by Cassie James
“You can wipe that grin off your face,” he informs me as he crosses his arms over his chest. There’s a small grin twitching at the corner of his lips as he continues, “This isn’t funny, Gemma. How the hell do I, the worst cook on the whole damn team, draw a fucking cookie cutter out of a box of sex toys?”
“That is extraordinarily bad luck,” I manage as I snigger at him. Lars picks up a bag of chocolate chips and hefts them across the counter at me. I shriek, laughter spilling from my lips as I duck below the side of the island. They thunk against the wall and slide to the floor.
“C’mon out, Gemma, we need to get our dicks going so we can get them in the oven.”
My eyes go wide, and I pop out from below the island just to be hit in the face with a handful of flour. I splutter through the mess, cracking up as I run a hand down my face. “Listen, I was going to say we could decorate a dick cookie for all the guys, but…”
“But there wouldn’t be one nearly big enough for Andre?”
I press my lips into a thin line, eyes I’m sure comically wide as Lars stares me down across the island. All I offer is a shrug, and it’s his turn for hysterically wide eyes.
We keep staring each other down until a wide grin breaks out over his face again. “You got a little something there,” he says as he uses his flour covered hand to indicate in the direction of my entire face.
“You know what, this…” I wave my hand in front of my face, “is totally a penalty.”
“For what!” he bellows as his hands go to his hips.
“Foul play.”
“Foul play,” he scoffs, and I nod as seriously as I can manage while we’re both standing here trying not to grin at one another. “And how exactly are you penalizing me, ref? I don’t see a ball or a crossbar around here anywhere.”
I tap my chin like I’m actually considering my answer. Truth be told, I’ve been trying to figure out how to get him as half-naked as me since the second his lips touched mine. “In this kitchen, you pay penance by losing clothes. Shirt off, mister.”
He swallows a laugh as he tugs the hem of his shirt up an inch at a time, slowly revealing more and more of his delicious six-pack. “Hey, what should I do if the ref is staring at me all creepy style?”
“Probably just deal with it. Ref’s rules and all that.”
“I think the ref deserves a penalty. Y’know, to level the playing field and all that.”
“Nah,” I say as I side step the island and head toward the fridge. We’re gonna have some pretty crappy cookies without butter and eggs. Bless his heart, at least he tried. “Ref started with a handicap. Your shirtlessness levels the playing field to ref’s pantslessness.”
“You don’t have any pants on under there?” he asks as he squints in the direction of my legs. Yeah, okay, maybe the shirt is like five sizes too big, but it’s my favorite sleep shirt.
“Nope!”
A wicked thought occurs to me then. Wait until he realizes I’m not wearing a bra either…
“How the hell is that fair!” You have no idea, pal. “You’re clearly using your ass… ets to distract me.”
I turn from the fridge with a large overdone wink. “Someone’s inching awfully close to being called for an action contrary to good sportsmanship.”
“Is it you, you dirty cheater?” he asks as I drop the dairy on the counter and start sifting through the groceries he brought along. I pick up a package of yeast and quirk an eyebrow at him.
“Sure isn’t,” I tell him as he shrugs. I toss the yeast toward the other end of the island, making a mental note to whip up some cinnamon rolls for the first practice after break. As an afterthought, I add, “Can you hand me your shirt, please?”
One of his bushy ginger eyebrows snakes toward his perfectly coiffed hair, but he hands the shirt over regardless. “Hey, what the fuck!” he shouts when I wipe my face with the front of it.
Serves the asshole right for throwing flour in my face in the first place.
“Throwing food is rude and wasteful,” I inform him matter-of-factly before turning toward my under-the-counter spinning cabinet for a bag of the one thing he couldn’t be assed to buy.
He growls, and a pleasant warmth trickles down my spine. I clench my thighs as discreetly as possible before shaking the bag of powered sugar at him. “Listen, you don’t get to hang out in my kitchen being all sexy without at least being helpful, too.”
“So you’re looking to burn your house down on Christmas?” I roll my eyes as I bend to dig my hand-mixer out from under the counter. I really hope Dad gets me that KitchenAid I asked for.
Lars wolf-whistles, and I realize he must be getting one hell of a show right now. After twenty-three days of stellar sex and learning to be open and vulnerable, I don’t even have it in me to be embarrassed. I shake my ass at him instead and bite back a giggle at the way he breathes my name out on a groan.
“Listen, perv,” I say as I pop up from the cabinets with my mixer and a large bowl, “I think you can probably handle preheating the oven to three-fifty and getting the heavy whipping cream from the fridge.”
He rolls his eye before stalking across the room, grumbling the entire way. I listen closely as he fumbles along behind me, a few too many beeps coming from the stove as he whispers, “C’mon you stupid son-of-a-bitch.”
I smirk down at the counter as I gather up the ingredients for my grandma’s super secret icing recipe. Lars eventually quits cussing, and I hear the door to the fridge open before he grunts and starts rifling through it. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
I have to bite my lip to keep from outright laughing at him.
It’s seriously a wonder he manages to feed himself at all.
I’m well into the process of creaming the butter for the icing by the time he appears at my side. I glance toward him, noting immediately that he looks way too freaking proud of himself.
I glance down at the thunk of something slamming onto the counter, and I groan. He sure did find cream in the fridge.
Whipped cream.
“That’s not what I was talking about.”
I wrap my hand around the cold can, a phenomenally dirty idea flitting through my mind at the feel of the can in my hand.
“It’s whip cream!”
“No, it’s whipped cream.” It’s truly a very naughty, no good idea forming in my mind. I only barely manage to mutter out, “I asked for heavy whipping cream.”
“There’s a difference?”
I’m too lost in popping the cap from the can to really pay attention to his kitchen-tantrum and sullen tone. Yeah, there’s a difference, but for the life of me I can’t seem to remember what it is right now.
I turn the can up like I’m going to squirt a dollop into my mouth, but at the last second, I turn the can around and spray the whipped cream all over Lars’ sinfully perfect chest. He grunts in surprise, but the grunt turns to a groan in his throat when I dart forward to to run my tongue along the defined line of his pecs, licking a patch of whipped cream away with deliberate care.
“Gemma.” There’s a warning hiding somewhere in the growly undertone of his voice, but I ignore it in favor of swiping my tongue along another patch of his skin, cleaning him entirely of the whipped cream before lifting the can again.
Lars grunts and wrestles it from my hand, leaning in to wrap an arm around my waist and drag me close in the process. My chest presses against him, nipples pebbling under the thin material of my t-shirt. He fists a hand in the baggy material at the small of my back as he bows his body over mine, dragging the shirt up as he kisses me like a man starved.
My arms go around his neck, shivers tingling down my spine as he drops the fistful of my shirt in favor of pressing my back against the side of the island. Our lips tangle, tongues fighting for dominance for the short moment between him pressing me against the island and hefting me up in a one armed grip until I’m sitting on the counter. The thunk of the whipped cream canister hitting the counter sends a wave of goos
ebumps over my entire body.
“You get one chance,” he whispers against my lips, beard scratching against my skin in a way that sends a jolt straight to my pussy.
“For what?”
“Stop this now, or you’re never getting your dick cookies.”
My brain misfires when he grinds his dick against me as he talks about the cookies, and I know we’re about to start another kitchen fire. Just, you know, of a sexier variety.
“You know what they say—” I start, but trail off with a groan when he slips a hand under my shirt to rest on my waist.
I’m sorry, what was I saying?
“Stay out of the kitchen if you don’t want to get burned?” he asks as he trails a path from my lips, along my jaw and down my neck, leaving a trail of devastation in his path.
He trails a hand from the outside of my thigh toward the inside, stopping short of the place I want him most in favor of trailing his fingers toward my knee. It’s torture. But it’s so fucking delicious.
“Do you want to get burned, Gemma?”
The yes! catches in the back of my throat when he lowers himself to his knees, spreading my legs with his wide shoulders as he settles in between them. His hand appears on the counter to grope around for a moment, and my stomach somersaults when he snatches the whipped cream from the counter.
Fuck. Yes.
The shivers return tenfold when the creamy, cool topping touches my skin. I bite my lip as I watch him dip his head, tracing the line of whipped cream with his tongue from my ankle to my knee. My head falls back, though, when he sprays a line of whipped cream along the inside of my thigh.
His beard scratches against the sensitive skin between my legs as he licks me clean. It’s a mind-numbing mash-up of sensations, his rough beard dragging and scratching against one thigh as he nips, licks, and kisses the other. A moan falls from my lips when he shoves my legs far enough apart to hurt me in just the right way.
He dips a finger under the front edge of my ugly Christmas panties, pulling them to the side as he eyes me long enough to make me shift under his intense stare. My legs start to come back together as I squirm, and he surprises a squeak out of me when he grabs my legs and throws them over his shoulders before urging me to lie on my back. I don’t have it in me to give a shit when something clatters from the counter to the floor with a loud thud.
Fuck the mess, I’ll get it later.
His fingers are back in my panties, yanking them to the side before he dives straight into my pussy. My legs tense on his shoulders at the sudden, electric feeling coursing through my veins. He circles my clit with his tongue before sucking the hard nub between his lips, nipping with a light touch that sets my world on fire.
Lars devours me, working me into a frenzy with just his lips, teeth, and tongue. My back arches off the counter, fingers grappling against the countertop as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through my body.
“Fucking delicious,” he mutters when he lets my panties fall back in place, grazing over my sensitive lady bits so unexpectedly it makes me jerk. Everything’s a tingly, fiery mess, and all I want is to get burned over and over again.
Lars lowers my legs from his shoulders, and they hang uselessly over the edge of the island. I don’t even consider moving, knowing my legs would just give the fuck out the second I tried to slide from the countertop. So I let myself lie there, chest heaving as I try to recover enough to consider my plan of attack for returning the favor.
I’m pretty sure I’ve got the fixings for one hell of a banana split in the fridge…
All thoughts of returning the favor with the sexiest banana split known to man fly out the kitchen window when Lars climbs to his feet, pushing his pants over his hips as he stands. The flash of a foil packet in his hands makes the ache between my legs twinge all over again, and I’m pretty freaking sure I actually pant at the sight of his thick, long cock straining over the band of his boxer-briefs as he pushes them down, too.
Lars rolls the condom over his cock, a hard glint in his hazel eyes as he stares down at me. He reaches for me, yanking my hips over the edge of the counter until the wood digs into the small of my back painfully. I don’t even consider protesting, though, because as hard as the wood digs into my back, it’s nothing compared to the feeling of him teasing his length against me before inching the head of his dick into me slowly.
He stills for a moment, eyes sinking closed, before he edges forward—pushing and pushing until he’s buried deep inside of me, and I feel like I might combust if he doesn’t make me cum soon. I try to roll my hips against him, but all I succeed in doing is slipping further off the counter with a shriek.
Lars pulls me up quickly, hooking his hands under my knees as I flail between the urge to wrap my arms around his neck or fall back against the counter. I settle for bracing against the countertop, fingers wrapping around the edges painfully as I hang precariously over the edge.
My body aches with the need for release, and I do all I can to grind myself against him, desperate for relief from the pain searing through my core. I drag a hand away from the counter to wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him down until his forehead’s pressed against mine as he fucks me carefully.
“Ruin me,” I whisper, our lips brushing over the three syllables, and my eyes roll back in my head when he doubles his pace.
It’s risky how tenuous my grip is on the counter. I’d definitely get hurt if I fell. But as Lars works himself into a punishing tempo, rocking his body into mine over and over again with exquisite exactness, I realize that I just don’t care.
The fire that’s burning between us is white hot, blinding in its intensity, and I know to the very core of me that I’d let his touch scorch me every day until I died if it always felt like this.
And actually, I have a feeling that it always will.
Forty-Two
Gemma
December 25
I groan and grumble, sleep-filled eyes barely open as I stumble toward the front door and the incessant pounding that started about two minutes ago and still hasn’t stopped. It’s not even light outside yet, who the hell feels compelled to bother me this early?
I get my answer about thirty seconds later as I wrench the door open without any semblance of good manners.
“What?” I snap.
Edric stands in front of me, a tan peacoat accentuating his beautiful skin and highlighting the taper of his waist. He looks properly remorseful as he stands in front of me, fully responsible for interrupting the deep sleep I’d been desperately in need of.
“What are you doing here so early?” I ask, forcing my voice to soften.
He reaches for me, tugging me toward him by my hips. “I couldn’t wait any longer,” he admits.
“What time is it?”
Edric is Christmas. The last day. Obviously, I’d been able to deduce that last night since he’s the only one I haven’t shared a date with yet. We hadn’t gotten a chance to talk plans since we’re off from practice, but I’d assumed he’d at least show up after the sunrise.
“It’s six.” I gape at him. “I’m sorry, I’d been up almost two hours already, love. I couldn’t wait a minute longer. It was worse than waiting for Santa to come fill the stocking at the end of my bed.”
I blink at him, a full minute passing before I remember he spent the first years of his life living in Manchester. He got stockings at the end of his bed instead of over the chimney.
That’s not even the point, Gemma.
Realizing we’re both standing here in the cold, I step back and gesture him inside so I can firmly shut the door between us and the chilly late December air.
He shrugs out of his coat as I try—and fail—to muffle a yawn.
“What’s that?” I ask, noticing the thing in his hands for the first time.
He holds it up for me to get a better look. “Merry Christmas, Gemma. Our last Advent adventure is an instant camera.” He turns it over in his hands. “Would have made more sense
to put this day one, eh? Then you could have catalogued every day with it. Well… you know, for those people sharing their calendars with one person instead of a rugby team’s worth.”
“You’re not going to revenge porn me later or anything, are you?”
His eyes widen with horror as he shoves his hands behind his back like taking the camera out of eyesight will somehow erase my question.
It’s a fair one, though. I don’t exactly want to see pictures of me someday plastered online so that people can poke fun at all my little flaws or worse—masturbate to them.
I draw the line at twenty-five people masturbating to me.
All those other men out there can find their own damn fantasies.
“I should brush my teeth,” I blurt out as the reality of Edric being here and being ready to jump right into it finally sinks in.
I don’t wait for him to answer. I turn and dart to the bathroom where I brush the last remnants of sleep away from my mouth and then carefully refasten my sloppy updo so that at least half of it isn’t sticking straight out behind me anymore.
When I step out, Edric’s waiting for me in the bedroom instead of the living room where I left him. He sits on the very edge of my bed like a nervous dog that’s waiting to be told it can’t be on the furniture.
“Hope it’s okay, love. I just realized I’m one dumb bloke showing up here like this. What if we just cuddle a bit? Maybe you’ll even fall back asleep if my chat is bad enough,” he jokes.
“I would never,” I scoff. “The accent is too sexy.”
Like Jean-Luc and Mateo, his accent isn’t over-pronounced after years of living in the US, but there’s still just enough of it there to send a rush of pleasure through me every time he talks. There’s just something about a man with a light accent…
Knowing there’s no way I’m going back to bed now, I decide to make the best of Edric’s surprise arrival.
Day twenty-five.
My last day to have these men with no strings attached.