by Kim Davis
Three Cakes
By Kim Davis
Published by JMS Books LLC
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Copyright 2018 Kim Davis
ISBN 9781634867009
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Three Cakes
By Kim Davis
“Did you like the cake?”
Those were the first words my boyfriend Clay ever spoke to me. We were both at a dinner party hosted by a mutual friend, a guy named David. Since I was the last one to arrive due to a series of events—too many changes of clothes while trying to decide what to wear, bad weather, trouble hailing a cab, awful traffic—I’d missed the cocktail stage and arrived just in time for dinner. Even though I wasn’t seated anywhere near Clay at the large dining room table, I noticed him right away. He was seated at the other end of the table on the opposite side, but his dark hair and gray eyes caught my attention. He was between a man and a woman, neither of whom I knew, and I found myself wondering throughout dinner if he was attached to either of them. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring but that didn’t mean he wasn’t married. During dinner, I quietly observed him and noticed he talked with both of his neighbors, but didn’t seem to be overly attentive to either one. Maybe he was just a solo guest like I was, one of David’s friends or co-workers. At one point while dessert was being served, the man noticed me watching him and our eyes met. He gave me a little smile then before tucking into the piece of cake on the plate before him.
After dinner, I’d fully intended to chat up the dark haired mystery man but he disappeared and I feared he’d snuck out while I was in the bathroom. I was standing by the huge bay window in the living room watching the rainfall outside and trying to decide if I should call it a night myself when I heard the question that started my relationship with Clayton Jasper Teal.
“Did you like the cake?”
I turned and was surprised to see the dark haired, gray-eyed man I’d been watching during dinner standing before me.
“Cake?” I asked. I was so nervous and giddy he was actually talking to me, I was having trouble speaking myself.
“Yes. The cake David served after dinner. Did you like it?”
The cake. It took me a moment to remember there was cake served after dinner. I don’t know how I could have forgotten. It was a rich, moist yellow cake with some kind of creamy white icing. Many of the dinner guests commented on how great it was and asked for second helpings. I would have had a second piece myself, but my fear of overindulging stopped me.
“Yes, I liked the cake very much,” I said. “It was great. I’ll have to ask David what bakery it came from because I know he didn’t make it himself.” David, our host, was a good cook, but I knew there was no way he’d made that cake. It was way beyond his culinary capabilities.
The guy smiled. “It didn’t come from a bakery. I made it.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “It’s a butter cake.”
I listened as he told me about how he’d prepared the cake that morning from scratch using a recipe passed down from his late grandmother.
“Wow. I’m impressed,” I told him. “You’re obviously a good cook.”
He smiled. “I’m good at a lot of things.”
“I bet you are.” I hadn’t intended to let my internal thoughts spill out into the universe like that, but it was too late to take the words back once they’d been spoken.
He looked me up and down and said, “I’d like to bake a cake for you.”
The statement was so unexpected, it made me burst out laughing. “Why would you want to bake a cake for me? You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough about you, Patrick.”
It took me a moment to realize he’d said my name and I hadn’t introduced myself. “Wait. How do you know my name?”
“I cornered David in the kitchen after dinner and asked him about you. He told me everything. Your name is Patrick Holt. You’re an ophthalmologist, you live in Lincoln Park, you’re thirty-five, and you grew up in Wilmette. Do I have all of that right?”
David had certainly filled him in on the story of my life. “Yes. You know all about me, but I don’t know anything about you.”
He introduced himself as Clay Teal, age thirty-six, currently employed as a marketing manager for a financial firm, originally from South Carolina, but a resident of Chicago for more than ten years. The South Carolina thing surprised me because I couldn’t detect a Southern accent at all and when I told him this, he admitted he’d worked hard to get rid of it.
“But I can still turn it on from time to time, given the right circumstances,” he said.
At that time, I wondered what “circumstances” would cause him to turn on his accent but I found out soon after we started seeing each other regularly. Clay’s accent surfaced usually during the following scenarios: when he was angry, when he was horny, or when he was speaking with his family.
“So, back to the matter at hand,” Clay said. “I’d love to make a cake for you if you’ll let me.”
“What kind of cake?”
“A lemon cake,” he said. “Definitely a lemon cake.”
“Why not devil’s food or red velvet?”
He shook his head. “Those cakes aren’t right for you. Lemon cake all the way. You’d love it. Trust me.”
“You have a lot of confidence in your cake-making abilities.”
“My mama taught me well.”
Clay’s Southern accent slipped in with that statement and I found it incredibly charming and a little sexy. I also thought he was incredibly charming and a little sexy. Well, more than a little sexy. While he talked about the delicious lemon cake he wanted to make for me, the only thing I could think about putting in my mouth was his cock. It had been a long time since I’d been so turned on by a man.
Something about Clay made me let my guard down and go home with him that night. I hadn’t gone home with a man I’d just met since I was in college. I usually needed to get to know someone before the home visits started and definitely before the clothes came off and sex was offered. But with Clay, I didn’t hesitate to accept his invitation when he asked me to come to his apartment that night. I went with him willingly. He could have been a serial killer ready to chop me up into little pieces once we got to his place, but I didn’t care. I liked him and I wanted him, so I left with him. Thankfully, he didn’t live far from David’s so our walk to his building only took about ten minutes. He talked during the walk while I listened and tried not to stare at him. My mind was consumed with thoughts of sex. I wanted to see Clay’s naked body beneath my own, feel him against me, taste his cock
in my mouth. Maybe I was just horny because I hadn’t been with a man since my previous boyfriend and I had broken up. Our split, made about six months earlier, was amicable. There was no cheating or drama. We both just decided it was time to move on, so we did.
“You’re so quiet,” Clay said, bringing me back to the present, as we got into the elevator in his building.
“I’m sorry. I just—I don’t know what to say,” I admitted. I was also nervous and afraid of making an ass out of myself by saying something stupid, so I decided to just keep my mouth shut.
He laughed. “So I guess that means I’ll have to do all of the dirty talking tonight then, huh?”
Dirty talk, to me, meant dirty sex…or at least I hoped it did. I cleared my throat. “I guess so.”
Clay’s apartment was spacious and it smelled good, like cinnamon. The furniture looked expensive and the place was immaculate. There weren’t any papers on the coffee room table or stray shoes on the floor. I wondered if he always kept things so tidy or if he’d been planning to bring someone home with him that night.
“Your apartment is very clean,” I said. Once the words had left my mouth, I felt like an idiot. Was he supposed to have a dirty home? I was usually a lot better at making small talk with a man I was interested in, but my tongue was tied that night.
Clay chuckled. “Thank you. I’m not a fan of clutter except when I’m cooking.”
He asked if I wanted a glass of wine and I said “sure” even though I’d had more than enough to drink at David’s. I followed Clay to the kitchen and watched as he pulled a corkscrew from one of the drawers.
“Red or white?” he asked.
“Whatever you prefer is okay with me.”
While he went to the cabinet for glasses, I checked out his ass. It looked good in the dark gray pants he was wearing. After selecting a bottle of pinot noir, he put it on the counter and turned to me.
“Just so you know, I don’t normally pick men up at dinner parties, or anywhere else, and bring them home with me.”
“And I don’t normally go home with men I just met.”
“Why’d you come home with me then?”
“Probably for the same reason you asked me to come home with you.”
Clay smiled. “To taste my delicious lemon cake?”
He looked at me, I looked at him, and we both telepathically decided the wine could wait.
As someone who prided himself on getting to know a man before climbing into bed with him, I don’t know why I changed all the rules for Clay. Yes, I was turned on by him, but I’d been turned on by other men, too, and I hadn’t had sex with them a few hours after meeting them for the first time. But with Clay, I didn’t even hesitate when he led me to his bedroom and kicked the door closed behind us. I backed him against the wall and, with his mouth pressed hard against my own, my hands went immediately to unzip his pants. After moving past his underwear, I took his hard, leaking cock in my hand and stroked it before dropping to my knees. After pulling his pants and shorts down around his knees, I took his cock into my mouth. He gasped and grabbed onto my shoulders. Everything about him made me crazy. His smell, the taste of his cock, the tickle of his pubic hair against my face, the breathy words of encouragement that came from his lips. “Yes, baby. Yes,” he said, pushing his cock deeper into my mouth. I caressed his balls and sucked each of them before going back to his cock. When I reached behind him and slid a finger between the cheeks of his ass, he moaned and said something I totally wasn’t expecting.
“Stop.”
That one word made me pull back immediately and look up at him, wondering if I’d inadvertently crossed a line with him.
“You want me to stop?” I asked, thinking maybe I hadn’t heard him clearly.
“Yes,” he said, breathlessly. He was practically panting and so was I. So why was he asking me to stop?
“I want you to stop sucking me and start fucking me,” he said.
So I did.
Clay and I got undressed and moved to the bed with record speed. A condom and lube came out and went on and we got to the business of fucking. Clay took every inch of my cock and rode it like a jockey. He liked things a little harder and faster than my previous boyfriend. When Clay rolled onto his stomach, pushed his magnificent ass against me, and said “fuck me” he meant it. And, even after the blowjob and burying myself balls-deep inside of him, I still came before he did. He didn’t climax until after I’d pulled out and collapsed beside him on the bed. He climbed on top of me and smiled before emptying his load onto my chest.
“Spend the night with me,” he said.
“Okay,” I said before pulling him to me for a kiss.
* * * *
When I awoke the next morning, the first thing I noticed was the smell of cake in the air. After a quick trip to the bathroom to pee, wash my hands and face, and try to pull myself together, I put on my underwear and went to the kitchen. Clay was there washing dishes in shorts and a T-shirt. He looked at me and smiled.
“The cake’s in the oven.”
“It smells delicious.”
“I’ve been up since five making it. I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure I’ll love it. Thank you.”
He offered me coffee from a pot on the counter and I gladly accepted. He pulled a mug from the cabinet and poured me a cup before offering cream and sugar. I declined the sugar, but accepted the cream.
“Really?” he asked as he went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of creamer. “No sugar?”
I shook my head.
Clay narrowed his eyes at me as he handed me the cream. “I didn’t see that one coming, Patrick. I had you pegged as a sugar man. Maybe I made a mistake with the cake.”
“You didn’t make a mistake. I love sugar, just not in my coffee.”
“Well, that’s good to know. I don’t think I could handle a man who doesn’t like sugar. I wouldn’t be able to bake for him.”
“I didn’t actually think you’d bake a cake for me. I assumed that was just a pick-up line you used.”
“Patrick, you insult me. I’d never offer to bake a cake for a man if I wasn’t serious about actually doing it. Besides, offering to bake a cake for a man I’m interested in sounds a lot better than telling him I’ve got something moist and tasty in my pants for him.”
I laughed before taking a huge swig of coffee. It tasted good, just like everything else Clay had given me since we’d met.
“Yes, I can be incredibly juvenile sometimes,” he said, “but I don’t bullshit about my baking. I also don’t bake cakes for every man I meet. I only do it for the ones who I think will appreciate the gesture.”
“Well, I appreciate it.”
“You haven’t even tasted my cake yet.”
“I’ve tasted your cake, Clay.” Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who could be juvenile.
He smiled. “And?” he asked, approaching me. He wrapped his arms around me and I backed him against the refrigerator.
“And I’m pretty sure I’ll need another piece to tide me over before I go home.”
“I think that can be arranged,” he said before kissing me.
After another taste of Clay’s “cake” in the kitchen, bedroom, and shower, I finally headed home. But I didn’t leave empty-handed. After breakfast, he sent me on my way with a warm lemon cake. (Clay was the only person I’d ever met who kept cardboard cake boxes on hand.) He and I also exchanged numbers and agreed to meet again the following week. He said he wanted to cook dinner for me and I told him I’d like that.
During the cab ride back to my place, I opened the cake box and took a small piece of the lemon cake between my fingers. It was warm and sweet and wonderful just like I knew it would be.
* * * *
Clay and I had been seeing each other for a few months when I noticed I’d put on a few pounds and I knew exactly who was to blame. When I was younger, I’d been a chunky kid. Classmates teased me by calling me “Fatty Patty” or “Holt the H
ulk.” I didn’t manage to shed that extra poundage until high school when hormones kicked in and my metabolism went through the roof. And I’d managed to keep my weight down in my adult years by not eating like a mad man and working out. But now that Clayton Teal had come into my life with his delicious cakes and other assorted foodstuffs, I was porking up again. The average person wouldn’t have noticed I’d put on a few pounds, but I noticed. Having dinner with Clay a few times a week was wrecking my diet. Before I’d started seeing him regularly, I could come home from work and have a bowl of cereal or a sandwich for dinner and call it a meal. But dinner with Clay was a full-blown affair. When we weren’t eating out, he’d make dinner for us. And he couldn’t just make something light like a salad with a grilled chicken breast. No, he had to serve garlic mashed potatoes with that chicken accompanied by a green bean casserole and a side of biscuits. One would think eating this way would make Clay himself a fat man, but he wasn’t. Somehow he managed to keep his own weight down. When I asked him about this, he admitted he didn’t eat much of the food he cooked, something I hadn’t really noticed until he’d brought it to my attention. While Clay was shoveling hefty helpings of chicken and potatoes onto my plate, his own held much smaller portions. And, before I came along, he told me if he baked a cake, he usually took it in to work for his coworkers to enjoy.
“I like cooking for other people,” he said, “but if I ate all the food I cooked, I’d be three hundred pounds.”
“Oh, so you’re trying to make me three hundred pounds instead, right?” I asked.
“You could stand to eat a little more, Patrick. Hell, you’re, what, six feet tall?”
I had to explain to Clay that I’d been a fat child and I worked hard to keep my weight down as an adult.
“So you’re trying to tell me you’re still that little fat boy inside, right?”
“Exactly, so stop trying to turn that little fat boy into a big fat adult.”
“I’m not trying to make you fat, Patrick. No one’s force-feeding you. You can say no and push back from the table any time you want to.”
