But it looks cozy now, the cushions on the sofa plumped up, the sconces lit and the silverware polished on the mantel.
She smiles brightly and turns off the vacuum with her foot.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yes, really good.”
“Did you have fun with Tippy?”
Her face lights up even more. “So much fun. I love the markets, and I stocked up on ingredients we might need for the cake.”
“Pause the vacuuming and we’ll get baking then?”
Her face lights up. “Yes, please!”
I try not to gawk at her, looking so beautiful with her smooth hair hooked behind each ear and the little flush on her cheeks from her housework.
I remember how she flushed pink when she multi-orgasmed, and nearly cream myself just thinking about it.
Turning, I stride into the kitchen and she follows me.
There’s a bunch of ingredients on the counter, caster sugar, and freshly churned butter and eggs.
I check through my spice rack for vanilla essence. Grumble that I can’t find anything.
“The spices are now in alphabetical order, Otis,” she says gently. And now I feel stupid because I can work out complex coding, but I can’t find my spices when they’re arranged alphabetically.
“Just got used to them being all jumbled up,” I mumble, giving her a rueful smile which I hope shows I appreciate her help. “Thanks for organizing my sorry ass.”
“I enjoyed it.”
She hops onto the stool, and our heads move close together as we pore over recipes inBaking for Beasts. I can smell her delectable scent, see the rise and fall of her breasts out of the corner of my eye. I’m nearly going boss-eyed trying to focus on recipes; her nearness is driving me crazy.
“This is the one.” I point a green finger at the picture. “Fairy cake sponge, with cream and berries. It’s my mom’s favorite, so we can’t really go wrong.”
We work together like a true team. Clem chops up butter, adds sugar to the bowl and I beat it with my mom’s old wooden spoon.
“Don’t you use a whisk?” she asks.
“Don’t need to.” I beat even more vigorously, holding the bowl against my body. I don’t miss that her eyes stray to the muscles in my forearm, and she nibbles on her lower lip, her cheeks flushing. I realize she’s getting turned on as she watches my huge arms beat that cake batter into fluffy peaks.
And that’s a turn-on for me, knowing I have that effect on her.
I focus back on the cake making, not wanting my libido to get in the way of this fairy sponge turning out perfectly. Guess I’m trying to impress both Mom and Clem.
Clem passes me the eggs to add and then sifts the flour into the bowl while I keep beating. Finally, I pour it into the cake tin that Clem’s lined for me.
Yep, I think to myself, we make a good team. In the kitchen. And in the bedroom.
“Can I lick the spoon?” Those dimples appear either side of her mouth. How I want to lean over and kiss them.
But instead, I hand over the wooden spoon, which is covered in cake batter, and watch, transfixed, as she holds it to her lips and folds her tongue around it.
Ah gods, now my pants are tight as fuck.
Quickly I shove the cake in the oven and when I turn, I almost groan out loud as she licks from the handle to the tip of the spoon.
“I could lick something else if you like.” She gives me a coquettish smile.
