Goddamn, it feels good.
I hold her tighter as I bring the nozzle toward her mouth.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish, sweetheart,” I warn before I press the button.
Cream squirts out, filling her mouth and covering her lips.
I release her, allowing her to spin to face me.
One look at her state, and I bark out a laugh.
“Ah, you’ve got a bit of…” I point at my mouth to show her what I mean as her tongue sneaks out and licks away some of the cream.
She takes a step forward, her head tipped back so her eyes can hold mine.
Desire pumps red hot through my veins as her tongue sneaks out again.
My fingers itch to reach out and pull her back into me so I can taste that sweetness on her lips.
She gets so close, the heat of her body burns into mine. She’s right there. Right fucking there for the taking. All I’ve got to do is reach out and?—
“Oh, you little fucking …” My words trail off as I look down and watch the cream drip down my T-shirt. The cream from the can she stole while I was distracted, thinking about how badly I wanted to kiss her.
Twisting my fingers in the hem of my shirt, I pull it over my head, careful not to cover my entire face in cream.
It hits the floor with a wet slap, and I finally do what I was craving. I reach out, wrap my hand around the back of Bea’s neck, and tow her into me. The can clatters to the floor and rolls away, quickly forgotten.
“You’re in trouble, sweetheart,” I warn darkly.
She bats her lashes at me like she’s the most innocent woman in the world. But I know better. I know how well she takes my cock while I have her pinned against a wall. I know exactly how she feels as she comes all over me, the sounds she makes when she doesn’t think she can take any more. I haven’t forgotten a single second of it.
She comes to me, powerless to deny what’s been crackling between us since the night we met.
Her warm breath dances over my skin, making goosebumps erupt.
I pull her closer, lowering my head so I can take what I need.
Her eyes shutter; she’s right there with me. Our lips are almost touching when something starts sizzling behind me.
“Oh shit, the milk,” Bea cries before darting away and lifting the pan from the stove as milk bubbles over the side. “I think it’s hot enough."
I rub the back of my neck. “Yeah,” I muse. The milk isn’t the only thing at boiling point.
“We need three spoonfuls of chocolate in these,” Bea instructs, sliding the mugs she’s filled closer to me as if that moment between us didn’t just happen. “You want to stir until there are no lumps.”
“No lumps,” I repeat. “Got it.”
As I stir, she cleans up the stove. I want to tell her to leave it, but I can’t find the words, so instead I just watch her as she leans over, letting the T-shirt she’s wearing ride higher on her thighs. Still not high enough to answer my question of what she might have underneath.
“Now, cream,” she says, appearing on my side.
She squirts the whipped cream on the top before finishing it off with marshmallows and sprinkles.
“Voilà,” she sings, handing one over to me.
“Beautiful,” I mutter as I watch her walk toward the couch. She places her mug on the coffee table, grabs the box of pastries, and settles with her legs beneath her.
She flips the lid and studies the contents for a few seconds before making her selection.
