My hand pushing to bend her over on the cold counter stops her. She stays there, motionless and slightly panting, as I grab the whipped cream and pop the cap open. My eyes are on the prize, focused on the small hole I intend to feast on.
“What are you doing?” she hesitantly asks while I shake the can.
“I think it’s time I eat your arse.”
She tenses all over, her hands clenching at her sides. I can’t see her face as she looks away, but I see the tip of her ears turn pink.
“Is it too much, red?”
For several seconds, she thinks about it, fighting against her instincts so she can give in. We both know she showered about an hour ago, so she’s as clean as it gets. “You enjoy it when I finger your bum, don’t you?” I ask, even though we both know it’s true—she’s begged for it a few times.
She twists around, her amazingly blue eyes hesitantly meeting mine. Without a word, she nods.
“Then you’ll love this. And it’s like a treat for me.”
“Really?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
I bend over to give an eager kiss to her butt cheek. “Let me do this for you, love.”
It’s clear she’s not entirely sold, but she gives me a single nod. I’ll go slow and let her get used to it. When she faces away again, I give the can another few shakes. She jumps with surprise at the first squirt of cold whipped cream in the valley of her freckled arse, but I have a solid hand on her back, anticipating her reaction. Past the initial shock, she shows no sign of resistance, utterly immobile as I trace down a path of whipped cream.
Once I’m done, I set the can next to her and then kneel again. “Relax, sweetheart,” I soothe as I take hold of her hips. She has no idea how much I want this, does she? I guess I’ll have to show her.
Holding back a grin, I lean forward, famished.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Gen
Jake is the only reason I’ll survivethese intense two weeks of work. I’m not sure how I would get through them without his uncanny ability to help me relax and blow off some steam.
The list is kind of on hold, and I’m okay with that. Instead of putting any pressure on ourselves to tick more items, we do whatever we feel like doing in the moment, which is still pretty spectacular every single time. And because he knows just how busy I am, he goes out of his way to make it work.
On Tuesday, he comes by my place for a couple of hours of naked cardio, then leaves after a goodbye kiss to let me finish what I’m working on. On Thursday, when I’m stressed and considering ripping my hair out in frustration, I send him a text, which makes him come all the way here again and fuck me silly. On Friday evening, I decide I’ve missed enough after-work drinks with the team, so I force myself to head there rather than meet with Jake at The Devil’s Court. As soon as it’s over though, I text him to see if he’s still up.
Turns out he is, so he hops on his bike. By the time I get home, he’s at the foot of my building, eagerly waiting. Really, getting to see him is what makes me get through all this. I hang on, knowing I’ll keep getting more of him.
Now, it’s Saturday morning, more than halfway through my fortnight of hell. We’re in the kitchen to get ourselves some much-needed sustenance, still reeking of sex and looking the part. The sleep last night was scarce, the sex was plentiful, and I have no regrets. I needed that after the long week I had.
“Do you want bacon?” I ask him, looking into my fridge.
“Sure. Do you have more bread? There’s only two slices left in this one.”
“Let me check the pantry.”
I give him the bacon before I make my way to fetch the bread.
It’s disappointing that he has to leave right after breakfast, but it’s better this way. I have to work, and he has important things to handle. Today, they’re welcoming their new guest artist, a woman who comes all the way from South Africa to stay at The Parlour for three weeks to tattoo New Yorkers. According to Jake, Kaya is so famous in the business that half of her time here is already booked, and people are coming from across the country to get inked by her. So, Jake has to pick her up from the airport at eleven and then settle her in the apartment unit he keeps available for guest artists.
When I return from the pantry with more bread, Jake still looks like the only thing I want to eat this morning, wearing nothing but black underwear. By now, he has to know how mad that drives me, and he’s doing it on purpose. Just so he can get a taste of his own medicine, I’m wearing only his T-shirt, and I keep finding excuses to stretch up or bend over.
I’m not necessarily saying he’ll be late to the airport, but I claim no responsibility if he is. He started it with the underwear thing.
When he asks for the maple syrup, I hold back my grin and position myself in a way that puts my ass right in his field of view. Bending at the hips, I reach the lowest drawer and pull it open. I pretend to look for the syrup, knowing it’s not here at all. I’m sure he can see every intimate detail of me from where he stands.
When he lets out a grunt, I bite my lower lip. “Genevieve, I will fuck you up,” he threatens.
