“Oh, Evan,” she says, and the sound of my name on her lips only makes me harder, my cock straining painfully against the inside of my pants. “You don’t have to…”
“You’re so fucking pretty,” I say, keeping myself from telling her to shut up—that of course I want to taste her. That’s not what Amy likes to hear. I’m a quick study, and I’ve watched her skin flush at the compliments.
Now, sure enough, her pink lips part at the words, and she lets out a quick breath, her legs relaxing enough for me to push them apart.
“If you don’t want me to,” I say, between kisses delivered to the insides of her thighs. “I won’t. But you should know that I’ve thought about nothing else. Every night I dream about getting to taste you, Amy.”
“She hisses between her clenched teeth when I run my nose gently along her. “I—I haven’t shaved.”
She’s bare but for some stubble. Maybe she waxes or shaves. Either way, it doesn’t matter. “Amy,” I say, suppressing a growl, “do I seem like the kind of guy to be bothered by that? I’m begging you, baby. Please, let me taste you.”
That does it, and her legs fall open for me. I grab her hips and pull her toward me, loving that I had to work for this. Loving watching her relax for me.
I take my time in teasing her, kissing her thighs, running my fingers along the sensitive parts of her down here, but never applying any real pressure, so her hands clutch my shirt at the shoulders, every movement of her body a silent, insistentpleading.
Right now, I have no idea what she wants from this. Or if this is the last time I’ll get to touch her.
But I can’t let myself think about it now, so I dip my head and slide my tongue along her, savoring her gasps, the way her hand grips the sheet to my left. Like everything else in my life, I work at her doggedly, plowing ahead when her fingers tangle in my hair, when her body starts to shake.
And when she seems impossibly close, but just not quite able to go over the edge, I slide a finger inside her, cursing against her at the feeling of her tight around me.
That does it, and Amy comes against me, holding on to me like she might fly away otherwise. Causing her pleasure, finding it and delivering it to her, makes me feel endlessly pleased.
So much so that when I return from brushing my teeth, I climb into bed next to her, pulling her body to mine. She’s half asleep, but mumbles, “What should we do?”
I’ve never been into the idea of equal reciprocation. As though getting to bury my face between her legs isn’t a treat in and of itself.
“Go to sleep,” I reply, brushing an errant lock of hair away from her face. She opens her mouth, ready to protest, but I kiss her softly, and she drifts away in my arms.
“Why are we at the bakery?”I ask warily, eyeing Amy, who stands at full attention, waiting for someone to come and answer the door. I’m an early riser, but this is too much for me, being here in town as the sun comes up.
When I complained about coffee, Amy stopped us at the gas station, and I clutch my cup in my right hand, taking sips of the burned, plain black brew intermittently.
“You’ll see,” she says cheekily. “You’ll have to trust me, huh?”
I can’t look at her without thinking about the taste of her. All I want to do is scoop her up into my arms, carry her?—
Then the door swings open, and it’s Brendon Wickes standing there, his eyes darting back and forth between us. The kid—though I guess he’s not a kid anymore—was a few years behind me in school, and I remember him as being energetic, bouncy, always up to something. Skateboarding to school in the morning and trying to start a new club in the evenings.
It hits me that Old Wickes, the baker who retired a few years ago, must be related to Brendon in some way.
Now, Brenden looks harried, a cinnamon roll half stuffed into his mouth, a flour-covered towel over his shoulder, a bottle of milk in one hand and a baking sheet tucked under the opposite arm.
“You’re kidding,” he says through the cinnamon roll, before reaching up and taking it out of his mouth. “I thought you didn’t like us anymore.”
“What?” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it, and he laughs, shaking his head and gesturing for us to follow him inside.
I try to look at Amy, but the hall he leads us through is too dark for me to see anything.
“So, I’m hoping to have it right here,” Brendon says, cinnamon roll finished by the time we come around the corner, and I realize what I’m doing here.
“Really?” I ask, turning to Amy, who smiles serenely up at me.
“He put out an ad online, looking for someone,” she says, punching me lightly in the shoulder. “And what are the odds I happen to know someone with this specific set of skills?”
There’s a wide space between two ovens, and a tall stack of stones next to that, the other tools scattered somewhat erratically. It makes my hands itch to tidy them up and get the space ready for the project.
“Great,” I say, and when I catch Brendon looking at me, I try to clean up the scowl on my face. The entire point of this is to get the guy on my side.
