Page 134 of With a Cherry On Top

Her eyes glint playfully. “Stand still, Chef.”

Her fingers brush the back of my neck as she loops the tape around it, her breath fanning against my jaw as she leans in. I swallow hard, my entire body locking tight.

Get your head out of the gutter for five minutes, Aaron.

“Relax,” she murmurs, the word rolling off her tongue.

I try to keep my body in check as she moves lower, measuring my shoulders, her knuckles grazing the fabric of my shirt. Then she hums, her lips quirking up at the corner as her eyes flick up to mine.

“Shirt off, please.”

Fuck.

I hesitate. This is about to be either very flattering for her or extremely embarrassing for me, because the moment her fingers graze my skin, I won’t be able to pretend that her touch doesn’t burn, that I don’t crave her the way a flower needs sunshine.

Still, I yank the shirt over my head and let it drop.

Her gaze skims over my chest, and when her tongue darts out to wet her lips, my dick twitches in response.

She loops the tape around my torso. The cool fabric barely registers, but her fingers dragging along my stomach steal all of my attention.

“Chest,” she says to herself. She pulls the tape a little tighter, her knuckles pressing against my abs, and I have to keep myself from making any sound.

“You good?” she asks.

No. No, I am absolutely not fucking good.

“Yeah,” I rasp.

Her fingers linger a second too long, then she moves lower. Waist. Hips. I don’t know much about taking measurements, but this feels like a hell of a lot of touching.

She kneels in front of me, the tape slipping around my waist. I guess this part is necessary, but my brain doesn’t care, because she’s on her knees looking up at me, eyes dark and mischievous. Because her breath is warm against my stomach.

“Almost done?” I ask.

She hums. “Do you not like me down here?”

Oh, fuck. She’s playing me.

Measurements,my ass.

“No, you look great down there. Perfect. Like you belong on your knees for me.”

She smirks—fuck, that smirk—as her fingers hook into the waistband of my jeans, and then the sound of my zipper being pulled down mixes with my heartbeat.

“Seven point one inches,” I offer, tucking some hair behind her ear.

“Hmm?”

“I took those measurements in the eighth grade.”

She presses a kiss to my stomach, then, holding the measuring tape to her cheek, she muses, “On a good day, I can take about...four in here.”

It’s like a dirty math problem. If I’d known this was one of its applications, I might’ve tried a lot harder in high school algebra.

My briefs are slowly pulled down, and, ohfuck.She’s going to touch me. Not just touch me—she’s going to suck me off. The thought makes my head spin like a carnival ride.

“I think I’ll have to handle the rest with my fist.”