Marcus reaches past me for the flour and somehow gets it on my nose. “Oops.”
“That was not an accident,” I accuse, but I’m smiling.
“Wasn’t it?” His grin is wicked as he leans in, his thumb wiping the flour away with exaggerated care.
The touch lingers, his calloused thumb tracing the curve of my cheek, and I watch his dark eyes drop to my mouth.
Adrian’s hands are still on mine, still guiding the spoon through the butter and sugar mixture, but his breathing has changed.
Deeper. More controlled.
Like he’s fighting for composure.
“I think it’s creamed enough,” I whisper.
“Is it?” His lips are close to my ear now, his voice dropping to dark and commanding. “Show me what comes next.”
I try to focus on the recipe, on adding eggs and vanilla, but it’s impossible with all three of them crowding close.
Every movement brings us into contact.
Adrian’s chest against my back. Marcus’s hip brushing mine. Elijah’s hand steadying the bowl while his fingers trace patterns on my wrist.
The flour gets added, and somehow Elijah manages to dust it across my collarbone. “I’m terrible at this,” he says, not sounding sorry at all.
“You’re doing it on purpose.” But I’m laughing, the domesticity of this moment making my chest tight with something that feels dangerously like happiness.
“Maybe.” He leans in, his mouth finding the flour on my skin, his tongue tracing a path that makes me gasp. “But you taste better than any cookie.”
Marcus groans, his hand tightening on my hip. “Dios mío. We’re supposed to be baking.”
“We are baking,” Elijah argues, but his mouth is still on my collarbone, working its way toward my throat.
Adrian’s control finally shatters.
His hands leave the spoon, sliding around my waist, pulling me back against him.
I can feel him hard against my ass, can feel the tremor running through his body as he fights himself.
“The cookies,” I try weakly.
“Forget the cookies.” Adrian’s voice is rough, desperate. His hands slide under Marcus’s shirt I’m wearing, finding bare skin, and I arch into his touch.
Marcus moves in front of me, his tattooed hands framing my face. “Tell us to stop.”
“Don’t stop.” The words escape before I can think. “Please don’t stop.”
That’s all the permission they need.
Marcus lifts me onto the counter, settling between my thighs while Adrian’s hands explore my body from behind.
Elijah’s mouth finds mine, kissing me deeply while his fingers work the buttons of the shirt I’m wearing.
The mixing bowl gets pushed aside, forgotten, as hands roam and clothes become obstacles.
“Eres tan hermosa,” Marcus murmurs against my neck, his teeth grazing my pulse point. “So fucking beautiful.”
Adrian’s hands slide higher, finding my breasts, and I gasp into Elijah’s mouth.
