Page 59 of Cool for the Summer

“Well?” I’m more than a little nervous about his review.

He takes a much smaller bite, chews, swallows. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You did it. You made Aunt Sharleen’s molasses cookies. It’s likeRatatouilleover here, transporting me back to Christmas in Apple Vale, New York.”

I deflect from my relief and delight at his words by saying, “You’re from a place called Apple Vale? It sounds adorable.”

“You’d love it.” He takes another bite and moans. “Oh god, really, Beck. You did it. I love these.”

He loves the cookies. Am I greedy for wanting him to love me, too?

I take a cookie of my own and bite into it, savoring the toothsome texture, not too hard or too soft, just the right amount of chewiness. The spice is readily apparent, the heat a subtle undertone.

“How did you get the warm spicy flavor? It’s different from the other batches.”

“You have a good palate,” I say with approval. “It’s my secret ingredient. Black pepper.”

“No way,” he says, looking at the cookie as if he might be able to see the black flecks.

“I also upped the molasses content and changed the ratio of brown sugar to white sugar. No big deal.” I shrug modestly and take another bite. They really are delicious.

“Well, I think it is a big deal. Can I get a copy of the recipe to send to my sister? She’d probably like to have it.”

“Of course. I’ll put together a whole care package for her with some of the cookies and the recipe, too.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Donovan protests, snagging another cookie and knocking my hip with his. “You’ve already done enough.”

Right. That’s something a boyfriend would do. God. This is getting confusing. “Okay. Fine. I’ll email you the recipe.”

“Thanks.” Then I’m being kissed, thoroughly, with long sweeps of Donovan’s tongue. His mouth tastes like my creation, perfectly spicy-sweet. I open up to the onslaught, hearing him drop his cookie so he can wrap his arms around me, pulling me closer and pressing me into the counter simultaneously. “How else can I thank you?” he asks huskily.

My brain is offline, my body riding high on endorphins and sugar. “Fuck me,” I manage to get out.

“Right here?” he asks, slotting his thigh between my legs, letting me press myself against him to relieve some of the ache that’s ramping up at lightning speed.

We’ve never fucked in the kitchen. My flash of guilt at defiling this beautiful space is gone the second Donovan’s hand slips under the waistband of my shorts and finds its unerring way to my hole. “C-cleo,” I stammer. “L-lube.”

“Stay here,” he orders. His hand disappears and then he leaves me, panting, clutching the edge of the island. He whistles and herds Cleo into my room, dips inside and comes out, closing the door firmly behind him. He’s holding the bottle of lube that had formerly been standing at the ready on my nightstand.

He’s back in front of me before I can rethink this. “Turn around,” he says, so I do. Easy to follow directions when all I want is for him to be inside me. He lifts my shirt, and I obediently raise my arms so he can take it off. Then he pushes between my shoulder blades until I’m bent so far over that my chest grazes the cold marble countertop. I jerk at the sensation, but his hand holds me firmly in place.

It’s arousing as hell to be held there while he stands behind me, unzipping himself one-handed. A moment later I can hear the slap of a hand jerking off a bare, unlubed cock. I imagine him pushing into me like that, dry, and I clench at the imagined sting, the stretch. I know he won’t do it, but I’d let him if he wanted to. That’s how far gone I am.

He jerks himself while my own cock, full and aching, presses uselessly against the edge of the counter with no real relief. My hands can’t find purchase on the smooth surface, the cookie trays and drying racks out of my reach. I spread my fingers wide on the slippery marble as my entire body tenses with anticipation. Finally, his hand still a satisfying weight in the center of my back, he eases my shorts down along with my underwear and at last makes use of the lube by opening the cap one-handed, squirting it straight from the bottle over my crack. His thumb spreads it liberally over my hole, then pushes inside, making me grunt and stick my ass out farther.

“You want more?” he asks rhetorically, but I wiggle my ass in agreement, anyway. He repeats the process, squirting more lube, then stuffing it inside me with the thick, blunt pad of his thumb. The head of my cock bobs under the lip of the counter, in search of something wet and welcoming to sink into.

“More. Your cock,” I order desperately when he pushes a third load of lube inside me. “Now.”

I feel the tip of him prodding at my hole, but then he stops before giving me what I need. “Shit. I forgot a condom.”

I feel the hand at my back start to move away and I bark out, “It’s okay. Just—keep going.” I don’t want to move from this position until we’re both so fucked out we can no longer stand. “Please.”

He returns his hand to my back, and I practically sigh in relief. I hear the squirt of the lube bottle one more time, and then he’s pushing his way inside in one long stroke.

“Fuck,” I moan. He’s so deep I can feel his pelvic bones against the swell of my ass. Then he starts moving, and it feels so good, but I’m desperate for something around my dick. “Touch me, Donovan. Please,” I add, not above begging.

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