“You did cause something to rise that night,” Dixon growled, eyes darkening with need now.
“I did. I made something rise. And then it topped me with cream.” She wrapped her arms around Dixon’s neck, trying to lift high enough on tiptoes to kiss him. Dixon wrapped his hands around her waist, lifting her just long enough to plant a warm, lingering kiss on her mouth before setting her back down.
“If that’s the end result every time we try some ridiculous recipe, I’ll stop complaining,” Dixon murmured, words softly stealing across the room.
“I’ll hold you to that.” Tessa tapped his nose with one finger. “Though, you seem to be satisfied anytime an activity ends that way.”
“Guilty as charged,” Dixon growled, giving her waist a squeeze and then releasing her.
“I’ll get the cuffs out later, you felon,” Tessa teased before turning back to me.
Her eyes locked with mine, and the warmth in them made my heart beat a little faster. Then she glanced over at Tray and Ryder, who were currently knocking back a shot of vodka each. “Don’t you dare get too buzzed to help. You two aren’t getting out of it this time.”
Ryder and Tray exchanged a glance, then clinked their glasses together in solidarity.
“Time to enter the battlefield, brother.” Ryder shrugged.
“A war of whisks and willpower,” Tray quipped back.
I loved hearing my pack brothers’ quick-witted way with words. I was always too caught up in logic to lean into cleverness.
Tessa nodded her head resolutely, as if she’d rallied the troops, and then she closed the space back to me.
"Let's do this," she said, positioning herself so close to me our elbows bumped. "Mac, you're our head chef. Where do we start?"
I felt my cheeks warm at her casual compliment. "Normally I'd have everything measured out in little bowls first, but..." I gestured at our chaotic countertop with a smile. “We could do it that way,” I added, momentarily wondering if Tessa preferred last time we tried this, when I’d set everything up expertly.
"Tonight, we're embracing the beautiful mess," she seemed to comfort me without meaning to, her blue eyes sparkling.
Something about her energy was contagious. I found myself reaching for the flour without double-checking the recipe first. I stopped myself. Refocused. I really wanted this to work out right this time. The old Mac would have had a minor panic attack that I was, as Tessa said, embracing beautiful mess.
My eyes moved to the tablet, to the recipe, to the ordered steps I was so accustomed to following precisely. I supposed, even though I wasn’t prepping per usual, I still had to get the ratios right. Baking wasn’t like regular cooking, where a dash would do and a pinch was perfect.
“Mac,” Tessa prodded gently, placing her hand over mine which was pushed hard into the counter. I hadn’t realized I was doing that. “It’s just dessert. Succeed or fail, it doesn’t matter.”
I knew she was right. I offered her a soft smile.
"Six eggs," I said, sliding the carton toward her, and the two bowls already set up for the eggs. "Separate the whites from the yolks as cleanly as you can. I think that was part of the issue last time."
“I can do that.” She playfully pushed her hip into me; the touch sent a jolt up and down my body. This woman, God help me, made every facet of my person vibrate with joy and desire. For a heartbeat, my mother’s firm voice wedged into my conscious thoughts.Sins of the flesh will rob rewards of the soul.
I shook my head, fighting back the mantra I’d heard so often as a young boy. It often preceded a beating.
Tessa cracked the first egg with surprising confidence. A quick snap at the side of the large bowl, like she’d mastered the move eons ago. Unfortunately, the yolk broke.
“Shoot,” she mumbled, staring at the failure.
“Don’t worry. One down, eleven back-ups to go.” I took the sullied bowl and handed her a clean one, before padding towards the counter which now sported a large air fryer. Tessa wanted that last month. Midnight French fries had become a thing.
There were so many random Tessa additions around the mansion now. Funny how an Omega’s touch can truly change the atmosphere in a home. I leaned over, opening the cabinet below where we kept the storage dishes now. That was something else we never used to have. Before Tessa, our meals were usually chef made and delivered in disposable containers. Or it was takeout.
“Save the egg!” Tessa called out quickly.
“I know,” I turned just enough to shoot her a grin. It was funny, really, that we were rock stars with a hefty bank account—which had only grown since the success ofSinner’s Kiss—yet we were all very careful now about wastefulness. Tessa insisted. I poured the egg that was now no good for a soufflé into a smalldish, topped it after pulling out a few bits of shell, and popped it in the fridge.
Dixon moved behind her before I could return, his chest against her back as he reached around to help with the next egg. His hands engulfed hers, and I watched their fingers intertwine over the delicate shell. The intimacy of the gesture made my throat tighten. Dixon was back to the way he once was—gentle, caring, unable to hurt a fly.
"Careful," he murmured into her ear. "Like this." Dixon shifted his pelvis forward, proceeding to rub himself against Tessa’s ass while their hands moved in sync.
