Written for Grizzly and the Support Stacie Auction in 2008. Beta work by miss stef - Super Beta of all time.

Warnings and Disclaimers: I did not make any money off of this. I do not pretend to own Luke, Lorelai or any of the characters from the Gilmore Girls; I do let Luke and Lorelai have sex — the other characters are on their own.

~*~Sugar and Spice, Naughty and Nice by outtabreath~*~

I take a fortifying sip from my cup and stare at the ornament in my hand. Doesn't help. I take a glug. That helps even less. But at least I feel all warm and floaty.

Glühwein is good!

"Am I using the white lights or the colored ones?" Luke demands from behind me.

"I don't care," I say, trying valiantly to stop myself from dissolving into tears, because, damn it all, I just looked down again.

"You don't what?" he says, sounding way testy for a man who has been drinking on and off for the last four hours. "You've been torturing me since I got here. You made me re-hang the icicle lights three times and probably would've tried for four if I hadn't threatened to step on them. And the holly…" his rant dwindles. "I can't even discuss the holly horror. So, after all that you decide now that you don't care?"

I wave my hand back at him and keep my head down.

He takes a deep breath and the thought of how his chest expands when he does that pierces my misery-and-wine-haze momentarily, then I look down again and want to cry. Maybe drinking while doing this was a big mistake.

Maybe having Luke here while I am drinking wine and doing this was a big mistake.

Maybe I need some more warm wine that is liberally spiced. And mixed with four kinds of liquor.

Yep. That's the answer.

Miss Patty's version of glühwein is the best

"Lorelai?" His voice is softer and nearer, both of which are just making things worse. He crouches beside me and I lose it: I snivel and sniff and wipe away tears furiously.

"What? I'm sorry I yelled. It hasn't really been all that bad." He sounds worried, which is just weird and discombobulating and, well, quite frankly, wrong.

I can't speak from all the discombobulation and melancholy, so I mutely hold up the ornament that has derailed me, patently ignoring the cup that has aided in the derailing and the denim-covered thighs that could lead to...things.

He and I both stare at the ornament. It gets my mind back on track and away from denim and flannel.

Luke's eyes narrow. "That's Winnie-the-Pooh."

I nod, swallowing back hysterics. "Rory's Winnie-the-Pooh. It's the first ornament she bought with her own money."

Luke rocks back on his heels and stares at me. "It's Winnie-the-Pooh," he says witheringly.

"Rory's Winnie-the-Pooh," I say again. "And she's not here and I miss her."

"She'll be back on the 20th," he points out

"But she's not here now because the soulless people at Chilton think a debate competition at Christmas is more important than family."

"She'll be back before Christmas. Well before Christmas. Before Christmas week, even," he points out, standing up and going to string lights on the tree. I am impressed that he is steady on his feet and able to walk a straight line.

His butt also looks really good in those jeans. Bad Lorelai! I take a deep breath, take a sip of wine-y goodness and sniffle miserably. "I should've waited until she got back to decorate."

Luke spins and glares and I feel a little scared and a lot turned on, which in turn makes me feel a lot scared.

"You've bullied me mercilessly for a week to help you decorate as a surprise for Rory. You have made me hang and re-hang holly and garland and icicle lights and now you decide you should've waited?"

"The house looks pretty," I say. "Really." Then I unpack another ornament -a grizzly bear - and tear up. Tear up more. "Rory made this one for me in third grade." I touch the pipe cleaner fuzz and wood reverently. I hold the ornament up for Luke to see. "See how talented she was? How creative. The kid can be an artist if she wants. She can be Andy Warhol."

"God, I hope not," Luke says. He points beseechingly at the tree, "Lorelai, let's focus on the tree so I can go home."

I look at it and sigh, "Rory loves decorating the tree." A sip of wine will fortify me. I hope.

Luke sighs deeply. "Do you want me to just go?" Is that a note of hope in his voice?

I stare at him. I don't want him to go, but I don't want him to know that I don't want him to go. And I don't want him to know that I don't want him to know that I don't want him to go.

Christmas is hard work.

I drop my eyes from the tower of pissed-off hotness and look at the ornament that has, somehow, jumped from the box and into my hand. "Oh, Luke, it's Piglet! Rory bought this one the year after she bought Pooh because she said Piglet had issues and needed his friend Pooh around to support him."

"I know exactly what Pooh has to go through," Luke grumbles. "Am I putting on the lights or not?"

"I can't believe Chilton," I grouse, ignoring him. "Obviously the holidays mean nothing to people who worship money and power."

No response. Startled, I look up at Luke. He's staring at me intently, a half-smile playing across his lips

"What?" I demand. I like the half-smile. I want to kiss the lips that form the half-smile. Damn ornaments! Damn glühwein! No, not damn glühwein. Glühwein is innocent in all of this.

I blame Chilton. And the ornaments. And the Luke.

"It's just you sounded like me," he replies, oblivious to my inner monologue. "It was a little scary. And kind of amazing."

I look at his lips. His beautifully formed lips. I'm obviously seeing double because I'm seeing two of them.

No, no. Two lips is good. Two ears, two eyes, two arms, two legs. Two very muscular legs. And two very muscular arms. And two very blue eyes - that are looking at me very strangely.

"What?" I take a drink. My fingers tingle.

"You just drifted off there for a minute."

"I was just shocked that you actually found something about me you like," I reply, dropping my eyes to a wine bottle ornament. That one was from Miss Patty.

"I like lots of things about you," he says, his voice a sexy octave; now ninety-five percent of my body is tingling.

Stupid glühwein.

I snap my head up — which makes the room spin a bit — and look at Luke. Luke who has turned away from me and is stringing lights on the tree.

"Luke," I say, not entirely sure where I'm going with this.

"What am I doing wrong now?" he questions. He has stopped stringing, but he's still got his back to me.

"Nothing," I sigh. "It's perfect."

Like your biceps.

I unpack an angel that Lorelai the First gave me when I was a kid and a bunch of snowflake ornaments from my parents. Each one probably cost more than my tree and my garland and my icicle lights put together.

"Okay. Now the real test," Luke says, interrupting my musing on expensive crystal ornaments. I look up to see him bending over to plug in the lights, the act of which tightens his jeans across his very shapely gluteus maximus.

So, the test is of my willpower and how it will prevent me from hurtling myself across the living room and plastering myself to his perfect ass and hamstrings?

I need more alcohol.

The tree bursts into colored-light glory and I clap my hands before I can stop myself. Luke turns towards me and he looks utterly composed.

Damn him.

"So you're satisfied."

Not even close.

I smile much more calmly then I feel and get up with a wrist full of expensive ornaments and a hand full of empty cup. I walk over to him, trying to swing my hips and bounce my boobs; from Luke's expression I've succeeded in nothing more than looking like I have a twisted ankle.

I arrive at his side and pat his arm and get a grope of where his shoulder muscle blends into his bicep. "You did good, Danes," I say as I release the muscle and hand the ornaments to him. He takes them with an odd expression on his face — he's probably trying to puzzle out how I sprained my ankle.

"So, I'm thinking refills," I announce, picking up his half-empty cup and heading to the kitchen where Miss Patty's heavenly concoction is sitting in a saucepan just waiting to be warmed up. And consumed.

"Am I putting these on the tree?" Luke queries from the living room.

"Please," I call back, watching the wine carefully. When I can smell it, I know it's ready. I top his off and fill my cup up and take several deep, calming breaths. When I return to the living room, Luke has put the angel on one branch and all of the snowflake ornaments on the branch right next to it.

"Luke."

His shoulders tighten. "I'm not good at this," he announces needlessly.

"No, no it's fine." I hand him his cup, take a drink of mine, then start to move the ornaments. "You scatter them. Scattering is good."

"Scattering," he says slowly and deliberately, like I've hypnotized him or something. Then I realize how very, very close we are standing to each other. Our arms and hips are touching and I can feel the Luke heat and smell the Luke smell radiating from the Luke body.

"Okay, we need more ornaments," I say, scurrying over to the box. I pick up Winnie, Piglet and the grizzly bear and think of Rory. If she were here I wouldn't be thinking about jumping Luke in front of the Christmas tree.

Well, I probably would be thinking about it — but it would be about ten times easier to resist actually doing it.

Okay. No more drinking for me.

After this cup.

I return with the ornaments and start to hang them, making sure to scatter them across the tree. Luke sighs and shakes his head.

"What?" I demand.

He doesn't reply, just goes over to the box of ornaments, bends over (oooo!), picks it up and deposits it next to the tree.

Wow. He's smart.

And nice and sweet and hot. Really, really hot.

"I want to get home at some point today," he says, grabbing up a pink bunny ornament Mia gave us the first year at the Independence Inn.

I don't like the thought of him wanting to go home or wanting to leave me here. I decide I need to talk him into doing something else he hates doing.

"So I was thinking of going to the Kriskindel Market later," I say as I continue to bend over and retrieve ornaments.

"Hmmm," Luke is focusing on the tree and not on my bending over. How does he do that? I can barely take my eyes off him.

Should I have worn something more plunging?

"You know, the replica of a German Christmas market Taylor has set up in the square," I expound.

"I saw it earlier." He hangs up a Santa ornament. "When I was walking over here. Much, much earlier. An eon earlier."

I ignore his snarkiness and continue with my train of thought. "It looks like fun, right?" I get to put up Rory's popsicle stick house. "There's going to be pretzels and roasting hazelnuts and handmade ornaments and candles. Oh! And Miss Patty is selling glühwein."

He looks at the cup on the edge of the stairs by his elbow. "I thought that was glühwein."

"It is."

"And why would I pay for something I've been drinking for free all day?"

"Because it's festive?" I say around the lip of my cup.

"Festive," he says, shaking his head and picking up the first in a series of cat ornaments. One guess who those were from. He focuses on the cat with the ball of yarn. "This has a year on it."

"Yep."

"1997," he reads, squinting his eyes until his forehead gets that adorable line.

I take another fortifying hit of gluhwein and respond to him. "Yep, 1997 – I remember that year very clearly." Which I totally don't, but I need to say something other than that I love the crease on his forehead. "And you'll find lots more; Babette started a collection for Rory the year we met her."

Luke grunts and hangs the ornament. In the back of the tree. "So, what exactly are you wanting to do at the market thing?"

"I thought having some pretzels and hot chocolate would be nice."

Luke shudders.

"And get some wooden ornaments. Maybe some Christmas presents. Just be with people. Do you want to go?"

Luke shakes his head. "I'm good."

Yes, yes you are.

"Let's see how the tree is coming along," I say, moving to stand back to peruse the tree, then to peruse Luke. And his lips. They hold an unholy fascination for me…

"I figured I'd get some mistletoe at the market," I say. What the hell? Where did that come from?

"Mistletoe," he snorts. "For?"

"You know, traditional mistletoe activities." We're dancing in dangerous territory here.

Then Luke Lambadas us right into Mordor. "The Druids used to have sex under the mistletoe as a part of their fertility rites," he says, then his face floods with color and he jams his jaw shut.

Did Luke Danes just say the word sex in front of me?

"How did you know that?" I demand. "Is that true or you just making it up?" And did you really, really just say the word sex in front of me?

"Liz went through a Wicca phase," he says finally; he's speaking without opening his mouth very wide, like he's afraid it's going to get him into trouble again. I know the feeling. "I learned more about ancient pagan culture than anyone who's, you know, not a Wicca needs to."

"So you're worried I'm going to put up mistletoe and have sex under it?" I question. While we're in Mordor, might as well stay a while; I've heard the Crack of Doom is lovely this time of year.

"I didn't say worried," he says. He gets redder and his jaw tightens. He looks at his cup of red wine goodness accusingly, like it's getting him in trouble. "So how much longer is this going to take?"

"What? Our discussion of Druid mistletoe sex?" Cha cha cha.

He sighs. "The decorating?"

"Not much," I say. "Just a few more ornaments. And then the garland."

"I already put up garland!" he says, transforming to Normal Luke right in front of me.

"That was on the stairs and the mantle and the porch. We have tree garland, too," I explain slowly.

He opens and closes his mouth, then groans and grabs up a Marilyn Monroe ornament. I notice that his hands are shaking a little; he's rattled and I like it. It means there's a reason he's rattled - which means I'm not the only one thinking the naughty thoughts.

I hope Santa's not watching.

"This is why I don't decorate," he grumbles. "Too much work and money, and do you know how much electricity is wasted? Christmas is just a big commercial, electricity-wasting holiday."

I keep hanging ornaments and watch him as he works into a rant. It's kind of neat. His face gets all flushed and his eyes get all big and his muscles tense up.

This is probably what he looks like during sex.

"Hey!" He snaps his fingers in my face and I come to from my little foray into What Luke Looks Like During Sex: The Christmas Edition. I blink at him and follow his eyes down.

I seem to have dropped a pinecone ornament.

Luckily it's unscathed from my lust-induced clumsiness.

I bend over to retrieve it but so does Luke and we are bending over into the same small space trying to pick up the same small ornament and our hands are brushing and my hair brushes his face and I'm suddenly, completely, utterly sober. Like I haven't had a drink in a year sober.

It's sobering.

And scary.

Because our heads don't bump against each other like normal people's do. No, our heads brush. Skim. Stroke. Caress. And, while our heads are brushing, skimming, stroking, caressing, I can see Luke's lips. They are very pink and shaped perfectly. And they are close because neither of us is straightening up. I can smell the spices and the red wine on Luke's breath and I want to taste it. Want to see how his taste melds with the glühwein.

Luke snags the ornament and stands, which means I have to stand up, too.

Head rush.

I throw my hands out to steady myself on the nearest stable object.

Which happens to be Luke.

He is very steady and solid and I can't help it. I press my hands into his chest — just to see how firm it really is.

It's really, really firm.

Okay.

Then Luke's hands are covering mine and pressing them firmly into his pecs.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice low and deep like I have never heard it before.

"I think so."

But I'm not okay. I'm feeling Luke's pecs and he's letting me — encouraging me, almost — and it's amazing. He releases my hands and I take the opportunity to slide my palms up and outward, towards his shoulders. I can't look him in the face. Not yet. What if he's got a pissed off look on his face? No, concentrate on soft flannel and firm muscle.

His hands return, cover mine and I think he's going to pull them away finally — but no he's guiding my hands up - across his shoulders, and then his hands fall away as my fingers slide into his hair. I look up at him - his face is flushed, there's a muscle working in his jaw, and he's recently licked his lips; I don't know what color his eyes have become – I can't meet them.

I feel his fingers tangle in my hair. I stare at his lips, watching them get closer and closer, then I close my eyes and Luke's lips fall against mine. I lean into the kiss, enjoying the sensation and the taste and learn for myself that Luke's lips are soft and succulent and delicious and he tastes like....he tastes like heaven. And wine.

I like kissing Luke. I love kissing Luke.

I kind of always thought I would, but it's nice to test that theory.

Very nice.

His hands tighten in my hair — just this side of pain — and he tips my head so he can delve deeper into my mouth. I moan a little against him, I think I just thrust my hips forward and I'm surprisingly okay with it. Obviously, Luke is okay with it, too, because now his hands are heading down for my waist so he can pull me closer. Somehow, he's taken a step towards me so we're plastered against each other. His hands are tightening on my waist; my hands are cupping the bones of his jaw.

I nip his lip and he nips back. Our tongues get bossy with each other and I moan again. Really loudly.

He moans a little back and I realize that Luke and I are kissing and moaning and we are probably, most likely, almost certainly going to have sex on the floor in front of my half-decorated Christmas tree.

And I'm surprisingly okay with that, too.

Even though I can't remember the last time I vacuumed in here.

Maybe I should try to get him upstairs.

Maybe I should just let him continue kissing my ear like that.

Yeah. Definitely am going to let him continue doing the ear kissing thing.

His head drops to my shoulder and he's pushing away the edge of my sweatshirt so he can suck my shoulder skin.

I whimper, then maneuver my head so I can capture one of his soft, succulent ear lobes in my teeth. I exert pressure and he moans into my shoulder. I lick and he moans again and there are words amidst all the moans, "don't…mad…want…stop."

Mmmm. Luke's whispering sex words to me.

Wait! "Don't. Mad. Want. Stop." Those are not sex words.

I let go of his ear and move my head so I can look at him. "What did you just say?" I demand, my voice sounding oddly in my ears. I realize that I haven't spoken for almost five minutes; it's a Christmas miracle.

"Nothing," he says, but he takes a step back from me and I don't like it — not even a little bit.

I put my hands on my hips to keep from pointing and shaking an index finger at him. "You did too say something. You said you wanted me to stop kissing you."

He steps further back as his face colors, "I didn't say that."

"You did, too. I heard 'don't, mad, want and stop.' These are words that indicate you want me to stop because you're mad. Or I'm mad. Or we're both mad, but I'm thinking you think your mad is angry mad and my mad is crazy mad…."

He blows out a breath, narrows his eyes at me, crosses his arms across his chest like he's trying to protect himself and interrupts me, "I didn't say you were crazy or I was angry. What I said was…." He falters and glances towards the ceiling beseechingly; obviously, he finds strength there because he continues, "Don't be mad. I don't want to stop."

"Oh."

"And then you stopped anyway."

"Because I thought you wanted me to," I say.

"I really didn't want you to."

"Because you like lots of things about me."

"Among other reasons."

"And what's one of the things you like about me?" I ask, twirling my hair at him.

"That you can be quiet when events call for it," he says hopefully.

"Oh I can be very quiet. And very vocal. Luke…." I drop my voice deeper and start to slink towards him — hips swinging, eyelashes batting madly, wetting my lips.

He stands frozen watching my approach and he looks…he looks…he looks horrified.

I stop my approach. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Why are you walking like that?"

"It's my sexy walk," I say indignantly. I can't believe he couldn't figure that out himself.

He laughs and reaches across the distance between us so he can grab my hips. "Please, don't walk like that. You're sexy enough as it is."

Then he's pulling me closer and, oooo, he said I was sexy and we're kissing again. His lips are really soft and skillful and he does things with his tongue that are indescribable. My knees get a little watery — or is it wine-y — or maybe Luke-y. I'm not sure. Everything is building and compounding and I'm sinking — literally — to my knees.

And, it turns out, right onto the damn pinecone ornament.

I flail and yelp for a moment but, somehow, it all ends up okay because Luke flings the ornament in the general direction of the kitchen; then, mere seconds later, it's even better because I'm on my back unbuttoning his shirt while he supports himself above me on outstretched arms.

There are a million buttons on his flannel and my fingers are shaking so hard I can't get through even half of them until I look at his eyes. They are gazing down at me with awe and an emotion I'm not near ready to label.

But the awe and the not-to-be-labeled emotion slow my breathing and my fingers start to work again. I get the shirt unbuttoned and Luke moves onto his knees for a moment so he can fling it and the matching t-shirt in some corner of the living room.

He returns to his previous stretched arm, hovering over me position and I am awestruck myself by all of the pretty Luke skin and hard Luke muscle.

I run my hands down his chest — feel the skin slide beneath my fingertips — marvel at finally being able to touch him; I tip my head to look at him: his eyes are fixed on my face — a muscle working in his jaw.

"You okay?" I whisper.

He nods tightly.

I lift my head up so I can taste a nipple. It's so amazing how good such a small piece of flesh tastes — how it even has a taste - how proud I am that it is hardening in my mouth.

I need to see if the other one responds the same way.

It does.

Luke murmurs a word that sounds like my name; my attention moves to his abs — which are completely entrancing. Obviously his health food nuttiness works. His stomach muscles flutter beneath my touch and I scratch them gently with my nails — just to see what happens.

So, this is what happens when I tease Luke Danes with my nails on his abs: I find myself being covered by a very warm, very hard man and kissed until I can no longer see straight. When he finally stops the kissing, a long time later, I see that the lights on the tree have become blurry patches of red, green, yellow and blue.

"I'd like this off, please," he says — more politely than I have ever heard him — as he tugs at my sweatshirt. With little effort on my part, he gets his wish (please is the magic word, of course) and I'm stripped very naked.

"Oh God." And awe and that other emotion are still very much alive in those eyes.

I thought I would be insecure or unsure, after all, it's not everyday a man sees me naked. But I'm not unsure or insecure or shy or hesitant. I am basking. Relishing. Enjoying how his eyes devour me and how he slides his hand gently over my breasts, over my belly, between my legs.

"Beautiful," he says.

Then he uses his mouth and I am struck dumb by the waves of pleasure that crash over me.

All those times he wanted me to be quiet and all he had to do was lick and suck my nipples and stomach and clit.

Who knew?

I may not be able to use my mouth to form words, but I can use my hands — and I want his body back. Want him inside of me.

Right after he stops using his tongue right there.

I tug him up from where he was doing very good naughty things and start to caress down — wanting to get a feel of him. All of him. To see if he's as big as I imagine him to be.

Imagined once.

Okay, twice.

I slide my fingers down his back, heading to the ass that is the best part of my morning, only to find denim.

Oh yeah. I'm naked and Luke is only half.

"Can you please," I say — I am also very, very polite. My mother would be so proud. Except for the fact that I'm going to have sex with Luke on my living room floor.

Ugh! Do not think of mother at this moment.

Then I'm only thinking that I want Luke's skin touching mine again because I miss it. He's levered his body up and away from me and I don't like that. I know he's got to do it, but I was getting used to having his skin touching mine.

"Faster, please." Polite.

"In such a hurry," Luke chuckles, because he knows he's about to get his world rocked.

I lever myself up on my elbows so I can watch him peel off jeans and boxers and, then, his cock appears — rising up like some, uh, big rising up thing.

"Wow." It's not as romantic as "Oh God," and "Beautiful," but I can't really form polysyllable words right now, because, damn. And wow.

"I'll take wow," he chuckles and he slides down again to kiss me.

Luke and I are going to have sex.

I've thought about it — once or twice — but never really thought it would happen. Well, I thought that it might — but I did not wake up this morning thinking that Luke and I would have sex today.

But we are. Right now.

Oh yeah. Right this very moment….

So, the thing with Luke? He's really good at this. He's got the hip action and the kissing and tempo thing just perfect. I'm just trying to keep up with him and make sure he has as good a time as I'm having — because I'm having a really, really good time.

Then time doesn't exist because he's pushed me right into orgasm. I hear him grunting. I think he says my name. I know he says "gllrgwod."

I know just how he feels — gllrgwod sums up the whole experience very succinctly.

I feel rather than see him fall on top of me (my eyes are rolled right back into my head) and I hug him close.

I love sex with him, adore kissing him, but hugging Luke is in a league of its own. I think I could grow to worship hugging him.

He starts to move and I let him because the floor is a little hard. Hmph. The floor is hard. How did I not notice that before?

I regain the sense of sight and look at him. He's smiling. A lot. I didn't know he was capable of smiling like that.

I didn't know my heart was capable of opening like it is right now. Damn Luke smile. Damn Lorelai heart.

"So, you ready to finish decorating?" I ask, because I can't tackle the emotion in his eyes and the heart in my chest right now.

Luke whimpers. But not in a good way.

"And we have a saucepan full of glühwein to finish," I say, because my heart is still opening wide.

He groans. But not in a good way.

"And the market to get to." My heart's still expanding in my chest and it's going to take over my whole world. I just know it.

He kisses me, pulling me closer. "Or we can just stay here and look at the pretty lights for a minute."

I look at the tree — at the lights and the ornaments we got to hang up before, well, before we had sex on the floor. "Okay." I say. "One minute. Starting now."

Luke gives a contented sigh and pulls me closer.

Yep. My whole, entire world.

Maybe I'll give him two minutes.