by Anna Martin
“I love Bakewells,” Tristan said with a dreamy sigh. “So good.”
“Okay. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll be back.”
“You don’t want me to come with you?”
Henry shrugged. He did, but…. “I’ll only be gone a few minutes. Why don’t you just relax? E-mail your mom and say thank you for me, maybe.”
It was hard to explain how the people in the food world were more family to him than his own family, and taking Tristan around to his typical haunts would be like bringing him home to meet the parents. He’d met Millie a few times. That was enough pressure for now.
* * *
Henry’s favorite little specialty baking shop right off of Eighth had the almond flour Tristan’s mom’s recipe called for, and he grabbed two bags, just in case. He forgot how much the recipe called for, and he didn’t feel like making another trip later. He waltzed back to Tristan’s, barely able to keep himself from grinning openly at nothing and looking like a nutjob.
Back in Tristan’s kitchen, he dumped the supplies out of his grocery bags and set the iPad propped up against a bag of flour so he could read the instructions. Tristan immediately wrapped himself around Henry when his hands were empty and plastered his face with slobbery kisses. Henry laughed and pushed at him halfheartedly.
“You’re like a big puppy, aren’t you?”
“My mum says hi. She says you should teach me how to cook so I don’t starve to death or get scurvy from all the takeaway.”
Henry smiled. “I’m trying, although I don’t think dessert is what she had in mind.”
“I like dessert.” Tristan leered at him.
“I think we’ve established that.”
“I’m ready to learn. For real.” Tristan gave him an adorably sweet, sincere look. Henry had this moment where he pictured Tristan as a boy, and wondered how his mother had ever said no to him. He figured she rarely did.
“Okay, let’s take a look at this recipe.” He scanned over it again. “This really doesn’t look too bad. We can start with the pastry.” Tristan gave him a blank look, and he laughed. “Okay, come on. I promise, it’s easy.”
* * *
Even though Tristan had warned Henry how awful he was at cooking, Henry had thought in the back of his mind that Tristan couldn’t possibly be as bad as he claimed; he had to be exaggerating because, really, how hard was it to simply follow a recipe? Apparently, very hard. Tristan was absolutely, unequivocally terrible.
Henry thought his instructions were fairly clear—cut the butter into small cubes, then rub it into the flour. Henry did all the measuring himself, weighing the ingredients to make sure the recipe was followed correctly.
And still, Tristan ended up with butter in his hair and a streak of flour across his cheek.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Henry laughed, wiping the offending smudge away from Tristan’s face. “How did you manage that?” Tristan was so cute it wasn’t annoying. But he was going to have to remeasure the butter.
“I told you,” Tristan said with a pout. “I’m really bad at this.”
Henry quickly washed and dried his hands, then stood behind Tristan, pressing their bodies close together.
“You want to push the butter into the flour,” he said, his chin propped on Tristan’s shoulder. His hands reached around and guided Tristan’s, working a new batch of cold butter chunks into the flour. “I usually start by squishing each of the cubes down. Then just rub the butter between your thumb and fingers—like that! And use the flour to stop it sticking to your hands.”
From this close, Henry could smell the stuff Tristan used on his hair and the very faint sweat at the nape of his neck. It was nice, a clean, manly sort of smell. He also couldn’t help but notice how well his hips fit against the curve of Tristan’s ass, even if he could barely reach his chin over Tristan’s slouched shoulders. Very nice indeed.
Just making the pastry took nearly thirty minutes due to frequent, and necessary, kissing breaks and lots of tickling. Of course, Tristan didn’t have any cookie cutters, and seemed disproportionately impressed when Henry shrugged and used a wine glass to make the round discs instead.
“You really are good at this,” he said.
“Thanks. Hey, there’s a muffin tin in one of those bags, could you grab it for me?”
Henry gave Tristan the task of spreading butter in each of the indents on the tray, something he couldn’t possibly mess up.
“Okay. It doesn’t look like we need to blind bake these, which is good, because I don’t have any baking beads.”
“I didn’t understand a single word of that,” Tristan mumbled, and wiggled his greasy fingers in Henry’s direction. “Hey, did you ever see Last Tango in Paris?”
Henry snorted. “Yes. And you’ve got a dirty mind. Go wash your hands.”
The rest of the recipe was fairly straightforward—mixing up a sweet, almondy batter, layering first jam, then the almonds into the cases and sticking them in the oven to bake. After a few moments, a delicious smell started to fill the kitchen.
Tristan hoisted himself up into one of the high stools at the breakfast bar and sighed dramatically.
“Baking is tiring,” he said.
“You made a dozen tarts,” Henry said with a laugh. “I make about five hundred cookies a day. More on the weekend.”
“Baking is very tiring,” Tristan said emphatically. He blew his hair up out of his face. His forehead was sweaty, although for the life of him, Henry didn’t know why. It was too adorable to be irritating.
“Come here, you lazy ass, and help me do the dishes. You made a huge mess.”
“Washing up is even more tiring,” Tristan groaned, but slid down from his perch and took over the task of drying the bowls and utensils as Henry passed them to him.
Instead of taking a break, Henry immediately started work on his next creation—salted caramel macarons, to use up the rest of the almond flour and stop it from going to waste. And because they were his favorite. While he worked on the notoriously tricky macarons, Tristan made them tall glasses of lemonade, then took his seat again, watching Henry work.
When the tarts came out of the oven, Henry decided they looked pretty damn good, and had to smack Tristan’s hand away when he tried to take one straight out of the hot tray.
“Leave them to cool down. They need to be decorated.”
“Henry.” Tristan gave him a despairing look. “I’m going to eat the whole lot. You don’t need to decorate them.”
“I’m a perfectionist. It comes with the territory. Sit down.”
Tristan did as he was told, and with a little prompting, started a story about his childhood in Yorkshire. It was something Henry was desperate to know more about, though he didn’t want to push too hard. Their relationship—or whatever this was—was still in its early days. Talking about families and histories seemed almost too intimate. He still wanted to hear everything about Tristan.
Maybe someday soon, Tristan would hear everything about him too. He wasn’t quite ready for that yet. Henry’s family needed a bit of warm-up before they were sprung on some poor, unsuspecting guy. Even with warm-up, it hadn’t ever turned out well. Henry decided it was probably better to wait. Maybe forever.
While Tristan chatted, Henry experimented with different decorations to go on top of the Bakewells; flowers seemed too time-consuming, a simple dusting of confectioners’ sugar not enough.
In the end, he piped a simple zigzag design on top of each tart, and took a photo with his phone so he could replicate it in the bakery if they tasted as good as they looked. And smelled. He’d put the picture on the Honeyfly Instagram account too—a little teaser, to see what his customers thought of something different.
“Please,” Tristan said, leaning over the table and clasping his hands together. “Please let me have one. I’ll do anything. Please.”
“Sure,” Henry said, laughing, and pushed the tray across.
Tristan shoved half a Bakewell in his mouth at once and
groaned in pleasure. “S’good,” he mumbled. “Tastes like my mum’s.”
Henry took a bite of another—they were good. Sweet and sharp from the jam, a little chewy from the almonds. His chef’s mind was already churning with the possibilities—as well as the raspberry jam variety, he thought blackcurrant would work well, maybe blueberry too, or apricot.
“Really good,” Henry agreed.
“Good enough for Honeyfly?”
“Oh, for sure. Tell your mother I said thanks.”
“She’ll be chuffed to bits,” Tristan said. “One of her recipes used in a swanky New York bakery? She’ll love it.”
Henry was grinning as he leaned over and kissed Tristan, licking a speck of icing from his lips as he went. “What exactly does ‘chuffed’ mean?” He asked.
Tristan sighed. “Pleased. Really happy. She won’t be able to believe it.”
“You’ll have to take pictures.” Henry smiled. “If you don’t mind, I can even put your mom’s name on the card in the display case.”
Tristan chuckled. “She’ll probably faint on the spot.”
* * *
The macarons needed time to cool down before he could do anything with them, so Henry set the trays of freshly cooked shells on a counter and let Tristan lead him to the couch. He’d been itching to get his hands on him all morning, even if they had been doing a fair amount of underhanded groping. It still wasn’t the same as when he got to put his full attention to it. Henry leaned forward and gave Tristan a long, deep kiss. Tristan sighed when they pulled apart.
“I really like you,” he said. “It’s probably not very cool to say it, but I do.”
“You can say it. I don’t mind.” More than didn’t mind. Henry’s whole body reacted to that one little statement. “I really like you too. And people who try to be cool are boring.” Henry blew a raspberry into Tristan’s neck until he giggled.
It felt right to stretch out on the couch and make out while the scorching afternoon drifted into hazy early evening, fingers and lips exploring while the sweet treats sat forgotten on the bar. When Henry tugged Tristan’s shirt up, up, and off over his head with his exploring fingers, neither of them seemed to mind. In fact, it seemed particularly right for them to be shirtless, and Henry wasted no time in pulling his own off too.
Tristan ran his hands over Henry’s chest, lightly exploring the planes of muscle and soft, dark hairs. One fingertip caught against Henry’s nipple, and they both gasped softly.
“You want?” Tristan asked.
Henry caught a wrist and brought it down to his crotch, pressing the palm against the firm bulge in his pants. “Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “I’d say I do.”
Tristan tugged him to his feet and led them to the bed. It was cooler back here than in the kitchen, and Henry couldn’t help but admire Tristan’s creamy, soft skin dusted lightly with freckles. He seemed so much more laid back than most guys Henry had dated in New York—Henry would bet he’d never gotten his eyebrows waxed or spent a hundred dollars on a haircut.
There were no nerves when Tristan reached for Henry’s belt, unbuckling it and pushing the jeans down over Henry’s hips. They fell to the bed in a tangle of bodies, laughing and kissing and touching, and it was really, really good.
Henry kissed down the soft expanse of Tristan’s white belly, trim but not gym toned, and hesitated at the band of Tristan’s black boxers.
“Is this okay?”
“Yeah. Of course. Please.”
He peeled the tight shorts off slowly, and Tristan’s heavy cock sprung back against his belly with a soft thud. Tristan grinned like a cat and stretched his arms up over his head languidly. Like this, Henry could see all of him: soft belly, tight, pink nipples, the light hairs that covered his legs from ankle to midthigh.
“I’d forgotten. You’re—” Henry swallowed hard and rubbed his thumb just under the head of Tristan’s cock. “Not cut.”
“Hm? No. Hardly anyone in the UK is.”
“Oh. I think I knew that.”
“Does that matter?”
“Of course not.” Henry carefully pinched the extra bit of skin between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed it gently. “You should know, though, that I’m gonna spend hours playing with this.”
Tristan laughed, then groaned, then squirmed as Henry cupped his balls. “I think I’m okay with that.”
Although Henry was convinced he’d never get tired of playing with Tristan’s foreskin, he gently tugged it back and caught the head of his cock between his lips. Tristan groaned, and Henry felt like a god.
He was good at this, liked it too. There was something very empowering about making another man feel good, and there was nothing that made a man feel powerful like getting a really good blow job. Henry applied himself to the task, stroking and groping and squeezing the flesh that didn’t fit in his mouth. He flickered his tongue over Tristan’s thick shaft, and he bucked his hips a few times against the soft sheets, seeking out his own friction.
Tristan’s precome was a steady trickle as Henry sucked, and he swallowed it down eagerly.
“Shit,” Tristan gasped.
Henry moaned. His fingers pressed back behind Tristan’s balls and petted the sensitive skin there. A few moments later, with the combination of pressure from his tongue and fingers, Tristan bucked and came, spilling into Henry’s mouth.
Breathing hard, Henry pressed his cheek to Tristan’s hip and shoved his hand into his own shorts. He squeezed his dick hard, thumbing under the head and grunting as he spilled into his own fist.
“Holy shit.”
Tristan laughed and brushed his fingers through Henry’s hair. With supreme effort, Henry dragged himself up to rest his head on Tristan’s stomach.
“I would have returned the favor, you know,” Tristan said as Henry caught his fingers and brought them to his mouth for a kiss.
“I know. Next time.”
The thought that there would be a next time filled him with a new kind of warmth.
As night crept into New York, Henry kicked off his underwear and cleaned himself up quickly before resuming his place on Tristan’s chest. There was something particularly delicious about lying naked on soft sheets as the air around them cooled, drying the sweat on their bodies.
It was late, really late, when they finally rolled out of bed, and Henry finally returned to finish the macarons. He ended up staying the night, sleeping in Tristan’s bed, in Tristan’s arms. The cookies made an excellent breakfast.
* * *
Tristan started making it a habit to stop into Honeyfly for a coffee and a muffin most days on his way to work. Sure, it meant leaving the house a few minutes earlier than he was used to, and then a few minutes earlier again when he started taking the time to stop and talk to Millie or Rose.
He always paid for the coffee and pastry before ducking into the kitchen at the back of the bakery to say hello to Henry; Henry, who let him poke through the trays of cookies, and wouldn’t let Tristan leave until he’d sampled at least one. Most days, he left with another two or three tucked into a paper bag to eat at lunch or with his habitual afternoon cup of tea.
Taking the stock made Tristan feel a bit awkward, which was why he always paid before going to see Henry. He wasn’t a freeloader, even if Henry was mind-bogglingly rich.
The jingle from the bell over the door was welcoming, and Tristan took a deep breath of the cool, sweet, air-conditioned air as he ducked into the shop. At this time of the morning, most of the patrons were business people or students, and they were all after coffee from the huge machine on the back counter as much as the sweets.
Rose lifted a hand in greeting and finished serving before leaning on the counter to grin at him.
“So, what will it be this morning, then, Mr. Green?”
“Um….” Tristan scanned the display cases, and smiled. “A croissant? Please? And a latte.”
“No problem.” He handed over a crumpled five-dollar bill and waited for her nod before duckin
g behind the counter. “I’ll get this made up for you.”
“Thanks, Rose,” he said with a smile.
In the kitchen at the back, Henry was humming along with the radio, piping swirls of thick paste into dainty pastry shells.
“Are those Bakewells?” Tristan asked, coming up to stand behind Henry and resting his hand on Henry’s upper back.
“Yup.”
Henry stretched into the touch and kept his hands still as he tilted his head for a kiss. Tristan obliged with enthusiasm and rubbed comforting circles between Henry’s shoulders.
Since the weekend, things had changed subtly between them. They still spoke and texted as often as they had before, it was just that now things seemed a little more solid. Secure. The big “boyfriends” talk hadn’t come up yet, though when it did, Tristan knew what he wanted to ask for.
Henry grinned, his face giddy. “The first four dozen tarts sold out in an hour, Tris. People are going crazy over these things. I’ve got raspberry and blackcurrant ones on the go at the moment, and I think I’m going to start playing with other flavors later in the week.”
“Sounds good to me.”
As Henry continued to pipe the almond paste on top of the jam, Tristan stood behind him and rubbed his shoulders, feeling tight knots under the surface. Probably due to all the hunching over Henry did, he thought.
The tarts looked like Henry had refined them since their first attempt on the weekend; the pastry now had a neat, scalloped edge around the top of the shell, and Henry was applying the almond topping in a neat swirl instead of just dolloping it on top.
“Do you want to get dinner in the week?” Tristan asked.
“Sure. I’ll take you somewhere nice.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Sure I do. What’s the point of having a hot English boyfriend if I don’t get to show him off?”
There it was. The B-word. He tried not to let the happy shivers show. Tristan just grinned and kissed the back of Henry’s neck again.
