Page 31 of Spicy or Sweet (Wintermore #2)

NOELLE

“You have got to be kidding me. We just finished a month of almost constant baking, and this is what you want to do on our first real day off?” I stare at Shay in disbelief.

Here I was thinking that we’d have a slow, lazy morning after the wrap party—after Shay cemented her hold on my heart in the pouring rain, dancing to the distant sounds of Monster Mash, of all things.

Preferably a lazy morning in bed, with no clothes.

But Shay’s side of the bed was empty when I woke up—almost empty, anyway.

Croissant had the same idea as me about the lazy morning.

No part of me thought Shay would want to bake.

“I’m not meeting your family empty-handed,” she says, inspecting an apple before tossing it in a bowl to wash.

“You’re not meeting my family at all. You met them years ago.”

“Not as your girlfriend,” she points out, and I melt.

“That’s true.” I step closer to her, and she tugs me in, wrapping her arms around me and leaning in to kiss the tip of my nose. Girlfriend. It’s more than I let myself hope for, even though it’s all I’ve thought about since I peeled her clothes off in the basement kitchen.

“Good morning,” she murmurs against my lips.

“Morning. You’re not nervous about tonight, are you?”

“A little, I guess. I know you said your parents are cool with it, but I haven’t officially done the “meet the parents” thing since I was in my twenties. And Rora scares me a little.”

I snort, because Rora is, without a doubt, the most intimidating person in the family.

“It’ll be good, I promise. Everyone is going to love you, including Rora.

” Including me, I want to say, but thankfully, my brain isn’t totally useless before caffeine.

Jumping from girlfriend to I love you, please stay with me forever, in less than twenty-four hours, is a little too eager.

We both said we were falling for each other, not that we loved each other. But the second I realized she feels the same way about me as I do her, falling turned to fallen real fast. It’s like my heart was just waiting for my anxiety to scoot out of the way and let my head get on board.

Right now, I want to get on Shay. In her bedroom.

“You know, I keep cookie dough in my freezer. We don’t have to make anything from scratch,” I say, trying with all my might to pull her back to bed.

She doesn’t budge, laughing softly. “I like baking. And I like baking with you,” she specifies. “Seriously, mon délice, when was the last time you baked for fun?”

I can’t answer that, and she knows it. It’s been over a year, at least.

“Fine,” I relent with an overexaggerated sigh. “What are we making?”

“Apple and amaretto caramel pie with cardamom whipped cream,” she answers, and my mouth waters. I’ve never been the biggest almond person, but Shay does things with them that I can’t describe. I’ve yet to taste something she’s made that I don’t love.

“Put me to work, Chef,” I say, grabbing the spare apron she has hanging over the back of a chair.

Shay chuckles and swats my ass with a spatula before handing me an apple peeler.

I make quick work of the apples, snacking on the peel and feeding some to Shay.

The nicer, twirlier pieces, we save for a garnish.

When the apples are peeled, I take a break to make us coffee, then thinly slice them while Shay makes the pie filling.

The whole thing comes together in twenty minutes, and I’m surprised by how much I enjoy baking with no purpose beyond having something delicious to share with the people I love.

And watching Shay bake has become somewhat of a favorite pastime of mine. Move over Grey’s and Gilmore Girls—there’s a new show in town, and I’m hooked.

She starts the whipped cream in her stand mixer until it forms soft peaks, then unhooks the bowl, because she likes to finish it by hand in case she overwhips it.

I sip my coffee and enjoy the view as she works.

There are a lot of differences in how Shay and I work—her in disarray, me with order—but the most striking is how happy she always looks when she’s baking.

There’s a light in her eyes that fizzled out of mine the second I made a job of this. A light I’d love to get back.

It’s a naive thought, perhaps, that I could find it again with Shay.

Baking is less stressful when she’s in my general vicinity, but I’m still always running through mental checklists of things to do for the bakery that aren’t baking.

It takes me out of the peace that measuring and weighing and folding ingredients usually brings me.

The last thing I want to do is be taken out of the moment with Shay.

She opens a drawer and pulls out the first thing her fingers touch—a mini whisk, no longer than seven inches from the tip of the wires to the end of the handle. Shay notices me eyeing it dubiously.

“I know, I know. It’s absolutely useless and I never use it. I only bought it because it was small, and small things are cute.”

I snort, stepping closer as she swipes a dollop of the cardamom cream with the wires and holds it out to me. The instant I close my lips around the cream, my eyes flutter closed, and a moan slips from my lips.

“Holy shit, sweetheart. This is incredible. I want to put it on everything,” I say, licking the last of the cream from the whisk.

A rosy pink blush colors Shay’s cheeks.

I rake my gaze over her. “What are you thinking about?” I ask, edging closer to her.

Shay swallows, drawing her lips between her teeth. Her pupils flare, swallowing the smoky gray of her irises. “Uh… nothing.”

Her whole face is flaming now, and I have to fight not to chuckle. I close in on her, backing her up against the counter. She groans as I press my body into hers.

“Are you thinking about me putting the cream everywhere, sweetheart?”

She nods, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. I take the whisk from her hand.

“Question.”

“Yeah?”

“How mad will you be if I ruin this batch of cream so we can’t use it for the pie?”

“Please ruin it. We can make more,” she begs.

Well, she doesn’t have to ask me twice. I load the whisk up with cream and deposit a spot on her nose. Shay chuckles as I lean in and swipe it with my tongue.

“Not what I thought you meant by everywhere.”

“Patience, sweetheart.” I drag the whisk across her lips and kiss the cream off. “We’re getting there.”

The vanilla and cardamom taste even better mingled with the taste of her tongue. Shay tugs the scrunchie from my hair, and I moan as her nails scrape against my scalp.

I practically tear her clothes off. Part of me wants to take her to bed so we have more space, but the thought of the cleanup…

No, the kitchen will do. It’s not a big kitchen, and there’s very little counter space since she has two stand mixers, a coffee machine, and a fancy toaster oven.

But she also has a dining table that looks pretty steady.

“How strong is your dining table?”

“Pretty strong, I guess? Nico made it.”

That’s enough for me; as little as Nico is known, he’s known for his woodworking skills.

I nudge her toward the table, grabbing the bowl with the cream and the mini whisk. Setting it down, I lift Shay until she’s sitting on the table.

“Lie back, sweetheart.”

She obliges instantly. The table isn’t quite long enough, so her feet dangle off the end a little, but I fully intend to be lifting them anyway.

I grab a pillow from the couch and place it under her head, leaning down to brush a light kiss over her lips before I stand back and survey the scene before me.

She’s naked, save for her locket, and her chest is flushed, rising and falling rapidly, her fingers twitching in my direction, like she’s struggling not to reach for me.

“You’re so beautiful,” I murmur, running my fingers down her torso. Shay sighs contentedly, her eyes closing, any lingering tension dissolving from her body.

It gives me the perfect opportunity to pick up the cream-covered whisk and drag it all over her body. Shay gasps, her eyes flying open as the cool metal wires and chilled cream touch her skin.

I paint her like a canvas, strokes of white with black vanilla and cardamom sprinkles. Shay always looks like a work of art, but I like making my mark on her, even if only temporarily.

I grab the scrunchie she pulled from my hair and throw it back up, because I don’t plan on having time to wash my hair before family dinner, and I’m not sure showing up covered in cream would do anything to put Shay at ease.

With that in mind, I also strip off my clothes while she watches me, hungrily.

As soon as I’m naked, I pounce on her, running my tongue over every inch of her, devouring both Shay and the cream. She’s so fucking sweet, and the cream really is the cherry on top. Every little whimper that spills from her lips, every sigh of my name, feels like a goddamn sugar rush.

I run my tongue over her tattoo, licking the last of the cream. Shay watches me clean off the whisk with my tongue, warming up the metal, before I drag it across her nipple. She cries out, her back bowing.

“Please, baby,” she whimpers as I replace the whisk with my tongue, alternating my mouth with the whisk until she’s trembling. “Tu me donnes l'impression d’être au paradis. Encore. S’il te pla?t.”

I know enough French to know she’s begging for more, and I’m powerless to say no to her when she’s speaking English, let alone when she speaks French.

I take pity on her, dragging both myself and the whisk down her body, settling between her legs.

I could take it slow, tease her a little more, but she’s already so on edge, and I haven’t gotten enough of the taste of her.

Her legs are already parted for me, but I lift them so they’re sitting on my shoulders, lean in, and roll her clit between my lips.

She’s fucking soaked, and I press two fingers inside her, curling them and pressing against her G-spot.

Shay tightens around my fingers, her legs pressing against my head, moving her hips like she needs more.

I pull back enough to glance toward the bedroom.

Shay might be a bigger fan of my toy collection than I am—so much so that I now keep half of it here.

I have sex toys at her apartment before a toothbrush.

But I don’t want to leave her to go and get them. I’ve almost resigned myself to do just that when my eyes fall on the whisk sitting discarded on the table.

Beyond both of us running out of patience, there’s a reason I didn’t bring the whipped cream lower; there are just some things that shouldn’t go in vaginas, and sugar is one of them. But the handle… It’s the perfect size and shape, smooth black plastic, and entirely cream-free.

I pull my fingers out of her, and Shay lifts herself up on her elbows to protest, but the protest fades into nothing as she watches me pick the whisk up and run the handle between her lips. She moans, her eyes wide.

“What do you reckon?” I ask, teasing her entrance with the handle of the whisk. The metal wires are sticky in my grip, but I barely notice as Shay nods, pushing her body closer to mine.

“God, yes,” she says, and I laugh at her urgency.

I press the handle inside her slowly, testing it—it feels smooth, but I don’t want to hurt her—watching it disappear, salivating. I stop before the wires are touching her, going completely still, and Shay cries in frustration.

“Please. I want you to fuck me, mon délice.”

Fuck, her accent when she speaks French drives me wild. And how could I possibly refuse a request like that?

She looks incredible with the whisk inside her, and I can’t take my eyes off her pussy as I pull the handle out and press it back inside her, ramping up the speed.

I’ll never be able to use a whisk again without remembering how good it feels to fuck her, how sweet the sounds of her breaking apart are.

I bend my head to lick her clit again, alternating fast and slow, gentle licks, cool breaths, and light brushes of my teeth, and a few minutes later, Shay goes completely still and silent for a split second. And then she’s shaking, twisting on the table, chanting my name like a prayer as she comes.

I drink every drop of her in, every sound, savoring her, forgetting for a moment that I no longer have to worry about every time being the last time—every taste being the last taste. She’s mine, and I’m hers, and we can do this whenever we want.

The thought should calm me down, but it does exactly the opposite.

Shay is almost through the orgasm, but I’m not ready to let it go.

I angle the whisk, pressing the end of the handle firmly against her G-spot, and press her clit between my lips, sucking until she gasps.

The second wave seems to catch her by surprise.

It’s quieter, her mouth dropping open, but no sounds escape her.

Her hips jump from the table as I massage her G-spot with the handle, pulling it out just in time for her to squirt all over me.

Oh shit, I already know I’m going to get addicted to this.

Like she’s lost control of her body, Shay’s thighs twitch and tremble. She pants, and I let her legs down gently, leaning over her body to kiss her. Every inch of her body is scarlet—and a little sticky, and I love it.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” I murmur against her lips.

She opens her mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a sigh.

I chuckle, standing up and making eye contact as I pick up the whisk and clean off the handle. Shay’s eyes get somehow darker—charcoal gray, and ravenous.

She sits up, and I’m honestly surprised she has the energy. She reaches for me, and I lean in until I’m close enough for her to grip my chin and pull my lips to hers. The kiss she lays on me is desperate—fiery. My heart pounds against my rib cage, electricity shocking me all over.

We break apart, both sticky messes fighting to fill our lungs with air, but Shay holds me to her, biting my bottom lip, and whispering, “My turn.”