Page 104 of Puck Wild
"This is definitely going to require some cleanup."
"Worth it," he said, and kissed me again, deeper this time.
The front door slammed open with the subtlety of a freight train crashing into a building. Hog's booming voice erupted: "—don't care what your nutritionist sister says, Pickle. Banana bread is bread. Bread with fruit. That makes it basically a salad."
"That's not how nutrition works!" Pickle protested Hog's reasoning. "You can't just add bananas to sugar and flour and call it—oh."
They were suddenly silent.
I froze, Jake's hands still gripping my waist, with my legs still wrapped around his hips. They caught us in a flour-dusted compromising position.
Hog stood in the kitchen doorway, massive frame filling the entire space, holding what appeared to be a grocery bag full of baking supplies. His mouth hung open slightly as he took in the scene.
Behind him, Pickle bounced on his toes, trying to see over Hog's shoulder. "What happened? Did something explode? Why does everything smell like—" His eyes landed on the pie, and his entire face lit up like Christmas morning. "Ooh, pie! Why does it say Carter's Boyfriend's Pie? And more importantly, am I allowed to have some?"
Jake didn't change position. He turned his head just enough to meet Pickle's eager gaze. "Read the label, buddy."
Pickle blinked. "But it says—" Understanding dawned across his face like sunrise over Lake Superior. "Oh. OH. Carter's boyfriend. That's... that's you?"
"That would be me," Jake traced a firm circle with his thumb against my hip. It sent heat shooting up my spine.
"So the pie is..."
"Off limits. Yes."
Hog cleared his throat, a sound like a diesel engine turning over. "Right. Well. Kitchen's... occupied." He grabbed Pickle by the shoulder, steering him back toward the door. "Some of us have boundaries, Junior."
"But I want to know about the boyfriend thing!" Pickle continued his protests as Hog dragged him away. "When did that happen? Why didn't anyone tell me? Are you going to get matching jerseys?"
"Pickle."
"What? I'm just saying, this explains so much about—"
The door closed with a decisive click, cutting off whatever revelation Pickle was about to share.
Jake looked at me, flour in his eyelashes, mischief in his eyes. "Well. That went better than expected." He was smiling. It was the full Jake Riley grin: reckless, unrepentant, halfway to stealing a police cruiser for a joyride and inviting me to ride shotgun with him.
I couldn't look away.
He thumbed more flour off my cheekbone, then let both hands rest on my thighs, spread wide around his hips. "You realize, you're gonna have to do something about this." He gestured at the powdery mess, but the line of his gaze made it clear the real danger zone was south of my waist.
I tried to play it cool, but my mouth was dry. Sweat prickled under the flour on my neck. "I've seen you do worse."
Jake's hands slipped higher, skating up to the hem of my shorts. "You want to see worse?" His voice was low. "I can escalate."
"If you escalate, you're cleaning up, including the grout."
He kissed me hard, hands digging into the muscles above my knees. I held on because Jake Riley on open ice was a one-man breakaway, and I needed leverage.
He pressed forward, and I wound up splayed back against the counter, elbows bracing me. He tugged at my waistband and I helped, hips lifting, shorts and boxers sliding down together in a single, practiced motion.
Jake licked a stripe from my navel down to where my cock curved up, hard and already leaking. He sucked me in, deep, no warning, and I choked on a moan—loud enough that Pickle could have heard it through the fucking door.
I bit my lip, breathing hard, watching the mess of us—me dusted in flour, Jake on his knees, the two of us a study in desire.
I wanted to come, and I wanted to wait. I wanted to drag it out and have it last long enough that it vaporized the rest of the world.
It probably wasn't my choice. Jake knew what he was doing. He edged me right up to the brink and then pulled off, mouth trailing quick, biting kisses down my thigh.
