John Reese stomps across the library floor leaving puddles of melting snow in his wake.
"Sit, Mr. Reese," Finch orders, patting a chair facing his work station. "Please?" he adds, sitting on the edge of his desk, his shoulder brushing a mysterious object covered by a green jacquard tablecloth.
Despite the pleasant warmth of the room, Finch's cheeks nearlt match the ruby silk waistcoat he's wearing. His trousers are tight, growing tighter still as he tilts his hips towards John, running his neatly manicured hand across his crotch to adjust himself.
John is frozen in place, licking his lips. Transfixed.
"Tell me, John," Finch asks huskily, "Do you like my balls?"
He waits just long enough before whisking back the tablecloth to reveal a miniature fir tree resplendent in tiny glass baubles.
Finch 'tsks'. "Really, John, after years of your flirtation, your teasing." He sighs. "It's Christmas. At least give me this."
John thunders to his feet, setting the chair crashing to the floor. "I'll give you anything, Harold. Anything at all!"
Finch meets him halfway, his hands grasping John's icy ears as their mouths meet.
"My actual balls aren't nearly so...festive," Finch admits when John reaches for his belt.
"I'll be the judge of that," laughs John, already on his knees.