
"No, they're in the same place that we will be on Christmas Day."
"So up until then, we have to live in a dreary, dismal apartment as if Christmas didn't even exist. I still can't believe you didn't do a single Christmassy thing while I was offworld. I thought I'd come home to the brightest, cheeriest place on the block."
Kirk suppressed an impatient sigh, remembering her return the day before. He knew she'd been unhappy to find the apartment bereft of holiday trimmings, but decking the halls hadn't been a priority with him for at least twenty years, and he was more than a little surprised at the depth of her disappointment.
"Suzanne, I meant to have everything done. Honest. But I told you before--between monitoring the crises on the Carolina and the St. Petersburg, I was practically living at HQ. And by the time those were resolved, I was too tired to bother with decorations. I wasn't even sure if you'd be back in time to go to Iowa on Christmas Eve."
"I would think that you would have wanted *something,*" she groused.
"Hmph. You know, Ebenezer, I think I saw a face on the door knocker when I came home tonight."
"Suzanne, if you're so desperate for decorations, put some up."
"I don't want to decorate *for me.* I want *us* to decorate *for us.*"
"Because I have the nagging suspicion that you're the most anal-retentive tinseler west of the Rockies."
"Well, there's a right way and a wrong way to apply tinsel--"
"And that's exactly why I don't want to decorate with you."
Brandt leaned down and whispered in the dog's ear, "What a grinch, right, Luke? He'll get a lump of coal in his stocking. If he had a stocking, that is."
Chuckling, Kirk flopped onto his back and drew her into his arms.
"Brat, why this urge for a big Christmas?"
"Because you grew up with all those traditions. I thought this was going to be my chance to have an old-fashioned Christmas."
"But I still thought we'd do something here."
"We can go look at the lights downtown."
She sat up on her haunches and rolled her eyes. "That's not very personal."
"I made a pass at you last night at the admiralty Christmas party. That's personal *and* traditional."
"It was intercepted, remember?"
"How was I to know Lori was that fast?"
"Everyone knows Lori's that fast."
Mimicking the puppydog innocence that always got Luke an extra treat, he looked at her sorrowfully and said, "I guess I'm just a little naive where women are concerned."
"Right." The sarcastic edge to her voice could have sliced a microfiber. Nonetheless, he pressed on, aiming for laughter if nothing else.
"I'm one lucky guy to have you looking out for me. Otherwise, I'd be at the mercy of my simple farmboy delusions."
As her frown gave way to an unwilling smile, he reached for her but she eluded him and hoisted herself onto his midsection.
"Uhf! How many pieces of pie did you have last night?" he gasped.
"You're in enough trouble without that kind of remark. So cut the snow job, mister. You're not getting up until we settle this."
Kirk decided against struggling, mostly because if he won--and he was sure he would--her bottom would no longer be resting against his thighs, which was quite pleasant, now that she'd settled in.
"All right. What do you want?"
"A tree," she began sternly. "And decorations. And Christmas music. And candles. And cookies with sprinkles. And fake snow on the windows. And lights strung on the balcony. I want you to wear a Santa hat and I want Luke to wear reindeer antlers. I want--"
"Hold on! That's quite a list."
"I'm not through. I want to stand in line for three hours to see the holograms at Opera Plaza. I want to go to the Sing-Along 'Messiah' and the Speak-Along 'Miracle on 34th Street.' I want to give Jack's kids a thrill by walking around on their roof on Christmas Eve. I want to write a boring, impersonal Christmas letter and send it to all our friends. I want--"
"Wait! Just wait. Do you know what day it is?"
"Why, it's Christmas Day, sir!" she piped in a Cockney accent.
"Check your calendar. It's December 23. We're leaving for Iowa tomorrow morning. There isn't time for any of that."
"It's the season of miracles."
"I think in your case, it's the season of madness."
"I want something that says 'Merry Christmas,' dammit!"
"Is that all? Easily taken care of."
And with those words, he playfully pushed her off, stood, and pulled her toward the bedroom.
"Jim, getting laid isn't exactly unique to Christmas."
"Don't worry. I'll give it a Christmas twist."
Sweet kisses. Such sweet kisses. Kisses that were both tender and urgent, kisses that gave taste and texture to desire. And the touch of his hands, loving and sure. The feeling of exhilaration when the last of her clothing was removed, the cool breath of air against her skin before his warm body was pressed to hers.
Nice, very nice, more than nice, but not *Christmas.*
What was he planning--a hearty "ho ho ho" when he came?
His voice was low and smooth as he burrowed his hips between her legs, not entering her, not yet, but oh! so close.
"Do you remember--" Kiss. "--the first time we slept together?"
Sudden memory took her by surprise and she trembled, once again feeling his kiss for the first time. She drew a long breath to collect herself and, as she did, she saw the hint of mischief in his eyes and another memory flared with unexpected brightness. That, too, had been part of it the first time. Desire, passion, fulfillment, and mischief.
She deliberately kept her voice light and teasing when she responded to his question.
"First time. Hmmmm... First time, first time... Oh! Sure, I remember. You were the guy with the starship, right?"
"Yes, that was me. Do you remember what we did afterwards?"
She felt the warmth of her own smile move through her like a slow current.
"You told me I was beautiful."
"I said, 'I'm going to show you a trick I do with my tongue,' and then I ate you."
A blissful rumble deep in her throat was the only affirmation she could summon.
"Remember?" he murmured as he nuzzled her neck the same way he had nuzzled her elsewhere on that first night, and she pressed against him, the memory so close to reality that she couldn't help responding.
He lifted his head and now the mischief in his eyes was far more than a hint.
Following his lead, she bit her lip and grinned. "I don't know about that. I thought I got it pretty good."
"You didn't get the trick. You didn't understand it."
"What's to understand about cunnilingus?"
"That wasn't your average cunnilingus. It was the alphabet trick."
"The alphabet trick. Like this. A."
He stuck out his tongue and traced a letter A in the air.
"B." Stroke, loop, loop. "C." Slurp. "D." Stroke, loop.
It was several moments before she realized she was staring at him, her mouth hanging slightly open. Then she swallowed hard and breathed, "Oh my god."
"You know, some women have passed out when it's done in Klingonese. But I've never heard anyone make the sound you made when I got to--" He leaned in, holding her in a penetrating gaze. "S," he enunciated quietly.
"Are you going to do it again?" Her voice trembled just a little, but she was too busy thinking about his tongue slithering around her clit to care.
"A variation. But this time I want you to figure it out."
She coiled her legs around his and wriggled an invitation. "What are the stakes?"
"If you figure it out, I'll finish it." He began moving down her body, leaving a trail of kisses behind him. "If you don't, you'll just have to go back to pouting."
He was kneeling between her thighs now, his gaze steady and smoldering as she moved her feet up his chest in small steps until they rested on his shoulders. Happily anticipating what was ahead, she crossed her ankles behind his neck and urged him downward. But he refused to be rushed and she suddenly remembered what had preceded her first experience with the alphabet trick. She dug her feet in more insistently.
"I think excessive pouting is the reason you've never had a real Christmas," he said. "You've never made it off the Naughty list."
With a swift move, he lifted her hips off the bed and gave her bottom a sharp smack from below.
He let her drop back down to the bed and she knew he could see the happy blush coloring her face.
"Well..." she purred in tingling contentment as she lowered her legs, "the Naughty list does have its rewards."
"So does the Nice one. Are you ready?"
She felt his hands against her inner thighs and she pushed up onto her elbows to see him lower his head.
The chortle that was rising to her lips was cut off by a sharp gasp at the touch of his tongue against her clit. One stroke. And then another.
He lifted his head and gave her a roguish smile.
"The start of the Lullian alphabet?"
"I'll do it again. And this time, concentrate."
She had no idea how she was going to concentrate when his tongue was flipping the ON/OFF button of rational thought, but remembering the stakes, she determined to engage her brain despite the distraction of--
*Damn!* she thought, wracking her pleasure-charged brain. *I'm not going to flunk this oral exam, no matter how good it feels. Two licks...two licks..."
"Come on, Brandt. You almost went into communications. And you're a spy. This should be easy."
"Maybe I'm just stalling so you keep doing it."
"And maybe you're just stalling because I've stumped you. I'll do it one more time. Slowly."
"So what is it? This is your last chance."
*Communications. A spy. The alphabet trick. Communications...*
Then the answer flickered dimly and she stiffened. It couldn't be. Not that old chestnut. That had gone out with black trench coats and shoe phones. But it made sense. After all, the man delivering the message had majored in military history.
She exhaled carefully and said, "It's an M."
*Count on Jim to give a new spin to Morse code.*
She lay back, he settled in and--
Flick, lick, flick. Flick, lick, flick.
She meant to say, "R, R," but it came out as two low growls. Apparently, that was close enough because he proceeded with the message.
"Y!" she yelped, wondering irrationally if Samuel Morse had been married. Or did he--
"C!" --have a girlfriend? Had they ever--
"H," she groaned as all thoughts of Mr. and Mrs. Morse fled, replaced by the fervent hope that next year, she and Jim would celebrate Hanukkah. All eight nights.
Another growl, this time more ferocious, an R in boldface and italic.
"Ahhhhhh... Send again. I didn't copy."
"Huh?" she murmured in shuddering anticipation.
"S! Oh yesss!" she hissed, grateful that another S was coming up in only a few letters.
"There should be more," she moaned, digging her fingernails into her palms.
And finally, once more, flick, flick, flick--
The final letter of the holiday greeting obliterated any control she might have thought of displaying and as she was indulging herself in a stream of sounds that weren't strictly part of the alphabet, he signed off with wickedly slow deliberation.
Flick! Liiiiiiiick. Flick! Liiiiiiiiick. Flick! Liiiiiiiiiiiiiiick.
"FULLLLLLL STOP!" she cried as a flash of ecstasy shot through her. It was immediately followed by another, and another, and another, until she was lost in the sweep of a seemingly unstoppable momentum.
The sound of her name brought her back from the wilderness of blind pleasure and she made a happy, incoherent sound, vaguely aware of the wet pulse still ticking and tickling between her legs. She felt a hand tracing circles around her left nipple and summoned the strength to open her eyes. Jim was lying beside her, propped up on one elbow and smiling in a way that made her feel as if she'd just been re-structured at a molecular level.
"Read that back to me, would you?" he said.
"Merry Christmas," she murmured, savoring each sound as it left her lips.
Then he kissed her once--twice--
She pushed him away and said, "Now I have something for you."
She turned, lay her head on his stomach and gave the head of his cock a teasing lick.
"Nooooo," he groaned. "You don't have to--"
"Jim, I haven't gotten any candy this year," she purred. "And besides--" Slow lick all the way down. "It's more blessed to give than to receive." Slow lick all the way up. "Especially when it comes to head."
Some time later, they lay curled together, spent and heavy-limbed but still riding the lazy buoyance of contentment. Suzanne's head was resting in the crook of Jim's shoulder with her arm across his chest.
He realized that the gentle rhythm that had drawn his attention wasn't the beating of his heart, but the motion of her fingers repeatedly scratching a spot behind his right ear.
After what seemed like an eternity, he turned his head and the teasing fingers flopped onto the pillow. He looked toward the doorway and saw that the room beyond was nearly dark, the glow of the dying fire barely reaching the threshold.
"Fire's almost out," he whispered, brushing away the sandy curls that were tickling his nose.
"'S'nice," Suzanne murmured as she curled more tightly around him.
After a prolonged head-to-toe stretch that reinvigorated him but didn't displace Suzanne from a position that gave every indication of being permanent, he said, "Let's go."
He pried her loose and began dressing.
"We better hurry if we're going to get a tree. I think the lot down the street is still open."
"Yes, a tree. " He picked up her sweater and tossed it to her. She began untangling the sleeves as he pulled on his pants and continued, "If we get ourselves organized, I think we can manage a tree and some decorations. With a little luck, we might even get a few broken cookies at the all-night market. So move it, mister!"
Leaving her pulling the sweater over her head, he went to the living room and smothered the fire. Luke, who was curled up in the center of the sofa, lifted his head, his brown eyes brightening with curiosity. Jim gave him a friendly scratch behind the ears and as he started toward the coat hooks near the doorway, he heard the quick thumpity-thump of paws hitting the floor.
"Sorry, boy," he turned and said in a reassuring tone. "You're not going along."
Luke heaved a mournful sigh and dropped his chin to his paws. Pulling on his jacket, Jim suddenly realized where Suzanne had gotten her "poor me" routine.
"Are you ready?" he called toward the bedroom.
Reaching into his pocket, he was surprised when he touched something other than the soft leather gloves he'd been seeking.
Then he realized what he was holding and laughed quietly to himself. Of course. He *had* wanted something Christmassy.
At that moment, Suzanne came out of the bedroom.
"Ready!" she announced briskly.
"Look." Grinning, he opened his hand, revealing a crushed mass of leaves and berries. "I picked it up on the way home two nights ago. But by the time I got here, I was too tired to do anything about it. I didn't even remember I'd bought it until just now." Seeing the odd expression on her face, he explained, "It's mistletoe."
Suzanne took it and held it between her fingertips, carefully scrutinizing the injured sprig.
"Yes. Are you familiar with the tradition?"
She looked up at him with a crooked smile.
"I think so. Tell me if I get it."
She lifted it over their heads, stood on the balls of her feet, and kissed him with a sweetness that no candy could match.
"Yes," he said. "I'd say you got it pretty good."
They kissed again and then she said, "Jim, let's just stay in."
"But what about the tree?" he asked as she went to the fireplace. "And the lights? And the cookies?"
She set the mistletoe on the hearth and tossed a log onto the grate. After blowing on the embers several times, a tiny spark flared up and caught. When the fire was once again casting a comforting radiance across the rug, she picked up the bit of fragile greenery and waved it gently as she moved to the sofa.
"We'll have all that in Iowa."
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