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To tease her, I bob up and down a little, letting my ass bounce in a tiny twerk for her viewing pleasure.
She giggles, shaking her head. “Fat? No. Unless you mean phat with the ph. It’s perfection. I stay up late at night dreaming about your cake. The scriptures foretold of this sweet, fluffy, heavenly cake. Mmm. Fuck, I love your cake.”
My cheeks burn at this bizarre flattery. “Stop, Mia.”
This is quite possibly the strangest compliment anyone has ever been given. In the middle of the night, no less.
But she’s not done.
“Betty Crocker herself couldn’t bake a cake like this.” She grabs my ass cheeks and squeezes. Hard. “This is a dumpy for the ages. You have to let me frost it.”
Her squeezing turns to soft caresses, drawing a tempered groan from me.
My dick, which was already half-hard, stiffens more, thanks to her hands on my body.
Our eyes meet in the mirror. Her breathing grows louder, raspier.
Without warning, I spin and grab her around the waist, pulling her flush against my front. Her hands fall to my chest, and her lips open enough for her pink tongue to peek out, tempting me to have a taste.
“Okay, I get it. You like my ass. Point made. But I still don’t enjoy cake. I’m not a six-year-old at a birthday party.”
“Well, what do you like? What dessert do you think is better than cake?”
Are we talking about dessert? Because that was loaded with innuendo.
Pressed close together, we greedily soak up the moment and each other. I study the smattering of freckles dotting her cheeks and nose. The flush on her skin and the sparkle in her green eyes, so expressive they tell stories of their own. The pillowy, full lips, slick from the innocent swipes of her tongue. The curve of her nose and how it turns up at the end. The barely there wrinkles at her temples. The laugh lines surrounding her mouth, pronounced since she’s smiling. And the more she laughs— that addicting, captivating, boisterous, atrocious excuse for a laugh— the more those lines will deepen.
She should be laughing all the time.
I want to be the one that makes her smile and laugh and all the other fucking enchanting things she does when she’s happy.
“No answer for me?” she asks, and I have to rewind the last few seconds in my mind to see what she asked.
Ah, yes. She asked about my favorite dessert.
“Pie.”
She licks her lips again, and I can’t keep my hands off her face any longer, so I cup her cheek and let my thumb linger at the corner of her mouth.
“Pie?” she asks.
“Pie,” I restate as I bring my lips closer. “I love pie.” The words are a whisper, and although I’m answering honestly about my sweet tooth, I’m also talking about something else entirely.
Her gaze flits from my eyes to my mouth, and her voice grows breathier. “Any type of pie? Or one pie in particular?”
She drags her palms over my pecs and up my shoulders, then wraps them around my nape. Her touch electrifies me.
“Mmm. All pie is enjoyable.” I place a kiss along her jaw. “Cream pies. Cherry pies.” A kiss on her pulse point and another under her ear. “Apple. Crumb. Lattice.” Three more kisses, moving from one side of her neck to the other. “Meringue. So many delicious options.” I draw my tongue along the points of her collarbone. “And I like some pies more than others.” I bring my lips to the other side of her chin. “But even bad pies are better than cake.”
With my face hovering in front of hers, I catch her gaze, noting the hooded look in her eyes. All that heat matching my own.
I loosen my hold on her cheek and tuck a loose red lock behind her ear, then bring my mouth in close. Instead of kissing her like we both want, I turn at the last second, moving toward her ear instead.
She exhales sharply, a sultry pout. “Had an-any good pie recently?”
With the tip of my tongue, I lick the outer shell of her ear, making her visibly shudder.
“One stands out above the rest,” I confess.
