25. Beck
TWENTY-FIVE
BECK
I’m back in the kitchen again, grooving to Brazilian samba and making Donovan cookies. I think this is my happy place, because even though my heart still feels on the verge of splintering every time he says something that gives me hope he could have real feelings for me, but then pulls back, I wouldn’t be anywhere else.
Donovan’s sitting on the other side of the island, writing in his notebook, and I’ve just put the first batch of my new recipe in the oven. I have a good feeling about this one—I’ve taken all the notes he’s given me from my other attempts at recreating his aunt’s recipe, and even if this isn’t the one, it’s still the best molasses cookie dough I’ve ever made.
We’ll see what the verdict is when they come out of the oven.
“Damn.”
I look over and Donovan’s frowning down at his notebook.
“What?”
“I’m out of pages. Not a big deal, I’ll just?—”
“Hang on.” I dash to my room, search in the detritus of business notes and color swatches and cash flow projections on my desk. I find the notebook I bought for Donovan weeks ago and run back to the kitchen.
“What’s this?” he asks, taking it from my hand when I hold it out.
“I got it in town the other day.” I don’t specify how long ago I was thinking about him, wanting to do something nice for him.
“This is amazing. Thanks, Beck.” He looks up and grabs my wrist lightly, tugs me in, and plants a kiss on my mouth. I kiss back, lightly, mindful of the cookies in the oven. When I pull away, he looks slightly stunned.
“You know, you’re really too good to me,” he says, cracking open the notebook. “I’ve got by far the better end of this deal.”
“Huh?”
“You cook for me, bake for me, get me useful presents. I’m just a barnacle.”
“You give me orgasms,” I say before I can overthink it.
“Yeah, but you give me those, too. Sex is a wash.”
I know Donovan’s not giving himself enough credit. “Remember the first day we met? In Hot Brew?”
“The day you were so hungover, but I wanted to sleep with you, anyway?”
“You make it sound so romantic,” I tease, then tense. We’re not supposed to be romantic. “Anyway, you saw the state I was in. You made me drink water. You bought me a greasy breakfast sandwich.”
“Best cure for a hangover there is,” he says.
“My point is, you’ve been taking care of me since the minute we met. You do more than your share with Cleo. You’ve been amazing moral support for the shop. You’re not a barnacle. You’re… amazing.” The last word is quiet. Maybe he won’t notice what I’m really saying.
“Thanks.” He’s quiet, too, as if uncomfortable with the praise.
The oven timer goes off, saving me from my own sentimentality. “Okay, in a few minutes, we’ll find out how close I got this time.” I pull the fragrant tray of cookies out of the oven, put in the next tray I’ve already prepared.
Donovan scratches away in the new notebook and I take a few pictures of the cookies on the tray to post to the new social feed I set up for the shop. Then I snap a candid photo of him, bent over his work, lock of hair hanging over his forehead, shoulders straining the seams of his olive green tee.
We don’t have any pictures of the two of us, I suddenly realize. My phone has become overrun with photos of Cleo, of cookies, of the in-progress shop, some selfies of me by the pool, a few of Donovan, too, because I’m human and am not going to pass up the opportunity to snap a picture of the man without a shirt on—with his okay, of course. But I’m not sure there’s a single one of the two of us. The thought makes me oddly sad. I have endless pics of me with my former boyfriends.
But then, Donovan’s not my boyfriend.
While I’m scrolling through my photos, he comes to my side and wraps his arms around my middle. Just like a boyfriend would. “Are they cool enough yet?” he practically whines.
“Almost. Want some milk?”
“Just the cookie.”
I put down my phone and lean over the counter to test the temperature of one of the big dark brown discs. He leans with me, the solid lines of his body framing mine, surrounding me with his strength and warmth. I hand him a no-longer piping hot cookie, then take a chance. “Can we take a picture?”
“Sure,” he says. “Better do it quick, before I take a bite. These smell incredible.”
I raise the phone with the camera reversed. It’s startling to see myself in the frame beside him, my own face somehow less familiar to me than his after weeks of the privilege of looking at him. He smiles like the pro he is, still pressed against my back. Our intimate position is unmistakable, but that’s okay. This photo will just be for me. I smile and click the button.
Over my shoulder, Donovan breaks and takes a comically enormous bite of cookie, and I keep snapping as he makes a silly face, his cheeks bulging out. My own cheeks are stretched wide as I finally set down the phone and turn to face him.
“You goof,” I say, laughing. “Don’t choke.”
“Mrghph,” he says with his mouth full.
“I’m getting you that milk.” I slip out of his reach, grab the jug from the fridge.
He gratefully takes the glass I hand him, sips, and clears his throat.
“Well?” I’m more than a little nervous about his review.
He takes a much smaller bite, chews, swallows. “How did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“You did it. You made Aunt Sharleen’s molasses cookies. It’s like Ratatouille over here, transporting me back to Christmas in Apple Vale, New York.”
I deflect from my relief and delight at his words by saying, “You’re from a place called Apple Vale? It sounds adorable.”
“You’d love it.” He takes another bite and moans. “Oh god, really, Beck. You did it. I love these.”
He loves the cookies. Am I greedy for wanting him to love me, too?
I take a cookie of my own and bite into it, savoring the toothsome texture, not too hard or too soft, just the right amount of chewiness. The spice is readily apparent, the heat a subtle undertone.
“How did you get the warm spicy flavor? It’s different from the other batches.”
“You have a good palate,” I say with approval. “It’s my secret ingredient. Black pepper.”
“No way,” he says, looking at the cookie as if he might be able to see the black flecks.
“I also upped the molasses content and changed the ratio of brown sugar to white sugar. No big deal.” I shrug modestly and take another bite. They really are delicious.
“Well, I think it is a big deal. Can I get a copy of the recipe to send to my sister? She’d probably like to have it.”
“Of course. I’ll put together a whole care package for her with some of the cookies and the recipe, too.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Donovan protests, snagging another cookie and knocking my hip with his. “You’ve already done enough.”
Right. That’s something a boyfriend would do. God. This is getting confusing. “Okay. Fine. I’ll email you the recipe.”
“Thanks.” Then I’m being kissed, thoroughly, with long sweeps of Donovan’s tongue. His mouth tastes like my creation, perfectly spicy-sweet. I open up to the onslaught, hearing him drop his cookie so he can wrap his arms around me, pulling me closer and pressing me into the counter simultaneously. “How else can I thank you?” he asks huskily.
My brain is offline, my body riding high on endorphins and sugar. “Fuck me,” I manage to get out.
“Right here?” he asks, slotting his thigh between my legs, letting me press myself against him to relieve some of the ache that’s ramping up at lightning speed.
We’ve never fucked in the kitchen. My flash of guilt at defiling this beautiful space is gone the second Donovan’s hand slips under the waistband of my shorts and finds its unerring way to my hole. “C-cleo,” I stammer. “L-lube.”
“Stay here,” he orders. His hand disappears and then he leaves me, panting, clutching the edge of the island. He whistles and herds Cleo into my room, dips inside and comes out, closing the door firmly behind him. He’s holding the bottle of lube that had formerly been standing at the ready on my nightstand.
He’s back in front of me before I can rethink this. “Turn around,” he says, so I do. Easy to follow directions when all I want is for him to be inside me. He lifts my shirt, and I obediently raise my arms so he can take it off. Then he pushes between my shoulder blades until I’m bent so far over that my chest grazes the cold marble countertop. I jerk at the sensation, but his hand holds me firmly in place.
It’s arousing as hell to be held there while he stands behind me, unzipping himself one-handed. A moment later I can hear the slap of a hand jerking off a bare, unlubed cock. I imagine him pushing into me like that, dry, and I clench at the imagined sting, the stretch. I know he won’t do it, but I’d let him if he wanted to. That’s how far gone I am.
He jerks himself while my own cock, full and aching, presses uselessly against the edge of the counter with no real relief. My hands can’t find purchase on the smooth surface, the cookie trays and drying racks out of my reach. I spread my fingers wide on the slippery marble as my entire body tenses with anticipation. Finally, his hand still a satisfying weight in the center of my back, he eases my shorts down along with my underwear and at last makes use of the lube by opening the cap one-handed, squirting it straight from the bottle over my crack. His thumb spreads it liberally over my hole, then pushes inside, making me grunt and stick my ass out farther.
“You want more?” he asks rhetorically, but I wiggle my ass in agreement, anyway. He repeats the process, squirting more lube, then stuffing it inside me with the thick, blunt pad of his thumb. The head of my cock bobs under the lip of the counter, in search of something wet and welcoming to sink into.
“More. Your cock,” I order desperately when he pushes a third load of lube inside me. “Now.”
I feel the tip of him prodding at my hole, but then he stops before giving me what I need. “Shit. I forgot a condom.”
I feel the hand at my back start to move away and I bark out, “It’s okay. Just—keep going.” I don’t want to move from this position until we’re both so fucked out we can no longer stand. “Please.”
He returns his hand to my back, and I practically sigh in relief. I hear the squirt of the lube bottle one more time, and then he’s pushing his way inside in one long stroke.
“Fuck,” I moan. He’s so deep I can feel his pelvic bones against the swell of my ass. Then he starts moving, and it feels so good, but I’m desperate for something around my dick. “Touch me, Donovan. Please,” I add, not above begging.
His hand, sticky with lube, reaches around and encases me. I hiss at the pleasure of fucking into his hand while he’s fucking my ass, all while he holds me down against the counter, a cold hard contrast to the warm live body blanketed over me, pumping inside me.
“God, you feel good,” he grunts. “You’re so hot. This ass is so fucking perfect, taking me bare.”
Fucking without a condom doesn’t feel all that different for me, though it’s a little rougher without the barrier to ease the way. I love it.
“Don’t stop,” I beg, wanting the delicious torture of being at his mercy while my hands slip and scrabble over the marble countertop to last forever.
“Not gonna stop,” he promises, changing the angle of his thrusts to hit my prostate. I jump at the extra sensation, thrusting back as he pushes forward, and he digs just that much deeper.
I swear, loudly and mindlessly, the friction on my dick pushing me dangerously close to coming.
“Are you ready?” he asks. “I’m gonna?—”
For the first time, it hits me that he’s going to come inside me, not a condom. I’ll have his load seeping out of me for hours. “Do it,” I grit out as my own orgasm rushes through me and out my dick. I spare a vague worry for the under-island cabinets, hoping Donovan’s caught most of my spend. He keeps a hand on me until I’m done, and it’s good I have the counter for support because my knees feel loose as homemade jam. He takes his one wet hand and the hand from my back, grabs my hips, and really goes to town, thrusting into me hard, then groans what I’ve come to know and love as his orgasm noise, a rumble that emanates from the center of his chest.
“Yes, fuck, yes,” I babble as he slows and his grip on my hips lessens. “Yes.”
“Yes,” he agrees. He seems like he’s about to pull out, so I reach around with one of my now boneless arms and grope behind me, holding him in place as best I can. He gets the message, I guess, because he stops trying to pull out and instead drapes himself over me. I’m surprised to feel his shirt on my sweaty back, and in my mind’s eye I picture us, me naked, my shorts around my ankles, bent ninety degrees over the counter, while Donovan stands behind me, almost fully dressed, his cock still buried inside me.
Eventually he moves, and since I’ve started to lose feeling in my legs, I let him. His cock slips free in a gush of fluid that immediately starts dripping down my inner thigh. It’s gross and hot at the same time. I’ve done it bare before, but everything with Donovan feels…more.
I push myself upright, crack my back audibly. It’s only slightly awkward to reach down and pull up my shorts. I’m a mess, but I’ll clean up in a second. For now, I turn around and survey Donovan, whose face is still ruddy from his exertions, and whose shorts are pulled up but not buttoned. He looks at me with a rueful expression. “Are you okay? I think I got carried away.”
“That makes two of us,” I say, patting the front of his chest reassuringly. “I’m fine.” My nose twitches. “But something’s not right.” The kitchen has been perfumed with the combination of cinnamon, ginger, and the various other spices in Aunt Sharleen’s recipe, but now it suddenly smells of burning.
The realization hits me at the same time as Donovan, apparently, because he shouts, “The cookies,” as I reach for the oven mitts.
“I forgot to set the timer,” I explain as I open the oven door and black smoke pours out. “Open the doors, please.”
He throws the French doors wide open to let the noxious smoke escape. The tray of cookies is charred black, and the pan might be a loss, but at least the smoke detector doesn’t go off.
The irony of the lost batch hits me. It seems symbolic of our entire roommates-with-benefits situation. It’s all well and good until someone forgets that when time runs out, something gets burned.
It’s me. I’m the one who’s going to be left a charred husk of myself. And there’s nothing I can do to avoid it.