My mouth waters, but it’s not for the coffee.
He's moving efficiently, hips shifting as he tamps the grounds, as he steams the milk, and those shorts. Jesus. The fabric pulls and his ass jiggles with every motion, giving me glimpses of things I shouldn't be thinking about before breakfast. The dimples at the base of his spine. The way his shoulders flex when he reaches for a cup. The sheer impossibility of how much muscle he's packed into that compact frame.
Jesus. Those shorts are lethal. And that ass is going to be my undoing.
I force my eyes away, staring at the countertop instead, and clear my throat. “You're doing a live this morning?”
Ryan turns, leaning back against the counter and folding his arms over his chest. The position does spectacular things to his biceps, his shoulders, the line of his throat. Behind him, the machine grinds fresh beans, the sound rich and mechanical.
“Yeah,” he says, “I got a lot of requests for weekend breakfast content, so I promoted a live 'Breakfast with Butters' segment for this morning.” He glances at the microwave, checking the time. “In about twenty minutes, in fact.” He nods toward the ingredients spread across the island. “You get to be the beneficiary.”
My stomach chooses that moment to rumble its approval. “Oh yea? What're you making?”
Ryan turns back to the espresso machine, retrieving the cup now full of dark, fragrant liquid. He walks over and slides itacross the counter to me, his fingers brushing mine as he pulls away. The coffee smells like heaven—rich and nutty and exactly what I need.
“Crepes with sliced strawberries and a strawberry coulis drizzle,” he says.
I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic and take a sip, letting the heat spread through me. “That sounds good. I haven't had crepes in ages.” I nod to the whipped cream can. “That's surprising, though.”
“Why?”
I shrug, playing it casual. “I just think your audience would expect fresh whipped cream from 'Chef Butters.'“ I use air quotes for the last two words, watching his reaction.
Ryan smirks, that cocky jock expression I’ve begrudgingly come to find adorable. “Someone's been paying attention.”
He picks up the can, tossing it lightly in one hand, catching it with the ease of an athlete who's spent years handling footballs. “I'm going to make fresh whipped cream, Spencester. But I'm going to show them the brand of canned I think comes closest to homemade. The holidays are coming up, and it's one less thing to make when you're already stressed about turkey and stuffing and relatives judging your life choices.”
He flips the can again, catching it behind his back, showing off. “Plus, Anthony wants me to sneak little brand mentions in here and there to attract sponsors for this new career venture. Can't hurt to start building those relationships early.”
I nod, genuinely impressed. “That's actually smart.”
Ryan sets the can down and leans forward, resting his forearms on the counter. He starts tapping at the iPad, pulling up apps, checking his setup, and I watch in mounting agony as he settles into a comfortable stance. He's bent over the counter, ass presented like an offering, and as he types and swipes and adjusts settings, he's absently wiggling his hips. Side to side. Alittle circle. Like he's got a song stuck in his head and his body can't help but move to it.
The shorts ride up higher. The muscles in his back shift and flex. The dimples above his waistband taunt me with every sway.
I can't breathe. I can't think. I can't sit here for one more second and pretend I'm not about to explode.
I stand up and walk into the kitchen.
Thirty-Five
Virtual Insanity
Ryan
There. Everything's set. All I have to do is click a button on my fancy keyboard and I'm live on VidVu. After I put on some clothes, of course.
I glance at my tablet, double-checking the settings, when I see Spence rise from the barstool. His eyes lock onto mine, a heated gaze that sends a shiver down my spine. He rounds the island, stalking towards me, his silk lounge pants tented obscenely. My heart races as he grabs my wrist, pressing my hand onto his hard dick.
I groan, “Spence, I have to—"
He presses two fingers against my mouth, silencing me. “Shh,” he whispers, leaning in close, lips brushing my ear. “I'll be quick, but I need to try something.”
His tongue swipes my earlobe, and my brain goes blank. He pushes me down until my chest is flush against the cool marble counter. My shorts are yanked down, my hard dick already leaking, smearing precum on the cabinet. I can't see Spence, but I feel his hands trailing down my body, grabbing a handful of my ass.
“Your ass is so sweet. My good boy,” he murmurs.
I arch my back, presenting myself to him. The sound of a whipped cream can is unmistakable.
