I just want her. And, fuck, I want her to desire me just as much. I replay how it felt to slide my hand inside her pants the night of our privateCelebrity Chatscreening party. How her smooth, bare pussy lips felt beneath the pads of my fingers. Her wetness slicking over me as I played with her clit until she soaked me. She pretends that she doesn’t want me, but I’ve replayed that memory in my mind every night since she’s moved in, using it to my advantage while I jack off alone in my room. Her body didn’t lie.
She fucking wants me. I want her. With any other woman, I would have made the big moves already. But now that we live together and have this official arrangement going, I know I have to tread lightly. Be more sensitive. My usual tactics don’t apply here, because unlike other women, I can’t kick Brooklyn out in the morning.
Still. Something has to give before she sees a side to me that she definitely won’t like. So in the interest of maintaining harmony, I’ve done my best to keep my distance.
Until today. It’s only 10 a.m. and I’m already strung tight. I agreed to come with her to the wedding cake tasting she arranged solely to keep her happy, but now that we’re sitting here, I’m over it. I’ve left the wedding planning entirely to Brooklyn, mostly because I can’t handle being near her all the time, but also because it requires attention to details that, frankly, I don’t give a shit about. I might have more patience if I wasn’t horny and on edge, but I doubt it.
Venue? Who cares?
Colors? Fuck off.
Music? Nope.
I’ve given very little input into any of it, trusting my sister and Brooklyn and a team of professionals to work it all out. Me? I care about the honeymoon, and the wedding night we’re probably not going to have. Let me planthat. I swear, it would be a night neither of us would forget. My body tenses at the thought of her in scant lingerie, leaning over the balcony of some five-star resort on a private island where I could fuck her anywhere, anytime.
“Sit, sit!” Our consultant is back with a round of samples, playfully scolding Brooklyn—who’s still wandering around the place while I fight my urges here at the table.
Brooklyn scurries over, slips out of her denim jacket, and drapes it over the back of her chair. As she slides into her seat, I do a double take at how her breasts fill out the soft, cropped sweater she’s wearing, her dark skinny jeans accentuating the curve of her hips. She’d been so intent on ignoring me this morning that I’d given her space and didn’t take the time to notice how perfectly her outfit hugs her body.
Big mistake.
“Thank you so much for having us, April,” Brooklyn gushes. “I’ve always loved this bakery. I’ve posted tons of your little cakes on my Instagram.”
The woman—April—places a hand over her heart and smiles broadly. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that. Word of mouth is the best advertising we can get in this industry.”
She runs through the list of things we’ll be sampling then, explaining ingredients and fillings in such detail I can barely keep up. We’ve reserved an hour and a half for the tasting, and judging by the samples laid out on the table next to us, April has really pulled out all the stops.
Brooklyn is eyeing the dishes with the same hunger I feel each time I look at her. I envy the cake. It’s about to get some serious action from that pretty mouth of hers. An appreciative little moan rolls from her throat and it captures my full attention. I want to hear that sound when we’re naked and my cock is deep inside her.
“Do you smell that lemon buttercream?” she asks, her eyes suddenly locking on mine.
“Uh, yeah,” I say, though my mind couldn’t be further from the frosting.
April smiles, delighted. “There’s nothing artificial in that, dear. We use fresh Meyer lemons, local butter, and organic cream. It’s so rich and decadent, it practically melts in your mouth. Would you like to try that first?”
“Yes, please!” Brooklyn says. She’s so damn excited I can’t help being amused.
Moving a small dish of frosting from the tray over to our table, April hands us two silver tasting spoons. “I’m going to have you try the frosting and cake samples separately, and then some of our favorite combinations together. We can combine anything you like, of course.”
Brooklyn dips her spoon into the frosting, smells it, and grins before taking a small bite. She makes that sound again and closes her eyes, sucking the remainder off the spoon, taking it all into her mouth. I realize how intently I’m watching her, but I can’t force myself to look away.
“Oh, my. That isdelicious.” She cocks her head at me. “Aren’t you going to try some?”
I’m holding my spoon in the air, too busy watching her have a mouth orgasm to remember to get my own sample. I take a bite, barely tasting it in my eagerness to watch Brooklyn try something else. “It’s fine,” I say, much to the women’s obvious disappointment.
A lot of descriptions get thrown around after that—espresso ganache, Swiss meringue, white chocolate whipped cream—but all I can focus on is how much I want to see my fiancée enjoy each one. I tell her they’re all great, and that the choice is hers.
We finish with the toppings and move on to cake. The samples are cut into small squares and though we’re given slender little forks to use, I pick up the first sample with my fingers. It’s red velvet, not my favorite, but the anticipation on Brooklyn’s face makes up for it. She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue and eyes me curiously. She leans in and my pulse starts to race at the thought of popping the treat between her lips, feeling her mouth brush against my fingertips.
Her gaze falls to my hand as she breaks a piece of the cake off for herself, denying me the pleasure of feeding her. Holding back my disappointment, I eat the rest myself, watching her as she starts to reach for another square—spiced something. Quickly, I pick it up first and offer it to her, holding it near her mouth, making my intention very, very clear.
“Open up,” I coax, my gaze fixing on hers.
A pulse beats between us as she slowly opens her mouth. Before I can press the cake to her lips, though, she pulls it out of my fingers and eats it. She chews slowly, making me watch her savor it, and when she’s done, she licks her fingertips to get every last drop of flavor. Then she flashes me a saucy smirk.
“So good,” she says, practically purring.
There’s no doubt in my mind now. She’s denying me but teasing me at the same time. Punishing me for something. And I’m eating it up.
