“I need you wider, Jocelyn,” he said. “I need your pussy wide open and taking me.”
“Oh God,” she whimpered.
He grasped her knee and brought it up. The table was too high to rest it on the edge, so he just held it, surging deeper into her body.
“Step stool,” she gasped.
“What?”
“Under the table. Stool.”
He paused. Somehow. Unbelievably. He felt underneath the edge of the table with his foot and located the leg of what must have been a stool. He pulled it out by hooking his foot around it. Sure enough. It was a little wooden stool that would boost her up about three inches. It looked more decorative than functional. But he wasn’t picky at the moment.
Jocelyn reached back, grabbing his ass. “Don’t leave me,” she said. Then pressing into him, she stepped up onto the stool.
She put her own knee on the edge of the table.
“Oh wow,” she gasped.
She was spread wide and Grant nearly lost it. She really was going to do whatever he told her. And she was going to trust him for all of this.
“You’re… amazing,” he told her.
“Keep going, Grant,” she told him, gripping the edge of the table again.
“My fucking pleasure.” He gripped her hips and drove deep.
She moaned and pressed back against him. He did it again.
“Yes!” she called out.
“Come for me,” he demanded.
She reached for her clit, circling it as he continued to thrust, and a minute later he felt her pussy clamp down, and her cry was an even louder, “Yes!”
He picked up the pace, thrusting into her hard and deep until he let go, his release rushing through him.
Gasping, Jocelyn slumped onto the table and Grant pulled out, still gripping her hips. He tipped his head back and worked on sucking in oxygen.
His thoughts stopped spinning a minute later and he focused. He ran his hand over her flour-covered ass. “Yep, that is really pretty.”
She giggled. “I am going to get so horny every time I bake in here now.”
“Good.” He didn’t know why he said that. Why was that his first reaction?
He wanted her thinking of him whenever she came into her kitchen? Why? This was a one-night fling. Maybe a couple-weeks-long fling. She was a small-town baker. A sweet small-town baker who wore pink sundresses and was attached to an old house in her hometown that was very far from Chicago. She was not his type. It was cruel of him to want her thinking of him all the time after he left.
But even as he moved to the sink to deal with the condom and clean up, he couldn’t deny that seeing his handprints on her, knowing that she trusted him, thinking that chocolate cake might always make her think of him, definitely made a surge of something go through him.
Something that was probably best labeled I was right to not eat her cupcakes.
5
Somehow Josie managed to push herself up from the table.
She didn’t want to move. She’d never felt this good in her entire life. She never wanted these blissful waves of thank-God-bodies-could-do-that-to-each-other to fade. She never wanted to use this tabletop for anything but what she and Grant had just done.
And that was saying a lot because she loved all the things she did with flour, sugar, and butter.
But now that she’d had sex with Grant Lorre, she was never going to love anything more.
And that had been sex. Hot, dirty, take-over-every-sense sex. The kind she’d always hoped was possible. It hadn’t been, so far, in her love-slash-sex life. But she’d held out hope. She was, after all, an eternal optimist. That didn’t have to just apply to the state of world politics and her ability to save even the worst cake fails.
She hadn’t officially named her side business where she baked for overworked moms who’d forgotten they had to provide dessert for the next day’s office potluck or kid’s class party. Or those who didn’t have time to bake four-dozen anything. Or those who were just not good at baking, period. She was unofficially known in the circles she helped as Bakery 9-1-1. She loved that.
She’d met women in the gazebo at the park to give them their goodies.
On Tuesday, she’d met Travis, a divorced dad, on the seventh hole on the golf course—the one with the most trees—with three-dozen caramel-stuffed Rice Krispie treats. She’d helped him take them from the box and put them into his own plastic containers and even brought extra caramel to put on his shirt so that he could be his son’s hero at the birthday party at his ex’s house.
She’d met Nancy, a fifty-something corporate executive, behind the nursing home last Saturday. Josie had handed off a strawberry shortcake made with Nancy’s mother’s recipe for her mother’s eightieth birthday. Nancy had needed that cake to be perfect. She just hadn’t had the time to make it.
Josie was happy to help.
All of those people had the best intentions of doing it themselves. They wanted to take the time and put the effort into making something special for people they cared about. But time worked against them. Or their lack of experience. Or their lack of the right equipment—like a big enough mixer to handle the job or the right ruffle decorating tip. Or their realization at midnight that they didn’t have enough eggs.
So Josie’s personal cell number had gotten passed around. She liked being able to help those people have the special goodies they needed without the stress and hassle that sometimes came with making it themselves. She didn’t mind if they passed her treats off as their own.
Besides, word was getting around. She’d actually had to hold back on those Iron Man cupcakes to make it at least a little believable that Travis had made them. That had been difficult for her. She’d had some really cute ideas for them. But a simple vanilla cupcake spread with red icing and a yellow mask—that she’d had to redraw twice to make it worse—in the middle had had to suffice.
As she forced herself upright and smoothed her hair back, she heard the water running in the sink behind her. Grant was cleaning up, and she should do the same, she supposed.
She looked down. And giggled.
Her front was covered with chocolate and flour and sugar. She knew her back was similarly messy. Her body tingled as she thought about how all of that had gotten on all of those places.
She’d suspected things would be hot between her and Grant the second he’d kissed her. Hell, she’d been the one thinking about his naked body and cheesy potatoes and marshmallow fluff—not together—so combining food with sex had seemed inevitable. But this cleanup was going to require a shower.
She grabbed for her apron, rather than her clothes, and slipped it over her head, tying it at her back.
Grant turned from the sink and stooped to grab his boxers, but he froze as his gaze landed on her.
His mouth turned up in a slow, sexy smile. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
She loved his smile. She also really loved his gruff voice and the way he was looking at her.
“I’m thinking that if we did something like this at Buttered Up, we could increase sales,” she said, doing a little turn.
“Don’t even think about it.”
His voice was firm, and he was frowning when she faced him again.
Her brows went up. “No?”
“No.” Again firm. And serious. He jerked his boxers up.
He didn’t seem to be kidding around. “I was just joking,” she said. She thought that was really an unnecessary clarification to make.
“I know.” He was still scowling.
“Are you okay?”
“The idea of you… showing anyone any of… you,” he said, seemingly at a loss for words as he tried to explain. “Makes me… irritable.”
That wasn’t funny, exactly. Still, she laughed. He frowned harder.
“Grant, there’s no way I’d go to the bakery like this.”
He grabbed his pants and yanked them on. He drove a hand through his hair, let out a breath, then focused on h
er again. Shirtless, his hair disheveled, his pants unzipped and loose, he looked so sexy she sighed.
“No,” he agreed about the apron-only idea at Buttered Up. “But you might wear that here for someone.”
She studied his face. What was going on? “I guess. Maybe.”
“And that makes me… irritable.” He paused before that last word again. As if that wasn’t quite the word he was looking for. Or as if he was avoiding that word, possibly.
Josie didn’t know what word he was thinking, but she liked that he didn’t like the idea of her here with someone else. She stepped close and put a hand on his chest, rubbing in a little circle. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”
“Never have sex with anyone else.”
That wasn’t what she’d been expecting. “Um. Ever?”
“Ever.”
“I thought you didn’t want to stay in Appleby.”
“I don’t.”
“So that would mean no more sex at all for me?”
He nodded. “Except for the times when I visited.”
She gave him a little smile. “You’re good, Grant. You’re very good. But unless you’re visiting here several times a week, I don’t think you’re good enough to keep me satisfied indefinitely.”
He gave a little growl at that, and her inner muscles tightened in response. Yeah, she was going to need a lot more of everything he had to offer. And not long distance or over the phone.
“But I’m very happy to give you full access to my… kitchen… for as long as you’re here,” she said with a grin and what she thought sounded like a pretty saucy tone.
He nodded. “And no one else.”
She widened her eyes. “Of course not.” Okay, she’d been pretty bold tonight, at times, but she was a one-man-at-a-time kind of girl. In fact, a one-man-at-a-time-with-lots-of-time-in-between-men kind of girl, actually.
“Good.”
Wow. That sounded… possessive.
She liked it.
Also wow.
“I think I need to go,” he said after studying her for a long moment.
“Enough kitchen time for one night?” She sensed there was something else going on. He wasn’t leaving because he was done with her. He was leaving, maybe, because he wasn’t.
“I basically want to throw you over my shoulder, take you to bed, and stay there for a month or two,” he said.
“So you’re leaving instead,” she clarified.
“Right.”
“This is like the reason you didn’t ask me out.”
“Right.”
She got to him. Somehow, for some reason, she—little Josie Asher of Appleby, Iowa—got to this guy. She was making him act out of character. Apparently. And feel things he wasn’t used to feeling.
Her mouth curved into a wide smile.
He lifted a brow.
“Okay,” she said. “You can go.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You look very smug suddenly.”
She nodded. “I’m feeling smug.”
“About?”
“Scaring you.”
He frowned. “You don’t…” But he didn’t finish the sentence. He took a deep breath. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Will you?” She wasn’t sure how far and for how long a guy like Grant might run from something he was afraid of.
She felt herself smiling again. Yeah, she liked that she shook him up. It was all just a feeling she had about a feeling she thought he maybe had—so, obviously, nothing tangible or even confessed-out-loud—but the fact that Grant was acting possessive while also claiming that he hadn’t wanted to ask her out because it would have made him want to stay, all made happy bubbles of emotion fizz through her body.
That was damned romantic.
He might be fighting the feelings, but he was having them.
She liked that a lot.
He nodded. “You’ll see me tomorrow.”
She grinned. “I thought you kind of thought you should stay away.”
He sighed. “Yeah.”
“So…” She trailed off on purpose, really wanting him to fill in that blank.
He hesitated for just a second, then he backed her up against the island where they’d just been very friendly, braced a hand on the counter next to her, and leaned in. “So…” he said, his voice low and husky. “Now that I’ve had a taste of your cupcakes, I have no chance of staying away.”
That was exactly what she’d wanted him to say. Or a very nice variation of it anyway. She looped her arms around his neck and went up on tiptoe, pressing her lips to his. He didn’t move his hands or lean in any closer, but he kissed her back thoroughly.
When she pulled back she said, “I like your cupcakes a lot too, Grant.”
He gave a short huff of laughter. “My cupcakes? That’s not very manly.”
She arched into him, pressing against his cock that was already hardening again. “Your Yule log?” she asked, then giggled.
He growled and kissed her again, deeply and hungrily. When he lifted his head, she was breathing hard. “I’m going to go,” he said firmly. “But I’ll be thinking about your cream filling all night.”
Her eyes widened for just a moment. That was surprisingly dirty. And funny. And hot. “I hope so,” she told him honestly.
Lord knew she was going to be lying in bed thinking about him. She loved the idea that it would be mutual.
Grant grabbed his shirt, donned his shoes, and headed for the back door with a final, “’Night, Jocelyn” as he paused at the threshold. Then he was gone.
Josie gave what could only be described as a swoony sigh as the screen door slapped shut behind him.
She surveyed her kitchen. It was a disaster. And it made her smile.
Then, still wearing only an apron, she pulled the frozen cookies out to thaw for Karen for the next day and she went to work baking cupcakes for Grant. Very special cupcakes. Just for him.
“Is this a pussy cupcake?”
Dax was standing in front of the bakery box Grant had set on the table in Aiden’s office. Dax had just lifted the lid to check out the goodies.
Grant crossed the room quickly. He looked down into the box.
Of pornographic cupcakes.
His mouth twitched.
Jocelyn had baked him cupcakes. Especially for him, or so she’d said when she’d grinned at him as if she’d never been happier to see anyone in her life and handed over the bright yellow Buttered Up bakery box.
He’d been downright dazzled by that smile. He’d had a hell of a time falling asleep after leaving her, and he swore, even after a shower, that his skin still smelled like chocolate cake. And Jocelyn.
Then he’d walked into the bakery, and her face had fucking lit up when she’d seen him. He couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at him like that. He did get a lot of admiration and general gratitude from the women who attended his financial seminars. But this had been different. He hadn’t helped Jocelyn pay off her credit cards or refinance her house. He’d just laughed and fucked and had fun with her.
And she’d looked at him like seeing him had made her entire day.
Damn. That had jabbed him right in the chest.
He’d still been thinking about it when he’d taken the box of cupcakes and headed for the office. He’d still been thinking about her. And how eager he’d been to see her too and how much he wanted to carry her into the kitchen and take a nice deep taste of her. Her mouth. Her breasts. Her pussy.
Yeah, her actual pussy had definitely been on his mind. Which was why he hadn’t looked inside the bakery box—where she’d given him another sweet, sticky, delicious pussy to start his day—before bringing them in to share with the guys.
He’d figured he wasn’t going to be able to eat six cupcakes anyway, and he’d looked forward to the guys wondering why Jocelyn had made him special cupcakes.
That was pretty obvious now. But how could he have expected the woman who made caterpillar cupcakes
to make him sexual cupcakes?
There were six. Two were breasts, complete with hard nipples. One was a mouth. One was a butt—with a flour handprint on it. He really liked that. One was an erect penis. She’d made that cupcake extra big, which definitely made Grant chuckle. And the sixth was clearly a pussy. He would bet a million dollars it was cream filled too.
He quickly reached out and snagged that one. He actually wanted to keep them all to himself now, but he was certain Dax wasn’t going to let that happen.
“Tell me it’s cream filled,” Dax said, clearly thinking along the same lines.
Grant bit into it, then turned the cupcake to face Dax. “Of course.”
“That”—Dax informed him, pointing at the cupcake—“is awesomely naughty. I love it. Whatever you did to that girl—and I have a general idea and don’t need details because I need to face her at the bakery later, and I don’t want to be blushing and stammering—was well done.”
Grant shook his head. He’d just barely kept from groaning out loud over that first taste of Josie’s cupcake. Much like the night before. “When have you ever blushed and stammered?”
Dax shrugged. “Picturing Jocelyn Asher, sweet, smiley, always upbeat baker extraordinaire, letting you do things to her that led to pussy cupcakes in the morning? That might do it.”
“Pussy cupcakes?” Oliver walked in just then. “You’d better mean cupcakes that are shaped like cats. Piper will never let us introduce a porn line of baked goods. Though that would be awesome. We could sell online only.” Ollie’s brain had clearly started spinning already. That was common. A single sentence, a simple mention of something, and his imagination would take off. “It would be kind of a secret, off-menu thing that only our special clients know about and people only find out about by word of mouth.”
“No.” Piper, their executive assistant—who was five years younger than the youngest of the partners and five times as bright, or so it seemed—breezed through the doorway a second later. “Absolutely not.”
“It could be huge,” Ollie said.
“No,” Piper said again, handing Grant the files he’d asked for when he’d passed her desk earlier. “No pussy cupcakes.”
Making Whoopie Page 6
