Sighing, he rolls up his other sleeve. “No matter. At least now I don’t have to worry about staining this shirt. It’s already ruined. Okay, let’s make this happen. I think we need a mold of some sort,” he mutters, assessing the cake stand I’ve been trying to sculpt the ice cream onto.
My throat tightens with emotion. “You’re sure?” I ask quietly.
He cants his head and holds my gaze. “Of course I’m sure. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. Or for you.”
I swallow hard, then turn my head so he doesn’t see how deeply his words affect me.
He notices anyway, but he allows the moment to pass—another testament to how well he knows me and how deeply he cares.
Then, together, we get to work.
We try a few strategies before settling on pouring the now-liquid ice cream into two round cake pans, coating one withchocolate crunchies and the other with thick fudge, then freezing them.
We spend far too long cleaning up the kitchen. I have to shoo Shiloh out more than once, though I don’t mind so much when she takes care of some of the melted ice cream on the floor. By the time the kitchen is spotless, the cakes have soft set and are much easier to handle.
We work fast to get everything assembled. I smooth out the edges quickly, and hustle to get the whole thing back into the freezer before it loses its form.
Mercer shudders as he closes the freezer door. “That is, categorically, the most disgusting-looking cake I’ve ever had the displeasure of making.”
I chuckle. “Spoiler alert: it’s not going to taste much better than it looks.”
He groans. “Don’t mind me if I only try a bite later.” His attention drifts to the clock on the stove. “I’ve got to start cooking if we’re going to eat by eight like Noah wants.”
“Need any help?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “You know I like total control in the kitchen.”
I do. Which makes his willingness to assist me with the ice cream cake even more meaningful.
Nodding, I back toward the door. I need a shower before Atty arrives. But Mercer gives me a look that stops me, then crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the counter.
“Speaking of control… how do you want tonight to go?”
Right. That.
Technically, it’s my turn to go first. Yeah, we have a rotational sex schedule nowadays. It cuts down on the bickering and it helps ensure Sawyer doesn’t get stuck mediating, thus putting a damper on thefunpart of group fun.
But on occasion, Sawyer can get overstimulated from my piercings.
Noah’s been bustling around all day, collecting pillows and blankets and sneaking them out to his truck. He even bought a set of little LED lanterns I helped him assemble. He wants tonight to be special. And I want to do what I can to be a good partner and friend.
“You go first,” I tell him. “Then Noah. I’ll go last, if she’s still feeling it.”
He rubs his jaw with his thumb and forefinger, assessing me. “You’re sure?”
I am. Sawyer’s pleasure is and always will be my priority. Somehow, over the last six months, the guys’ pleasure has become important to me, too. That’s how we take care of each other nowadays. Sawyer is always number one, but I’m just as concerned about their happiness and gratification as I am about my own.
And I get plenty of one-on-one time with our girl to keep me satisfied.
Last weekend, I had her all to myself for two nights. The guys insisted she and I hole up at Mercer’s condo for my birthday. Noah even put together a care package of food and treats to make it more relaxing.
No one’s keeping score, and we’re all learning as we go. But if I have an opportunity to show them how much I love and appreciate them, I’ll take it.
“Completely sure,” I cuff his shoulder and squeeze once. Then, because I can’t resist, I add, “I’ll be standing by in case you need to tap out, though, old man. Don’t want your stamina to stand in the way of our girl’s pleasure.”
With that, I take off down the hall, grinning as Mercer yells after me.
Epilogue: Noah
