Claire stares at him, narrowing her gaze, then bursts out laughing.
Brody leans in, shoulder brushing hers as he smooths the surface of the batter and whispers something no one can hear but them. Her cheeks instantly blush, and I zoom in on them fora few seconds. Her laugh comes out too breathless this time, and I already know I’m keeping that in the cut.
She slides the pan into the oven, and the second the door closes, they launch into cleanup with the kind of frantic rush that only happens when two people are trying very hard not to keep touching each other. Bowls clatter. A spoon hits the floor. Brody wipes flour from Claire’s cheek and somehow manages to make it look less like cleaning and more like a warning.
The thirty seconds of actual tidying will be chopped from the final video. Brody cleaning her cheek and the way Claire stares afterward won’t be.
Then they hop up onto the island, sitting side by side, legs swinging. Damien crawls across both laps, settles on Brody’s thigh, then migrates to Claire’s. She scratches behind his ear and murmurs something to him I can’t catch.
Damien, loyalty spent, launches off her lap, knocks a measuring cup off the counter on his descent, and pads out of the kitchen. Seconds later, the studio door creaks, and he’s on the windowsill behind me, settling behind the curtain, his tail curling around his body.
I turn back to the screens, and the air between the pair has shifted. Brody says something low in her ear, and Claire bites her lip. His hand finds her knee while her fingers curl around his forearm.
Then they’re kissing hungrily, his hand cradling her jaw, her fingers twisted in the front of his apron. Brody on camera is all cockiness and charm. But Brody kissing Claire is someone else entirely. His thumb traces her cheekbone with a tenderness that has me holding the computer mouse way too tightly.
“Well,” I murmur to the empty room. “That’s not making the final cut.”
But I don’t stop watching.
The kiss deepens, her hand slides up his chest, over his bare shoulders, and she grips the back of his neck and drags him closer.
My blood is rushing south, cock throbbing.
Brody breaks the kiss, then leans close to her ear.
I don’t hear the words, but I see her reaction. Her head snaps toward camera one, eyes wide, cheeks flooding crimson. Both hands pressing to her face as a laugh bursts out of her, half mortified, half electric.
“What did you say to her?” I murmur to myself.
She stares at me through the screen, tucking her hair behind her ear and giving camera one a smile so shy and so devastating that I stop breathing.
“Fuck me,” I whisper.
Brody slides off the counter, standing between her knees. His hands grip her hips, drawing her to the edge. She wraps her legs around him, and they’re kissing again, harder this time. Her arms lock around his neck as his hands climb her back. The moans she unleashes travel through the speakers and through the studio walls and settle in the pit of my stomach with a heat so concentrated that my vision narrows.
I lean back in my chair, my hand dropping to my groin. My pulse is thick and heavy just like my cock right now, beating behind my ribs and behind my zipper, and every instinct is pulling me toward that kitchen, toward her. Except, there’s a power in watching this unfold. In being allowed to see.
Brody’s mouth finds her throat. She tips her head back, lips parting, and the sound she releases is raw and unguarded and echoes through the room and into my bones.
Her hands fumble with his apron strings. He helps, pulls it over his head, tosses it. He’s in jeans and nothing else, and her palms spread across his chest, fingers tracing muscle, and her face is flushed and open.
He pushes her dress higher. His fingers trace her inner thigh, slow, deliberate, and her hips shift on the granite. Her breathing has changed, visible now on-screen, her chest rising and falling quickly.
“That’s it,” I murmur, watching. “Let him take care of you.”
His fingers slide higher under her dress, and she’s shifting before he drags her pink panties down her legs. I’m breathing so fucking hard.
Brody pushes her legs wider and lifts them by her ankles, then has her feet propped up on the edge of the island in the middle of the kitchen. He pushes her skirt up, then looks down and gives a wolf whistle.
“Lie down for me,” he says, and she does just that, her body visibly trembling. His hands travel down her spread thighs, then he steps aside, giving me the perfect view.
“Fuck!” My cock throbs so hard I groan at seeing her laid out for me. Her inner lips glisten. They’re engorged, clear that she’s extremely turned on.
Brody gives me a look, directly in the camera, then winks my way as if to say,You’re welcome.
Asshole, whom I can’t thank enough. Still standing aside, with his back to me, his hand rushes back between her thighs, fingers pressing into her folds, pushing them wider, showing me that gorgeous hole. I’m stroking my cock over my jeans, knowing I’m going to lose control so fast.
Then he pushes two fingers into her, and my Omega gasps, her back arching, her hands flat on the counter surface. “Relax. I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
