I lean against the doorframe, not wanting to interrupt this moment. She looks so fucking carefree—so at home in my space. Something twists in my chest, a sharp tug that makes me reach up and rub at the spot, trying to ease the pressure.
Fuck. I don't want to examine what that feeling means right now.
I've never had anyone bake in my kitchen before. Never had anyone comfortable enough to let themselves in and make themselves at home like this. Never wanted it either. But watching her dance around, completely unaware of my presence, looking like she belongs here—it does something to me that has nothing to do with how hard my cock is right now.
She turns, finally catching sight of me, and lets out a startled yelp. One pod falls out as she jumps.
“Jesus fuck, Beckham!” she gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“Thought you were having dinner with Naila,” I say, pushing off the doorframe and moving toward her.
Her lips curl into a mischievous smile that always means trouble. “I did. We finished early, and I wanted to surprise you.” She gestures to the cookies. “I know you said you didn't do Christmas, but everyone deserves homemade cookies.”
I reach for her, pulling her against me by the hem of my jersey. “You broke into my apartment to bake cookies?”
She rolls her eyes, wrapping her arms around my neck. “I didn't break in. You gave me a key, remember?”
“For emergencies,” I counter, my hands sliding down to cup her ass. She's not wearing anything under my jersey. Fuck.
“This was an emergency,” she insists, pressing her body against mine. “A Christmas cookie emergency.”
I spin her around by her shoulders, pressing her back against the counter. My hands slide down to her hips, gripping the jersey as I lean in close to her ear.
“Finish making your cookies, trouble,” I growl, my voice rough with want. “I want to watch you.”
She looks over her shoulder at me, that fucking smirk still playing on her lips. “Bossy much?”
“Always.” I press my lower half against her ass, making her gasp. “Get to work.”
She reaches for the mixing bowl, scooping dough onto the cookie sheet while I stand behind her, my front pressed to her back.
“You smell so good,” I murmur, brushing her ponytailaside to expose her neck. I press my lips to the sensitive spot below her ear, feeling her shiver against me.
“I know you have a sweet tooth,” she says, her voice slightly breathless as she continues scooping dough. “Even though you try to hide it with all that protein-shake bullshit.”
My hands slide under the jersey, finding her bare hips. “Only sweet thing I'm interested in right now is under this shirt.”
She laughs, pushing back against me as she reaches for more cookie dough.
“Oh, by the way,” she says casually, like I'm not practically dry humping her against my kitchen counter, “dinner's in the pan on the stove. Just needs to be heated up.”
I freeze, my hands stilling on her hips. “You made me fucking dinner too?”
She nods, placing the last scoop of dough on the tray. “Arroz con Pollo.”
“You didn't need to do that,” I say, genuinely surprised. “Especially not after working all day and then hanging out with your friend.”
She turns in my arms, facing me with a defiant tilt to her chin. “No, I didn't need to do it, but I wanted to. Just like I wanted to make cookies.” She pokes me in the chest with a sticky finger. “So you're gonna shut up and eat all of it.”
“Is that right?” I ask, catching her wrist and bringing the digit to my mouth. I suck the dough off slowly, watching her pupils dilate as my tongue swirls around her fingertip.
“Yes,” she says, her voice slightly hoarse. “That's right.”
I release her finger with a pop. “And if I don't?”
“Then no dessert for you.” She glances down at her body.
“Fucking brat,” I mutter.
