Chapter 35
35
ELLIOT
D rew and Jackson bicker in the kitchen over who should have the honor of baking this year’s Christmas cookies while Ariana Grande’s “Santa Tell Me” blasts at an ear-splitting decibel.
“I called dibs first!” Jackson insists, his puppy-dog eyes wide and imploring. “You know how much I love baking, Drew. It’s like, my thing.”
Drew scoffs, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Oh please, you just want an excuse to eat the cookie dough. I’m the one with actual baking skills here, Jacky. Remember what you did to the pumpkin pie?”
Jackson’s ears turn an adorable shade of pink as he sputters indignantly. “That was a fluke! And your oven was set to Celsius!”
When Gerard and I returned from Colorado, we heard all about the “Great Pumpkin Pie Debacle.”
Apparently, Drew and Jackson hosted an impromptu Thanksgiving feast at the Hockey House for the players who couldn’t make it home for the holiday. It was a noble idea, fueled by a desire to create a sense of family and togetherness, but their execution left much to be desired.
Ever the enthusiastic but culinarily challenged friend, Jackson volunteered to tackle the pumpkin pie. He found a recipe online and dove headfirst into baking it with the same enthusiasm he brings to the football field. Little did he know, Oliver cooks in metric units despite being an All-American boy.
As the story goes, Jackson proudly placed his creation in the oven and waited for the magic to happen. Within minutes, smoke filled the kitchen, setting off the smoke alarm and sending the guys into a frenzy.
Alex captured it all on video and showed it to me. Jackson was a deer caught in headlights. He was wearing only a thin white T-shirt and red plaid boxers. His hair was tousled, and his face was full of fear as he stared helplessly at the chaos.
I still have questions. Where were his clothes? Were they stolen? Were they in the wash? And if they were in the wash, why were they in the wash?
The guys stumbled out into the chilly November air, huddling together on the front lawn as the distant wail of sirens grew louder. Poor Jackson shivered violently, his thin T-shirt and boxers no match for the biting wind.
The fire department arrived in a blaze of flashing lights and blaring horns. Firefighters swarmed the house, firehoses at the ready, searching for the source of the smoke. It was all very dramatic, like something out of a movie. Alex said he expected Jackson to faint into the arms of a hunky firefighter, but alas, he managed to stay upright, even as his lips turned an alarming shade of blue.
In the end, the damage was minimal. The pie had turned into a charred, smoking ruin, but the house was still standing. The firefighters gave the all clear to go back inside, but not before they sternly lectured Jackson about kitchen safety and wearing sensible clothing so he doesn’t get sick.
And yet he did—the flu to end all flu.
Gerard sidles up beside me, his presence warm and solid, and bumps my shoulder with his. “Think we should intervene before they start throwing flour at each other?”
I snort softly and shake my head. “Nah, let them duke it out. It’s more entertaining than the Christmas baking show.”
Gerard chuckles and watches them argue for a couple more minutes before clearing his throat loudly. Drew and Jackson freeze mid-argument. “Alright, children, that’s enough. How about this—Elliot and I will handle the cookies. You two can focus on beating each other in Super Smash Bros .”
Drew opens his mouth to protest, but Gerard silences him with a glare that could curdle milk. Jackson, on the other hand, is relieved. He shoots Gerard a grateful smile before hurrying out of the kitchen and dragging a grumbling Drew with him.
“Guess that’s settled then,” I say, walking into the kitchen. “You sure you want to do this with me, though? Like Jackson, I’m not exactly known for my culinary prowess.”
Gerard grins. “Aw, come on, it’ll be fun! We can blast some Christmas music, make a mess, and maybe even sneak a few bites of cookie dough when no one’s watching.”
He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and a traitorous flutter dances in my stomach. Damn him and his charming, boyish enthusiasm. Ever since I told him I love him, it’s been getting harder and harder to maintain my grumpy exterior around him.
An hour later, the kitchen resembles a festive war zone. Flour coats every surface, including Gerard’s face and my hair. Splatters of red and green icing decorate our clothes, the walls, and, somehow, even the ceiling. The warm, sugary scent of baking cookies fills the air, mingling with Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You” blaring from the small radio.
Gerard is in his element. He’s wearing Oliver’s frilly white apron, and a chef’s hat—that he found hidden in a cupboard—sits crookedly atop his blond hair. He looks like a big little kid playing dress-up .
In contrast, I have on Drew’s “Shake and Bake that Booty” apron. I protested when Gerard tossed it to me, but he grinned and said, “Drew would consider it an honor.”
Despite the mess and the inevitable clean-up that awaits us, baking with Gerard has been surprisingly fun. He’s a whirlwind of energy, dancing around the kitchen as he mixes, rolls, and decorates the cookies with endearing and exhausting enthusiasm.
At one point, he dabbed icing on my nose and then licked it off. It was as erotic as it was sweet, and naturally, he had no idea. I retaliated by flicking flour at him, which led to a brief but intense food fight that left us breathless from laughter.
The oven timer dings, bringing me back to the present, and Gerard springs into action. He quickly removes trays of perfectly golden cookies and sets them on the cooling racks, looking ridiculously proud of himself. “Ta-da! Behold, the fruits of our labor!”
I snort at his antics. “More like the fruits of your labor. I mostly just stood there looking pretty.”
Gerard winks at me. “And you did an excellent job at that, by the way.”
My cheeks warm, and I quickly turn around and wipe down the counter. My eyes catch a tube of red icing that somehow escaped the carnage of our baking battle. I pick it up and turn it over as an idea forms in my head.
It’s a ridiculous idea, really. The old Elliot would have dismissed it as too risky, too bold. But the new Elliot, who has embraced the chaos of loving Gerard, experiences a thrill of excitement.
I clear my throat, trying to sound casual as I say, “Hey, Gerard? Can you come here for a second? I need your help with something.”
Gerard bounds over, his face alight with curiosity. “What’s up, buttercup?”
I roll my eyes at the nickname but can’t entirely suppress a smile. “First of all, never call me that again. And second, I need you to put your hands on the counter and spread your legs. ”
Gerard blinks at me, confusion clouding his features. “Uh, okay? But why?”
I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Just trust me, okay?”
He hesitates momentarily, searching my face for any hint of my plan, but I keep my expression neutral. Realizing I’m not going to give anything away, he shrugs and complies. He places his large hands on the cool marble surface of the counter and spreads his legs, his back to me.
I take a moment to admire the view. Gerard’s ass is a modern marvel. It’s the kind of ass that belongs on the cover of a porn magazine or in a museum dedicated to the male form. And it’s all mine.
Taking a step closer, my heart hammers in my chest as I hook my fingers in the waistband of his sweatpants.
Gerard tenses, his head whipping around to peer over his shoulder. “Elliot, what are you?—”
Before he can finish his sentence, I yank his sweatpants and boxers down in one swift motion, exposing his bare ass to the cool air of the kitchen. Gerard yelps in surprise, his hands reflexively grabbing his cheeks.
I bat them away, my voice low and commanding as I tell him to keep his hands on the counter.
He gulps loudly, his eyes wide and dark with confusion and arousal. He obeys, slowly placing his hands back where they belong.
I uncap the tube of icing and bring it to the smooth, golden skin of his left ass cheek. Slowly and carefully, I trace a festive design.
Gerard shivers, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as I work. I can see the tension in his body by the way his ass muscles flex and twitch at the sensation of cold icing on his warm flesh.
I switch to Gerard’s right ass cheek, the tube of icing hovering above his smooth skin to continue the design. Gerard’s breathing turns ragged, and his fingers claw the counter.
The sounds of fighting, cursing, and the occasional burst of laughter from Drew and Jackson filter into the kitchen, reminding me that we’re not alone in the house. One of them could walk in and catch us in this compromising position at any moment. But instead of feeling anxious or embarrassed, I find myself excited by the risk.
I bite my lip, concentrating as I add flourishes and swirls to the curve of Gerard’s ass.Soon, the design takes shape beneath my hands. It’s a bunch of candy canes, as that’s about all I can draw.
Gerard’s head hangs low, and his back tenses as I continue my work. Knowing I can reduce this big, strong hockey player to a trembling mess makes me feel as powerful as Superman.
I add some final touches to the candy canes before stepping back to admire my handiwork with a critical eye. It’s not perfect—the lines are shaky, and the curves aren’t entirely symmetrical. But no one said I was Picasso.
“There. All done.” I cap the tube of icing and set it aside.
Gerard lifts his head and twists his body to try and catch a glimpse of my creation. “What is it?”
“Candy canes.”
Gerard huffs out a laugh. “Only you would think to decorate my butt like a Christmas cookie.”
I shrug, unrepentant. “What can I say? Baking cookies with you was fun, but this”—I wave a hand at my artwork—“is icing on the cake.”
He groans at the terrible pun. “You’re ridiculous.”
I smirk, encouraged by Gerard’s reaction. “You love it.”
He doesn’t deny it, just shifts his hips slightly to inadvertently present his ass to me like an offering. And who am I to refuse such a tempting treat?
I sink to my knees behind him, and my hands come up to grip the firm globes of his ass. The icing is cool and sticky beneath my palms. I lean in, my breath ghosting over the curve of his cheeks.
Gerard shivers, a soft gasp escaping his lips as I press a gentle kiss to his left ass cheek. My tongue swiftly darts out to trace the spiraling lines of the design. The sweetness of the icing mingles with the salty tang of his skin. It’s a potent combination that makes my head spin.
I take my time, savoring the moment as breathy moans fall from Gerard’s lips. I nibble and suck at the tender flesh, leaving behind a trail of reddened marks that stand out starkly against his pale skin.
Gerard rocks his hips back against my face in a silent plea for more, and I oblige him as I work my way across to his right cheek. He lets out a low, guttural moan, and the sound sends a burst of fire straight to my groin.
“Elliot,” he gasps, his voice ragged and strained. “That feels amazing.”
Pride swells in my chest at his compliment. Emboldened, I spread his cheeks apart, exposing the tight pink furl of his hole. Gerard tenses, a startled gasp escaping his lips as he realizes my intentions.
I lean in and drag the flat of my tongue over his entrance in one long, slow lick.
“Holy snickers!” His ass bucks back against my face.
I grin, pleased with his reaction, and do it again, swirling my tongue around the puckered rim. Gerard babbles a string of incoherent pleas as his hole flutters and clenches, trying to draw me in deeper. And I do by pointing my tongue and thrusting it inside.
When I breach the tight ring of muscle, Gerard lets out a choked sob. His hands scrabble at the countertop, fingernails digging harder into the marble.
I work my tongue in a steady rhythm, thrusting in and out of Gerard’s hole. His taste is intoxicating—musky and masculine, with a hint of sweetness from the icing. I can’t get enough. I bury my face between his cheeks, my nose pressing against his body as I tongue-fuck him with abandon.
Gerard’s thighs tremble with the effort of keeping himself upright. His toes curl in his fuzzy socks. “Please, Elliot. I need to touch myself. Can I take my hand off the counter? I’m so close…”
I consider denying him so that I can draw this out even longer. But the desperation in his tone undoes me. I pull back enough to murmur against his slick hole, “Go ahead, babe. Touch yourself for me.”
Gerard sobs in relief as he immediately releases his right hand from the counter. It flies to his straining erection. The sound of his hand working over his cock is loud and desperate.
I redouble my efforts, fucking my tongue into him harder, faster. Gerard’s hand becomes a blur on his dick as he rubs it with quick, frantic strokes. His breathing grows erratic, interspersed with high-pitched whines and grunts.
“Oh, oh! I’m gonna come,” he warns.
I seal my lips around his hole and suck hard, flicking my tongue rapidly over the sensitive rim, and that’s all it takes. Gerard cries out my name, his body seizing up as thick ropes of come splash onto the countertop. His hole spasms around my tongue as I work him through it, sucking and licking until he’s as limp as a whiskey dick.
He collapses forward onto the counter, gasping for air. I press a few gentle kisses to his fluttering hole before slowly standing up.
My erection throbs almost painfully in my jeans, but I ignore it for now. Instead, I grab a kitchen towel and tenderly wipe the remnants of icing and saliva from Gerard’s ass.
He sighs contentedly at my ministrations, completely blissed-out. When I’m done, I help him stand up straight and pull his sweatpants back up.
Gerard turns to face me, his cheeks flushed and eyes glazed. He cups my face in his big hands and draws me into a languid kiss, uncaring of where my mouth has been.
We make out lazily for mere seconds before the sound of Drew’s voice cuts through the haze of our raunchy little world. “Well, someone got his holly jollies off.”
I whip around to see Drew leaning against the doorframe with a shit-eating grin. Jackson stands beside him, his eyes comically wide as he takes in the carnage. The messy kitchen, Gerard’s “icing” smeared across the kitchen counter, and Gerard and I, flushed and disheveled, standing in the middle of it all.
“I will never be able to look at icing the same way ever again,” he mutters, his face paling.
Gerard runs a hand through his hair and smiles sheepishly. “Uh, hey, guys. We were just, um, finishing up the cookies.”
Drew snorts. “Oh, is that what we’re calling Elliot getting into the Christmas spirit by spreading holiday cheer all over your ass.”
I groan and bury my face in my hands. This cannot be happening. “Can we please not talk about this? In fact, can we all agree to forget this ever happened?”
Jackson, bless his heart, nods frantically while searching for an escape route. But Drew, never one to pass up an opportunity to tease, remains relentless.
“ Forget? Are you kidding me? This is the best thing that’s happened all year! Wait until the rest of the guys hear about this. Elliot Montgomery, resident grump and, now, secret ass-eating enthusiast.”
I lift my head from my hands to glare at Drew with all the venom I can muster. “If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I swear to God, I will rip your nuts off in your sleep.”
Drew’s grin widens at my threat. “Kinky. But seriously, kitten, there’s no need to be embarrassed. We’re all adults here. And besides, it’s not as if we didn’t already know you two were bumping uglies.”
I sputter, my face burning even hotter. “We are not bumping uglies.”
“Yeah,” Gerard says, putting his hands on his hips and scowling. “Before today, Elliot and I have only given each other hand jobs and blow jobs.”
God, give me strength.
Drew barks out a laugh, and I glance over at Jackson. He’s about to have an aneurysm. He chokes on a gasp, and his eyes bug out of his head. “I did not need to know that. God, I need to soak my eyes and brain in a vat of bleach. ”
Drew cocks his head to the side and studies us with an expression that is equal parts amused and skeptical. “Wait, you’re telling me that you two haven’t sealed the deal yet? No shots on goals? No home runs? No touchdown dances in the end zone?”
I groan, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. “No, Drew, we haven’t. And can we please stop with the sports metaphors for sex?”
Drew ignores my plea, his eyes widening in exaggerated shock. “Well, slap my ass and call me Sally! I thought for sure you two would be going at it like rabbits by now, considering the way you eye-fuck each other every chance you get.”
Gerard shifts uncomfortably beside me, his cheeks flushing a deep shade of red. I can feel the embarrassment radiating off him. “It’s not like that. We’re taking things slow. Building a strong foundation and all that jazz.”
Drew nods sagely, stroking his chin as if he’s some kind of relationship guru. “I see, I see. Very wise, my young Padawans. Delayed gratification can make the eventual consummation all the sweeter.”
I roll my eyes hard enough to break a world record. “Thank you for that nugget of wisdom, Obi-Wan. Now, can we please talk about literally anything else?”
Drew grins, clearly enjoying our discomfort. He turns to Jackson, who is about two seconds away from dying of a heart attack. “What do you think, Jacky? Should we give these two lovebirds some privacy so they can continue their little baking adventure?”
Jackson blanches, shaking his head vehemently. “Oh, hell no. I do not want to be anywhere near this kitchen if they’re going to be doing more of… that. I say we all go watch a Disney movie or something else wholesome and family-friendly to cleanse our minds.”
I nod eagerly and latch onto the idea like a lifeline. “Yes, great idea, Jackson. Let’s do that. I’ll even pick the movie.”
Drew sighs dramatically, as if we’re asking him to endure some great hardship. “Fine, fine. I suppose I can put my teasing on hold to preserve Jackson’s delicate sensibilities.”
He turns on his heel but pauses in the doorway, glancing back at Gerard and me with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Oh, and guys? You might want to wipe down that counter before Oliver sees it and has a conniption. You know how he is about cleanliness.”
With that parting shot, he saunters out of the kitchen, whistling a jaunty tune. Jackson follows close behind, muttering something about needing to find his happy place.
And Gerard and I? We clean up and leave the kitchen, taking what happened to our graves.