He’s definitely not wrong.
We both drift into the back.
The air is still warm back here from the ovens running all day.
We’re standing close enough now that I catch his familiar scent, woodsy and clean.
It wraps around me and makes it very hard to focus on anything else.
His gaze flicks toward the stainless-steel fridge then back to me with an expression that’s just shy of a smirk. “You ever use any of this stuff for extracurricular activities?”
My lips twitch. “You mean…have I ever had sex with frosting involved? No.”
“Wanna change that?” he teases, clearly already imagining it and building the scene in his head.
My pulse jumps. “I’m intrigued by what you have in mind.”
That’s all the encouragement he needs.
He pulls open the fridge door, his hand disappearing inside before emerging with a tub of whipped cream.
There’s a mischievous glint in his eye now, and now that it’s paired with the slow kind of grin that tells me I’m not getting out of here without being covered in it.
He holds the tub up. “Whipped cream. A total underappreciated classic.”
I cross my arms, pretending to be unimpressed even though my body is already responding. “Don’t you think that’s a little stereotypical?”
“No way,” he says, stepping closer, “and I bet it’ll become your new favorite.”
He peels the plastic seal from the tub, tossing it aside, and dips two fingers into the pillowy white cream.
My eyes track the movement.
When he holds them up, he murmurs, “Open.”
When I part my lips, he leans in slowly, slipping his fingers in just enough for the cream to melt on my tongue.
I close my mouth around his fingers instinctively.
His breath hitches.
Close like this, I notice it immediately, while his eyes drop to my mouth, looking memorized by the sight.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Definitely will be my favorite.”
He slides his fingers free, slow enough to make my stomach clench, and reaches for the tub again.
This time, instead of offering it straight to me, he swipes the cream along the inside of his wrist.
I swallow. “Really?”
“Really.” He tilts his head toward me, a silent challenge.
I step in, closing the last bit of space between us, and take his wrist in my hand.
My lips brush his skin before my tongue does, catching the sweet cream taste first, then the warm, faintly salty taste of him underneath.
“Holly…” My name is mixed with a groan.
