by J. Daniels
“Brooke,” he groans, thrusting more boldly now. His cock fucking my mouth in earnest.
I reach between my legs and brush my clit. My quiet moans don’t go undetected.
“Fuck, yeah. God, do it, baby. Look at you. Rub that pretty little pussy for me.”
Mason’s filthy mouth, the throbbing of his cock against my tongue, and the hoarse way he says my name gets me there in record time. My desire drips down my hand. Releasing his shaft with my other, I stroke over his balls and press my finger against the smooth skin just below.
He inhales a sharp breath. His body arches off the bed. “Ah, God . . . fuck! Fuck, I’m gonna come. Baby, I’m gonna come.”
I move my fingers against my clit until my legs shake and my climax burns up my spine. Mason pulls my hair and floods my mouth. I swallow between moans and whimpers, sucking on his head.
Holy fuck, I think.
“Holy fuck,” he says, breathing heavily and rubbing my scalp.
With a heavy sigh, I collapse on top of him, my head lifeless on his thigh and my body half sprawled across his legs and half tangled up in the sheets. I close my eyes, sighing when he wraps me up and pulls me to his chest, cradling me there.
“Filthy girl,” he whispers, pressing gentle kisses to my mouth and cheek. “My filthy fucking girl. I’ll go to dinner with you. I’ll go anywhere, yeah? You don’t need to ask.”
I squeeze his neck. I bury my face there and smile. “It’s ‘cause I can suck a good dick, right?”
Laughing, he pulls the covers over us, tucking me close.
Mason never argues my lighthearted reasoning. Or maybe he does and I’m too drunk with happiness to hear him.
So drunk I feel dizzy, spinning more and more out of control. Falling further into this blind madness where, as long as he holds on to me, I feel safe and steady.
Our usual coffee time together is skipped the next morning. For good reason.
Every time I attempt to get dressed, Mason bites my neck or pinches my nipple, stripping off my clothes and entering me in one hard thrust. We fuck on the bed, in the chair, against the wall by the window. Minutes turn into an hour, and after he leisurely fingers me against the shower wall and comes on my ass, we stumble out together and frantically scramble into our clothes.
Him, loose shorts and a fitted gray tee.
Me, my jeans and blouse from yesterday.
Nothing screams wild sex all night like the repeat of an outfit. At least I wear it well.
After kissing Mason goodbye, and then really kissing Mason goodbye, with frantic mouths and greedy hands pulling at clothes, again, I cross the street and enter the bakery just before it’s time to open.
Joey looks up from behind the display case. He grins at my attire. “Ah, you know, I miss the days of a good hoe stroll. I used to rock those back in my early twenties.”
I roll my eyes and move through the shop. “Did you deliver?”
He holds up a pink cinch bag.
Sweet. My clothes.
“Thank you so, sooo much. You brought me panties, right?”
Joey hands me the bag. He lifts an eyebrow. “Yes, I brought you panties. There are jeans in there. Freeballin’ and denim doesn’t mix. Trust me.”
“Tell me about it.”
I shift on my feet, wincing at the odd sensation between my legs. Joey laughs quietly beside me.
“I’m going to go upstairs and change. Where’s Dylan?”
I roam into the kitchen and look around the room, expecting to see her sitting at the worktop since she’s not up front like she usually is in the mornings. I haven’t seen her since before she left for her doctor’s appointment yesterday.
Joey trails behind me. “She’s upstairs. She’s been waiting on you to get here so she can talk to us.”
I glance back over my shoulder. “What? Why?”
“Fuck if I know. I tried getting it out of her when I got here this morning but she wouldn’t open the door for me up there. Can you believe that? She sent me a text saying she’s only saying this once, whatever it is. Shouty capping me and shit. Girl, please. I don’t need that kind of attitude before seven A.M. .”
I climb the stairs with Joey following, my mind trying to come up with a scenario that would explain Dylan not being present in her bakery.
I remember when she was pregnant with Drew and it was nearing her delivery date. She was exhausted all the time, mean to everyone, walking around here like a slap-happy zombie. Joey and I convinced her to sleep in a couple days a week and leave the morning baking to me. I thought she was going to fire us both for that suggestion, but she must’ve been past her breaking point and too tired to argue. With little convincing needed, she agreed and soon became much more pleasurable. Everyone was happy.
Reese especially. Lord, was she cranky around him. Threatening his manhood with notes she made Pete deliver. Swearing up and down that she was not having any more kids.
And now look at her. Kid number three on the way. Reese pushing for more. They’re both gluttons for punishment, in my opinion.
I knock on the door at the top of the stairs. Dylan mumbles something from behind it, and I twist the knob, swinging it open and stepping into her loft.
“Oh, now it’s unlocked. I see how it is,” Joey spits behind me.
Dylan lifts her head from the magazine she’s reading.
She’s in what looks to be one of Reeses’ shirts, a baggy University of Chicago tee that stretches across her belly. Her back is against the headboard of her bed. Her feet still under the covers.
Huh. Maybe she is opting for lazy mornings around here. But shouldn’t she be asleep?
“What’s up, cupcake?” Joey leans his back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. He jerks his head. “Why aren’t you dressed?”
“What’s the point?” Dylan quietly asks, pinching her eyes shut through a slow shake of her head. She looks between the two of us. “I’ve been ordered to stay off my feet. Permanently.”
“What?” I move closer to the bed. My bag of clothes hits the floor. “What do you mean, stay off your feet permanently? You aren’t allowed to come downstairs at all?”
“Seriously?” Joey questions behind me.
How can she stay off her feet? She runs the bakery. She’s Dylan, of Dylan’s Sweet Tooth. She does all the wedding cakes and every other awesome thing we produce.
Oh, no. This won’t work at all.
“Nope. I’m stuck in this bed for the next two weeks. I can only get up to pee.” She tosses the magazine beside her, dropping her head back with an annoyed grunt. “The doctor is concerned about my blood pressure spiking the way it is. He said Blake is fine, but apparently keeping to a stool most of the day isn’t doing enough. I have to be completely off my feet. That means no baking, no coffee time with you two, nothing. I’m going to go crazy up here.”
“Aw, cupcake. It won’t be so bad.” Joey walks over and sits on the edge of the bed. He takes Dylan’s hand. “It’s only for two weeks. The shop will be fine. You know Brooke and I can handle things. And I’ll load you up with gossip magazines and your favorite snacks. Don’t worry.”
Dylan weakly smiles. “I know you two can handle everything. I’m not worried about that. I’ll just be bored up here and missing out on all the fun.”
Handle everything? Everything? Is she insane?
I move to the foot of the bed so they both can see me. My hands squeezing my hips. My face pinched in disbelief.
“Excuse me? You’re not worried? Why not? You should be worried. What about the wedding cake scheduled for next weekend? Now that poor bride is going to have to find someone to fit her in on short notice. That’s not happening. The only person around here who does that is you. She won’t have a cake. And you know she’ll tell all her friends about the bakery that canceled on her last minute. We’ll be ruined.”
Dylan looks from Joey, back to me. Not a trace of anxiety in her casually amused smile. “She could have a cake.”
What? WHAT?
My mouth falls open. “Oh, really? Is Ryan making it? Did you pass all your stellar decorating genes down to her?”
“Brooke, come on.” Joey angles his body so he’s facing me. “You’re fabulous at baking. You can totally knock out a wedding cake by yourself. There’s no need to cancel.”
“Are you both out of your mind?”
They must be. There is no way I can tackle a wedding cake by myself. Nor do I want to. I can’t imagine disappointing someone on the day most girls dream about. I’ll be heartbroken if they hate it.
“You make cakes all the time.” Joey waves his hand. “This one will just be taller and with more flare. I don’t see the big deal.”
I glare at him. His blue eyes widen.
“I make birthday cakes, Joey. Farm animal ones, with fat ass pigs and cows with cute little faces. I don’t do shit like you’d see on The Knot. I can’t do spun sugar and delicate piping. Christ, all the edible flowers I’ve ever made, Dylan has gone behind me and redone.”
“That’s only because you get frustrated with yourself and eat them.”
I turn my attention to Dylan after she speaks. My teeth clenching. “Because they look horrible!”
“You are seriously overreacting.” Joey stands from the bed and winks at Dylan. “I’m heading downstairs to open. If you need anything, text me. Don’t get up.” He motions in my direction. “And calm her ass down please. She played the crazy card yesterday and cussed out a bunch of kids at Grinders. We don’t need a replay of that.”
I scoff and stare at the wall. “I wasn’t directing it at them.”
I would never do that. Not unless they were really pissing me the fuck off.
The loft door squeaks open, followed by the sound of Joey’s heavy footsteps trailing off.
With a closed fist, I press against my forehead, my eyes shutting as I remember how amazing this morning started out. Stress-free and filled with mine and Mason’s hungry moans.
Now I’m so anxious I’m ready to chew my fingers off. Awesome.
“All right. If you don’t think you can do it, then I guess we’ll have to cancel,” Dylan says, staring at me with her eyebrow raised.
My stomach tightens and drops. I lower my arm to my side but keep the fist.
“But, I personally don’t think we need to. I know you can do this, Brooke. I’ve seen some of the cakes you’ve created, and your detail work is beautiful. Joey’s right. You are a fabulous baker. You’re just nervous.”
“I’m more than nervous.”
Tasting bile in my throat, I begin pacing the room, feeling Dylan’s eyes on me as I wring my hands out.
I’m a fabulous baker. My detail work is beautiful. I can do this.
I swallow thickly and repeat her words in my head like a mantra, hoping for confidence but only butting against my own self-doubt.
This is insane. How can this be happening? How can either one of them think I can handle this? I’m not Dylan.
I am not Dylan.
I think about the bride on her big day, without a cake. I imagine her disappointment and her anger, her sadness and the memories I’m keeping from her with just a simple phone call and some regretful words.
“We’re so sorry,” I will say. “We just can’t do it. Medical reasons. It’s just not possible. Please don’t hate me.”
She’ll cry into my ear or curse me out. Maybe both. Probably both.
I continue to pace, my eyes losing focus somewhere on the floor passing under my feet. “God, I can’t cancel on her. I can’t. It’s her wedding day. I would feel awful.” I rub at my chest, pressing my palm against my heart. It flutters wildly.
“Brooke.”
I can’t cancel. There it is. My decision made, and one that comes with a mound of stress, knowing how easily I can still end up ruining this woman’s wedding day by screwing up this cake. But canceling? I just . . . I can’t do that. I will never do that to someone.
Maybe she’ll be so deliriously happy on Saturday, she won’t notice my blunder in the corner of the reception hall?
I bite at my thumb nail and squint at the floor, the wall. I force air into my lungs and will my pulse to slow.
If I have a stroke right now and Dylan has to go against doctors’ orders and get up to call an ambulance, everyone will hate me for dying.
“Brooke.”
Turning my head at the sharp sound of my name, I focus on Dylan’s face and halt near the window. I lower my hand. “Huh?”
She smiles hesitantly. “Why don’t you do a practice run this weekend? The whole cake. That way if you have any issues or difficulty with any of it, you can figure it out ahead of time. Plus, I’ll be right upstairs if you have questions.” She rolls her eyes, sighing. “You know I’m not going anywhere.”
My spine straightens. A practice run?
I can work on the cake until I get it right. Until I get it perfect.
“Really? Dylan, really?” I move around the bed and stop to stand beside it. “You don’t mind if I stay and work on it after hours? And Sunday?”
“Not if you clean up your mess.”
“I will!” My own excitement startles me. I place a hand to my mouth, a rush of hot breath bursting against my fingers. “Sorry,” I murmur, blushing as I spin to grab my bag. “Okay. Yeah . . . okay, I’m just going to go get changed now.”
Dylan laughs quietly, reaching for her magazine again.
After dressing quickly in my dark washed jeans and a print v-neck top, I pull my hair back into a haphazard bun and dart down the stairs, stowing my bag away before rushing into the main bakery up front.
I have so much to do now that Dylan is bedridden. But first things first.
Joey eyes me curiously while he helps a customer, nudging against my hip as I reach for the design binder on the shelf.
“What are you doing?” he murmurs.
I open the binder on top of the display case and flip to the special orders paperwork we keep in the back flap.
“I want to see what I’m up against with this cake. I’m going to do it. Dylan suggested I practice it this weekend. I want to be prepared.”
“Wow, really? You’re actually going to make a wedding cake by yourself? You?”
I glance up when I hear the disbelief in his voice, then fake glare at him for obviously playing it up. His spirited smile beams at me.
“I have all the faith in you. Rock it out, girl.”
Taking the money being held out for him, Joey hands the woman behind the counter her purchase while I search for the order form for next weekend. The woman takes her change and exits the shop.
“Here.” I slide out the form after matching up the dates and lay it out flat on the open page of the binder. I drag my finger down the thin paper to the bottom where the description is scrolled in Dylan’s handwriting.
Three-tiered almond cake with a chocolate ganache filling and a mocha buttercream.
Okay. I can do that. Three-tiered is better than five-tiered. See, Brooke? No big deal. You got this.
I continue reading the notes on the design.
Edible flowers. Tons of them . . .
Make them epic?
Oh, God, no. No. No. No. No.
I drop my head into my hands, groaning. “Fuuuck. Why couldn’t she have wanted farm animals or something? I hear country weddings are all the rage. Shit!”
“Don’t believe what you hear. I went to a country themed wedding one time. We all sat on hay bales during the ceremony and drank out of mason jars. Talk about slumming it. I was itchy the entire night.” Joey’s body presses into mine as he leans closer. “Oh . . . gardenias,” he quietly observes. “Dylan’s really good at those.”
I slowly look up at him, my scowl unforgiving.
Flinching, he steps back. “You know, I think I’m going to go get my coffee now.”
“Good idea.”
As Joey hurries out of the bakery, I lean against th
e case and rub my temple, digging my fingers into my flesh. I stare down at the order form and fight off tears when my eyes begin to sting.
This is it. This is how I’m going to get fired. Taken out by the mother of all baked goods.
Tugging out my phone, I sniffle and type out a message as tears dampen my cheeks.
Me: Hi.
God, I need him to talk me through this. To tell me I’m not going to fail.
His reply comes within seconds.
Mason: Hello, gorgeous. How are you?
Me: Freaking out.
My stomach coils and my hands shake. I wipe at my face and wait for his response, staring at the screen, waiting for those little bubbles to appear.
I wait.
And wait.
They never come.
The bakery door chimes open. I look up, expecting to see a customer, or Joey returning with his coffee and hopefully something alcoholic for me.
I’ve never needed a drink so badly before in my life. Screw unprofessionalism. If I’m getting canned, I might as well spend my last week of employment drunk and oblivious.
To my surprise, Mason steps inside the shop, looking more keyed up than I feel, if that’s even possible.
His fretful gaze slams on me as he clutches his cell in his one hand and rakes through his sweaty hair with the other. The muscles in his arm swelling and glistening. His chest heaving.
“Brooke,” he rasps, some emotion tightening his voice.
I study him. The apprehension in his eyes. His distraught demeanor. It confuses me. I don’t understand it.
Until I glance down at the phone in my hand and read the last message I sent.
MASON
She’s crying. Fuck. She’s freaking out, and she’s crying. Fuck!
What happened? It’s barely been an hour. What the fuck? Did someone say something to her again? Get inside her head and cause Brooke to over think this and the way it makes her feel? The way I make her feel. She was fine.
