Page 33 of Too Sweet

I snort-laugh, my chest bouncing with amusement as I try to keep it together. Kylian never used to joke. I love when he makes wise-cracks or offers up a quippy remark.

Black and white. Cut and dry. I love life with this man. I love the structure and security he provides. Right now, and for every day after this, I know how lucky I am to be loved by Kylian Walsh.

His body tenses below me, and his brows knit together. “Wait. I just thought of something else.”

“What?” I demand, slightly panicked.

Flipping us, he frames my head with his forearms and hovers just out of reach. “There’s a high probability you’re going tobe thanking me for what I’m about to give you. I’ve gathered enough anecdotal evidence to reason you may even beg for more. Following that strain of logic, one could assume that my tongue, my mouth, and my cock are all presents.”

This time, I snort. “You’re so full of it.”

I settle on my back, getting into position, and spread my legs wide, then press my hands into the headboard. I know the drill. I know how he wants to take me. I’ll do anything for this man. Submitting to his hyperfixation on my pussy truly is what I love most about Sundays.

“I think what you meant is ‘May I have my gift now, Daddy?’”

I bite down on my bottom lip, eyeing him lasciviously as he holds himself in plank position and rakes his gaze along my body.

“I want everything you have to give me, Daddy.”

His gaze heats with desire. “Say it again.”

“Please, Daddy?” I ask sweetly. “Please can I have my gift?”

He adjusts his glasses, places both his hands on my inner thighs, and spreads me open wider, licking his lips before he lowers himself and brings his mouth to my core.

Chapter 17

Kylian

The intersection of art and science must converge in synchronicity to create a perfect pancake.

Despite being deceptively simple in presentation, precise measurements, consistent heat, and proper execution are all required to accomplish excellence.

I’ve always prescribed to the notion that if something is worth doing, it’s worth doing well.

Which is why I spent three separate mornings at my parents’ house last month, observing everything I could from my dad’s pancake-making lessons. I then practiced my technique on six occasions leading up to this weekend.

Spence has just about had it with the carb loading I’ve required of him during our late-night planning sessions.

I smirk and consider texting Kabir a picture to prove that all my preparation was not in vain. The batch I’m flipping now is fluffy, crisp around the edges, and consistently shaped. In a single word: perfection.

Kendrick saunters over, shirtless, with a coffee mug in hand. He keeps his distance, respecting my space. I have absolutely no problem rubbing bodies when we’re in the heat of the moment pleasing our woman. Any other time, I prefer a hands-off approach with anyone but Jo.

“Need any help, Daddy Genius?”

I keep my focus set on the pancakes, especially the one in the middle of the pan. The make and model of this range is identical to the one I practiced on at home, but we’re on propane out here. The slightest variation could disrupt the final product. I didn’t come this far to only come this far.

“I’ve got one more batch to cook after this. Can you see if Jo’s awake?”

He takes off toward the Den—it is Sunday, after all—and I keep watching those edges, biding my time as I wait for the ideal moment to flip.

I’m arranging the final batch of pancakes on a serving plate when everyone starts to trickle into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Jo singsongs as she makes the rounds, greeting the others. Her hair is wet, so she must have showered. I hope she rested, too. Four orgasms isn’t a record for us, but after the weekend she’s endured—and with what Decker has planned tonight—I need to stay cognizant of her baser needs.

She wraps her arms around me last. Wordlessly, I reach over and snag a water bottle I already prepared for her. I can practically feel her eye roll as I bring the straw to her lips. She takes a long draw, then takes the bottle from my hands.

“Good girl,” I murmur, adding the last pancake to the stack.