What a silly question.“Everything.”
“Oh. Well, in that case, you’re welcome.” Dillon chuckled, sounding tickled as hell.
Pansy leaped over Jerome, grabbing her brother’s ear on the way as she ran. They both cracked up, watching the pups run and fall and play. It was good to see them so free.
“We better get some towels for ’em. Those bellies are going to be soaked.” And God knew it took forever for the thick fur down there to dry.
“Yeah. Here, come on and get coffee going, and I’ll get them.”
Dillon led the way, and Coke could see why the man liked the kitchen in this place. It was something, all gleaming granite and stainless steel.
“Man, look at this.” He ran his hand along a countertop, shook his head. “Makes my kitchen seem sad. Well, the one inside the house.”
“Yeah, but the one you use outside? Dude.”
The coffeepot was obvious, and he knew Dillon liked to keep the coffee beans in the freezer. He did his thing, whistling under his breath as he did. He’d made himself at home in about a thousand cowboys’ houses—he did the same here. It was kinda reassuring, how Dillon had mismatched coffee cups and weird, chipped plates. That was way more homey.
The coffee started smelling good and Coke got to hunting some food. There was a bunch of stuff in the fridge. Eggs and bacon, milk, veggies.
“You want eggs, cowboy?” He pulled out the bacon, found some tomatoes, and started hunting peppers. He knew he owed Dillon a massage, but all of a sudden he was ravenous, and the pups sure loved bacon.
Besides, massages led to orgasms, and coming led to naps.
Naps were better on a full belly.
Where the fuck were the jalapeños?
The patter of claws on tile warned him just in time to stick a knee out and keep Jerome from jumping on him. Silly thing.
He found a pan, some bell peppers but no jalapeños, an onion and some frozen biscuits, but he couldn’t discover the cookie sheets for love or money.
“How’s it going, babe?” Dillon’s hands slid down over his butt as he bent over.
“Mmm. Hunting for a sheet to make biscuits.” His thighs parted a little, sorta all on their own.
“Oh, we should do them in the toaster oven. I’ll put foil on the rack.” He could hear the grin in Dillon’s voice. The hands on his butt squeezed.
“Uh…” He leaned back into the touch, hips rolling sweet as sugar.
“Mmm. You’re nice and warm, babe.”
“You’ll distract me.” That was no lie.
“Uh-huh.” Dillon backed off, though, because there was already a pan on the stove.
Dillon started singing, just as happy as a lark, and Jerome yodeled along in his hound-dog voice.
“You happy to be home?” He let Dillon get the biscuits on, then plopped some bacon in the pan.
“I am.” Grinning, Dillon came dancing over to kiss him before helping him with the bacon so he could get to the eggs.
“You want over easy or scrambled?” The puppies were milling around now, exploring the kitchen, tails going ninety to nothing.
“I’ll go with scrambled, so I can have all the veggies.”
He chuckled. He could remember when Dillon would look at huevos Mexicana like they’d bite.
Dillon hip-bumped him gently—not enough to knock him off balance—before going to over to unpack the dog treats.
