"That's your fault," I said, waving away smoke while he opened windows.
"My fault? You kissed me back."
"You started it!" But I was laughing, surveying the charred disasters. "Okay. New rule. No kissing until the cookies are done."
"Terrible rule."
"Necessary rule if you want these volunteers to have anything edible."
We produced two more decent batches—mostly through my careful timer management and refusing to let him distract me. The kitchen looked like a flour bomb had detonated, white powder coating every surface, but we had cookies.
"Now we ice them," I announced, pulling out the container of vanilla frosting.
"Ice them?"
"Decorate them. Make them pretty." I unscrewed the lid, dipping my finger in to taste. "Mmm. Perfect."
Bart's eyes darkened as he watched my finger slide from my mouth. "That's not fair."
"What's not fair?"
"You. Doing that." He stepped closer. "Looking like that."
"I'm covered in flour and sugar."
"Exactly." He dipped his own finger in the frosting, then smeared it across my collarbone. "Now we're even."
Heat flashed through me. "That's how you want to play?"
"I'm not playing." But his mouth was already at my collarbone, tongue tracing the line of frosting, and I stopped caring about frosting cookies.
What followed was the least productive baking session in history. More gooey icing ended up on us than the cookies—dabbed on skin, licked off slowly, vanilla sweetness transferred between mouths as we kissed and laughed and turned cookie decorating into foreplay.
"We're supposed to be making thank-you gifts," I managed between kisses, his mouth hot against my neck.
"We are." He lifted me onto the counter, settling between my legs. "Eventually."
"Bart—"
"Do you want me to stop?" His fingers found the hem of my shirt, pushing it up slowly.
"No. Definitely no." I pulled him closer. "But if these treats don't get decorated, I'm blaming you."
"Noted." His hands slid up my thighs, hooking into my leggings and pulling them down along with my underwear in one smooth motion.
The cold granite against my bare skin made me gasp, but then his mouth was on mine, hot and demanding, and I forgot about everything except the way his hands felt on my body.
"You have icing—" he murmured against my lips, his fingers trailing down my stomach, "—everywhere."
"Your fault."
"Let me clean it up." He kissed down my neck, between the twin swells of my breasts. Lower. His breath ghosted over my hip where a smear of sticky frosting had somehow ended up.
His tongue traced it slowly, deliberately, making me squirm. Then he moved lower still, settling between my thighs, and I realized with a jolt exactly where else the sugary mess had landed.
"Bart—oh god—"
His tongue found my clit, licking away every trace before working the sensitive bundle of nerves with devastating skill. My hands flew to his hair, gripping tight as pleasure built hot and fast.
