“Worth it.”
We bake together for the next hour. She shows me how to roll dough and how to load a piping bag. It explodes once, and green icing shoots across the counter and lands in her hair like alien slime. She laughs so hard she has to sit on the floor, knees to herchest, tears running. I end up right there with her, back against the cabinets, her legs thrown over mine while we sample the icing.
We cut out reindeer that look drunk, stars that are more like blobs, and one very unfortunate snowman that ends up looking like a dick. She blames me. I blame her filthy mind. We name him Richard.
The first batch goes in the oven. The timer is set for twelve minutes.
That’s when I decide item six, sex pressed up a window, can’t wait another second.
I scoop her up, legs kicking in the air, and carry her to the big picture window that faces the valley. Snow is lashing the glass sideways, the storm a white blur of pure fury.
“Flynn, the cookies—”
“Need to bake for twelve minutes.”
I set her on the wide pine sill, yank the flannel over her head in one smooth motion, and press her bare front to the frosted window.
She gasps, the glass fogging in a perfect circle around her mouth. Her nipples tighten instantly against the ice, goosebumps racing across her skin like lightning.
“Hands flat,” I growl.
She obeys, palms smacking the cold pane. Outside, the wind screams like it wants in.
I drop to my knees behind her, spread her thighs, and drag my tongue through her in one slow, filthy lick. She cries out, hips jerking forward, forehead thumping the glass. I do it again, and again, until she’s shaking and begging and the window is a mess of handprints and breath clouds.
Only then do I stand, grip her hips, and slide home in one deep thrust.
The glass rattles with every stroke. Her tits drag across the frost, leaving wet streaks that freeze almost instantly. I watch her reflection in the clear strip at the top.
“Look at me,” I order.
She turns her head. Our eyes lock in the glass. I reach around, find her clit, and rub tight, ruthless circles while I fuck her hard and steady.
“Come while the world watches,” I tell her.
She does, screaming my name loud enough that the window vibrates. Her pussy clenching drags me over right behind her. I slam deep and stay there, spilling inside her with a groan that feels ripped out of my soul.
The oven timer chooses that exact second to ding.
We both start laughing. I pull out, spin her around, and kiss the hell out of her against the glass. Her legs are jelly, and I carry her back to the kitchen.
We rescue the cookies just in time. The edges are golden, the centers are still soft and gooey. I set her on the counter, pull the tray out with one hand, and keep her steady with the other.
She steals a star cookie still sizzling and blows on it, then holds it to my lips. I take a bite. It’s perfect.
We spend the rest of the morning decorating like children. Green trees with red garlands piped in shaky lines, snowmen with crooked smiles, reindeer with one too many legs. We eat warm cookies straight off the sheet, passing the spatula back and forth, arguing over whether the slightly charred ones taste better (they do).
When the counters are buried, and the cabin smells like vanilla and childhood, she declares numbers seven and eight officially complete. We had only thought of one thing for those two numbers, eating off each other’s bodies, and had thought it was sexy at the time that we would take turns pleasuring each other with our mouths.
“It’s the wholesome edition,” she says, licking icing off her thumb. “We both sucked icing off each other's fingers, which technically fulfills the list item.”
I pull her into my lap on the couch, blanket around us, plate of cookies balanced between us. Snow is still raging outside, the little tree glowing in the corner with paper chains and zombie gingerbread men.
She’s quiet for a minute, tracing the raised scar on my forearm with one finger.
“What happens when the roads open, Flynn?”
The question hangs heavy between us.
