He pushed his ass back on my tongue, and I feasted.

I only stopped when my balls drew up. With a soft peck to his pucker, I got to my feet, unzipped my pants, and pulled out my dick. I fumbled in the pocket of my pants, now around my ankles, to find my wallet and a condom, which I rolled on with all due speed.

“Hand me the butter,” I said in a voice that sounded more like Animal from the Muppets than my own.

“Hurry…get inside me…I’m so fucking close,” Kenan begged, sweeping his arms to the side to grab tight to the edge of the counter. The dish was a slippery mess of melted butter, but I made it work. I just poured the butter over my cock while Kenan rotated his hips in the most suggestive way I had ever seen in my entire life.

“Hold still,” I panted, slid a finger into him to add some slick, and then rubbed the head of my cock on his little hole. “Fuck, this is so…” I moved into him inch by inch, the feeling of his body tightening then relaxing to let me glide all the way in so amazing I forgot to finish my sentence. And many others that followed. “Shit, that’s…so tight and…yeah tighten…shit…damn it…Kenan baby.”

He met me thrust for thrust, arching back seeking more. The sound of skin smacking skin filled the kitchen. His cries grew louder, faster, and then he came without me touching him at all. His channel constricted around my dick. I drove in hard, pushing him over and into a baking pan that tipped over the side and hit the floor.

We’d get that one later too.

Right now, I was too busy pumping a load into the condom as I held his lean hips in place. A fire raced out from the base of my spine, turning the kitchen wobbly as I tried not to buckle. I wanted him to ride out his orgasm buried on my dick. And he did. Each glorious shiver of his release was felt by my cock.

“Holy hell,” I gasped when I could find my breath. I leaned down to rest my belly on his back. He turned his head. I licked awkwardly into his mouth, gripping him tightly as my balls emptied. “If anyone had told me…baking was this much fun…I would have shown up for all…those family sciences classes…in high school.”

“Same here,” he replied with a breathy chuckle. I kissed the corner of his mouth, his cheek, and his ear. I kissed his neck, his shoulder, and the nape of his neck. “Mm, damn, I love the afterglow of a good pounding.” I nipped at his earlobe, catching one of the hoops with my teeth and gently tugging it. “Know what I don’t like?” Uh-oh. Had I fucked him improperly? Shit. Shit. Shit. “Having to clean spunk off the front of the drawers.”

Oh. Phew. Okay. Yeah, that sucked. I looked around at the havoc our passion had wrought. Fuck. We had a major mess. And no gingerbread house was built.

“We’ll get that later. Are you okay?”

“Mm-hmm. We should bake more often.”

Maybe we would. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe we would bakeevery damn day.

Until he left, which was something I was refusing to think about. Guess I was just living day by day, no dwelling in the past and no stewing over the future. He was here now. So I’d have to enjoy each moment to its fullest as I blithely skipped through life. La-de-da. Look at Brann being chill. Yeah, I wasn’t buying it either.

Chapter Seven

“So exactly what is it supposed to represent, dear?”

I shot Kenan a look. The fire hall was packed with people and gingerbread artwork. Mrs. Prickett, the head of the Whiteham Christmas Fete Committee and co-chair of the gingerbread bake-off, was about a hundred years old, thin as a toothpick, and wearing a tinsel dress. She was also greatly befuddled over our,ouras in Kenan and Brann’s, entry. Our. A couple. Sort of. Maybe. Possibly. Ugh. I did not do uncertainty well.

“Well, it’s a nightmare scene fromSilent Hill,” I tossed out like spaghetti at the wall in hopes my explanation would stick. Mrs. Prickett blinked up at me through her thick bifocals. “Silent Hillis a scary movie.” I thought of delving into Pyramid Head and how the monster represents the protagonist’s guilt about murdering his wife, but this ho-ho-ho celebration hardly seemed the place. I mean, there were elves all over. And Mrs. Prickett did not seem to be the one to discuss such dark and possibly masochistic things with. She was older than dirt and wearing a tinsel dress.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” she replied with a weak smile as Kenan placed our terrifying attempt at recreating Graceland on a long folding table. The entry beside ours was Santa’s workshop, complete with little gumdrop reindeer and a fat marshmallow Santa. Fucking Wanda Wilkes. She always had to go that extra mile, or gumdrop Rudolph as it was. Good thing I didn’t own a dog because she sold the licenses at the courthouse, and I would be damned if I’d pay eight bucks to someone who was such a gingerbread exhibitionist. I could be cranky and spiteful. Ask anyone in town. They’d all agree.

“It was supposed to be Graceland,” Kenan politely tried to clarify, but that only made it worse. There was no resemblance to that grand estate that Elvis called home. Although the tiny blue shoes—globs of dough that we’d spray painted blue—that we had placed on the uneven front steps gave it a nice touch we had felt. Those little sapphire loafers were the only thing that could tie this monstrosity to the King. “But it ended up looking like the Addams Family house.”

“Oh, I remember that show. Such a lovely couple. Just like you two!” Mrs. Prickett beamed up at us. I stammered.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Kenan said and got a little pat on his arm from one of the four gingerbread judges before she rushed off to find a priest to bless the horror that was our bake-off entry.

“You don’t have to say that we’re a couple,” I quickly said as a group of unruly urchins raced past with bags of apples. Probably for the apple dunking booth the local Presbyterian church was manning under the American flag on the wall.

“Do you not want people to know that we’re together? If not, I’m afraid that ship has sailed, sugar.” He nudged me in the side and swept his hand outward. Every eye in the fire hall was on us. Eighty percent were smiling, and 20 percent were scowling. “I think they know where I’ve been sleeping and it ain’t in your office.”

“Swell.” I shot a glower at all the gawkers. Most looked away. Paula, another courthouse worker and a regular at the alehouse, stared hard at Kenan. When she noticed me looking at her, she smiled and then averted her gaze. “Why does that woman gawk at you all the time?”

“Maybe she’s never seen such a stunning Jew before?”

“Yeah, that tracks. Most in this town have probably never laid eyes on a Jew in real life.”

“Well Al knows about Adam Sandler so there’s that.”

And as it so often happens when you mention the devil who pops up?