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Casey squinted at the tarts. “I can’t… The gray glass makes it hard to tell the actual color.”
Dev handed Casey a potholder. “Then open the door and take a look.”
When Casey twisted to glance up at Dev, a frown pleating his brow, his T-shirt rode up, exposing a strip of skin above the waistband of his skinny jeans, and oh, hello, he was wearing purple underwear. Dev’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
“You can do that?” Casey asked.
“W-why not?”
“Won’t all the heat rush out? I thought once you shut the oven door, you couldn’t open it or”—he flapped his hands—“death and untold destruction would ensue.”
Dev’s chuckle was a little strained as he attempted to keep his gaze from straying to the curve of Casey’s ass and that tantalizing strip of skin. He has freckles there too. “There aren’t a lot of dishes that will be totally ruined if you open the oven to check on them. Popovers, maybe. Some souffles. Sure, the temperature in the oven will drop a bit, but these are rustic tarts, remember? There’s no leavening in them, nothing to fall. And if the browning is a little uneven, who cares?”
“This is so weird,” Casey muttered. When he stood, the hem of his T-shirt caught on his waistband as though to tease Dev with what it revealed—Casey’s ass—and what it concealed—that freckled skin. “It’s like going against everything my father ever told me.”
“From what you’ve said, it’s not like he told you much. Go ahead. Just be careful not to burn your hand.”
Casey shot him a look. “Despite all evidence to the contrary, I’m not a total klutz. Trust me. I learned all about oven mitts and potholders at a very early age.” He brandished the potholder and opened the oven door, releasing the aroma of browned pastry, then pulled out the rack and peered at the tarts.
Their rims were nicely golden, winking with flecks of raw sugar, and the peaches glistened with released juices. “Here.” Dev grabbed a spatula and lifted the edge of one tart. “Nice and browned on the bottom, too. I think they’re good to go.”
With a look of near awe on his face, Casey lifted the pan and set it on a cooling rack. “Wow. I can’t believe it. They’re so… so approachable.”
Dev lifted an eyebrow. “Approachable?”
“Yeah. Friendly food. So much of what my dad created was about impressing the diners, wowing them, implying that the dish was classier than they would ever be.” He grinned up at Dev. “These tarts are definitely non-judgmental.”
Dev laughed. “I don’t think I’d ever want to face judgmental food.”
“Then it’s a good thing you never ate at one of my dad’s restaurants. God knows I wish I never had.” Casey’s grin turned mischievous. “Can we taste one?”
“Usually we’d wait until they cooled a little more. They’ll probably burn your mouth.”
“So I’ll blow on them.” Casey’s gaze darted away and he blushed. “But I don’t want to wait.”
Dev shrugged. “Okay. But let’s transfer them off the pan first. Then at least the others can be cooling while we singe our tongues.”
Casey pointed to the spatula. “You do it. I’m afraid I’ll drop it and then it’ll all be for nothing.”
“I thought you said you weren’t a total klutz?”
“No fair tossing my words back at me.” Casey fairly danced in place. “I don’t want to take any chances, that’s all.”
So Dev moved three of the tarts onto the cooling rack and the fourth onto the cutting board. With a chef’s knife, he cut it in quarters and nudged one of them toward Casey.
“After you. Don’t burn your fingers.”
Casey ignored him, picking up his piece and shifting it quickly from hand to hand as he blew on it.
Fuck. Casey’s puckered mouth was more delectable than any tart could be. Dev snatched up his piece, counting on the heat on his palm to derail the heat in his dick.
Casey took a bite, then rounded his lips and sucked in air, cheeks hollowing, which made Dev shove his piece in his mouth too because that’s what Casey would look like with his mouth around Dev’s dick. The burn on his tongue didn’t ease the tightness in his groin, though, and the look of bliss on Casey’s face just made things worse. Or better, depending on whether Dev could ever do anything about it.
“Oh,” Casey breathed, his eyes closed. “This is the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.” He opened his eyes, so bright and full of wonder. “And I made it. We made it.” He popped the last morsel into his mouth, eyes closed again. “Mmmm.” Then he met Dev’s gaze, blurted, “Thank you,” and threw himself into Dev’s arms.
Casey’s mouth on his, lips soft and a little sticky with peach juice, was sweeter than anything Dev had imagined. But before he could wrap his arms around Casey and soothe both their tongues with a little mutual massage, Casey leaped back, clapping his hands over his mouth.
“Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to— You probably don’t want— And anyway, I should have asked.”
