Page 53 of Theirs for the Holidays

They’re all so attractive, and so fucking present that’s it’s impossible to get away from it. I keep getting these little tastes of them when they touch me or kiss me in public, but it’s never enough to quench the desire burning inside me.

I come home and they’re there, draped over the couch or in the kitchen. Rhett builds fires and chops more wood, and I have to turn away from the window when he strips his shirt off one afternoon when the weather turns unseasonably warm.

I have a dream about Sawyer one night, about what might have happened if he hadn’t left the bakery that day, and I wake up and have to touch myself, burying my fingers deep inside me, wishing it was something else.

To put it plainly, I’m going insane.

Traffic at the bakery has picked up with the holiday season getting closer, but I still go straight to the kitchen when I get home, needing to do something with my hands to destress.

The only thing that really works is more baking.

Something about trying new recipes, low stakes and just for fun, always helps when I have a lot on my mind. It’s just always been that way for me.

Luckily, the objects of my stress, my “boyfriends” are all out this afternoon, doing their own things. They probably needed some space from each other, or to be somewhere that’s less cramped than this house.

Either way, I have the place to myself, but there are still small hints of their presence all throughout the house and even in the kitchen.

Lennox has a mug he favors for coffee in the morning, and I’ve noticed it’s one of the lighter ones, so it’s probably easier on his injured hand. It’s on the side of the sink, with remnants of his coffee in it.

One of Sawyer’s leather jackets is draped over a dining room chair, and my eyes keep straying to it while I gather the ingredients I want.

The ever present pile of firewood in the living room is all Rhett, and he takes it upon himself to refill it and light fires without being asked, making the house cozier than it’s been all season.

It’s impossible to get them out of my head like this, so I give in to it as I start mixing things together, sifting dry ingredients into a large mixing bowl.

It’s crazy to fantasize about them. Even with my history with Lennox and the things Sawyer said in the bakery that day, this is all a lie. When the wedding is over, they’re going to go back to their lives and I’ll still be here.

Whatever they feel for me, whatever want might be there, it’s not enough to change that.

I shouldn’t be thinking about Sawyer bending me over the work top at the bakery, or Lennox delving between my legs with his eager mouth, or Rhett coming in from splitting wood, smelling like pine and snow, pressing his warm body against mine.

I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about all three of them touching me at once, hands roaming over my body, fingers in my mouth, in my hair, in my pussy. My body burns with arousal though, and I have to swallow hard and refocus my attention on what I’m doing.

It goes on like that for a while, me rolling out pastries and scooping cookie dough, rotating things in and out of the oven and using the dining table as counter space. Underneath it all is that undercurrent of desire and the thought of the three men who are dominating my mind these days.

Nothing I bake comes out quite right, and that’s definitely my fault for being so distracted. Some things are undermixed or overworked, and the last tray comes out more than a little burnt around the edges. That’s my signal that this isn’t helping. I’m just making a mess and not paying attention to my timers at this point.

I set the tray down on the counter with more force than necessary and mutter a curse under my breath.

Baking usually helps. It usually focuses me when nothing else can. But this isn’t a problem I’ve really had before. There have never been three men in all their sexiness living in my house, taking up space in my life and driving me crazy with wanting them.

It’s going to take more than this, and I’m starting to realize that I’m not going to be able to get rid of these feelings by willing them away.

So that leaves the question of what the hell is going to help?

Because ignoring it isn’t an option, and it’s wreaking havoc on my baking right now, so something has to give.

I lean on the counter, biting my lip as my thoughts go back to the other morning when I indulged in touching myself to thoughts of Lennox.

Maybe sometimes the answer isn’t trying to outrun the feelings. Maybe the thing that has to give is me, in this case.

“Fuck it,” I mutter under my breath, turning the oven off for good. I throw everything cold back in the fridge and march to my bedroom. I have the house to myself, so why shouldn’t I take the edge off a little?

I grab a dildo from my drawer, selecting a nice thick one with a suction cup on the base. I need a shower anyway, so two birds, one stone and all that.

I shuck off my clothes in the bathroom, closing the door before starting up the shower. Once the water is hot, I put the dildo on the wall, laughing a little at the way the sparkly pink silicone bobs there in the humid air.

I lather myself up, washing my hair and my body quickly. The feeling of my hands gliding over me, slick from my body wash, just makes the heat between my legs grow even hotter.