Chapter 12 Indecent Exposure
INDECENT EXPOSURE
Jack
She should’ve been devastated.
Her perfect gingerbread house and my amateur boat house collapsed like a New England roof in an ice storm, gumdrops rolling across the floor, icing sliding down like sticky snow.
Instead, Audrey laughed.
Really laughed—head tipped back, cheeks flushed, shoulders loose.
Like it didn’t matter that she’d closed the store on a busy holiday weekend all for a chance at the free advertising and prestige that winning the Gingerbread Showcase would bring her—only to have the whole town watch her bakery pride nosedive into rubble before the newspaper photographer could snap their picture.
I felt that laugh in my chest. Suspiciously close to my heart.
Even now, after we packed up the gingerbread crumbs and loaded it and the rest of the paraphernalia onto her cart and rolled through the back entrance of Making Whoopie, that same happiness still radiates off her, illuminating the dimly lit bakery.
Just this morning she was cool, dodging eye contact, pretending our kiss by the Christmas tree never happened, focused entirely on work and winning. Now she tosses her scarf aside, hair tumbling out of its icing-covered braid, looking at me like she just won another James Beard award.
“Thank you for today.” Her voice is low but laced with something more sensual than gratitude.
I blink, caught off guard for the umpteenth time today. “For… what?” I add a touch of flirt to my voice, very much liking the mood she’s creating. “Adding gingerbread demolition to my ever-growing résumé?”
Her mouth tilts, sly and soft at once. “For making it fun.”
Her words shouldn’t undo me the way they do. But the way it sounds like she couldn’t have had fun without me and the way she’s looking at me—like I’m a lot more than a consolation prize—hits harder than Felix’s personal trainer in the boxing ring.
I want to ask, cross-examine her like a witness—What changed, Miss Nouel? What made you go from ignoring Exhibit A (our kiss) to Exhibit B (launching yourself at me)?
But then she moves. Her arms wind around my neck, her body presses flush against mine, and for once, the lawyer in me shuts up. Helps when her mouth covers mine.
We stumble farther into the kitchen, her lips fierce, her laugh breaking between kisses. My back slams into a rack of cooling trays, sending a metallic crash echoing through the empty room.
“Sorry,” she gasps, already tugging at my scarf like it’s personally offended her.
“Don’t apologize.” My hands tangle in her hair, sending a drift of powdered sugar into the air. The stuff glitters down like we’ve triggered some kind of bakery snow globe.
We turn, bumping into the counter, a mixing bowl clattering to the floor. My curse is muffled against her mouth.
She grins, her fingers fisted tightly in my shirt.
I reach out to brace myself, but instead of the table, my palm meets a leftover piping bag on the cart from the competition. A sharp squeeze and pfffft—icing squirts across the stainless steel surface in a perfect arc.
Audrey freezes, eyes wide. “You—” Her voice cracks into laughter. “You just frosted my table.”
“Not the worst euphemism I’ve ever heard.” I lick a streak off my finger, slow and deliberate.
Her cheeks flush pink, then she yanks me to her. Her mouth is cinnamon and sugar and something uniquely hers, and I’m a lost man.
We careen sideways, my elbow knocking a whisk off the counter. It spins across the tile, a metallic wheeeeee that might as well be cheering us on.
Her sweater rides up under my hands, warmth meeting my palms. I pull it the rest of the way off, pale skin more luminous than any string of Christmas lights I’ve ever seen. Her cranberry-colored bra, a perfect match for her Crocs, hits me hard in both the chest and the groin.
“Merry Christmas, Jack,” I mumble like a prayer as I stroke the curve of her waist with my thumb.
Her laugh turns into a moan as she arches into me.
God, she’s gorgeous—hair wild, lips kiss-swollen, laughter and heat blending until I’m not sure which is making me harder.
The prep table gleams behind her, spotless save for the long, curing ribbon of icing I inadvertently piped.
I hoist her onto it, then drag a finger through the rogue frosting before smearing it across the tops of her breasts, sticky and sweet.
She looks down at the white line, then back at me, incredulous. “You decorating me?”
“What can I say?” I suck the cream off her skin as I reach behind her to unclasp her bra. “You taught me well.” Her breasts, freed, weigh heavy in my hands, her toes curling against my hips.
Before I can lick every bit of frosting, she reaches for my shirt. Seams stretch and rip, and one of my Henley’s buttons pings across the floor. And then her hands skim my chest, but instead of frosting, her nails leave trails of heat.
I bury my mouth against her neck, biting just enough to make her gasp. She clutches at me like she can’t get close enough, and hell, I feel the same—like I’ve been starving and suddenly stumbled into a feast.
Her jeans are a battle. Tight denim, my impatient fingers, her wriggling hips—it’s chaos that sends a container of cookie cutters from the shelf beneath the table tumbling to the floor in a chorus of metallic jingles.
And when her pants are finally off, inside out in my hand, I feel like I’ve just won an Oscar—and Audrey’s the trophy in cranberry lace and fuzzy holiday socks.
“Sexy,” I rasp, dragging the lace away, my frosting-coated fingers making a mess of her. “Festive.” Leaving the sock on, I kiss its arch.
She rolls her eyes, then gasps when my fingers stroke her open. Wet, hot, already ready for me.
I bend, tasting her, proving myself right—that she’s sweeter than frosting.
Lost to sensation, Audrey braces her heels on the table, lowering her knees, allowing me better access to feast.
In seconds, her earlier amusement is replaced with whimpers of need, then moans of urgency as I press my tongue deeper, savoring longer.
“Jack.” The word breaks from her, wrecked and pleading.
I kiss my way back up her trembling body, leaving a trail of lust and sugar smeared across her belly. Her hands drag at me, pulling me closer until I’m braced between her thighs.
She’s wild, radiant, spread out like temptation itself.
The woman who has no time for nonsense but relishes holiday décor.
Whose work ethic could rival a Fortune 500 CEO’s but who laughed through today’s failure.
A woman who—most thankful of all—has stopped pretending she isn’t affected by this thing between us. This need.
My forehead drops to hers. “Audrey—”
“Now.” The whisper is soft and urgent.
And God help me, making quick, yet sticky work of my belt and zipper, I’m right there, poised at her entrance, the world collapsing to sugar, steel, and the woman spread out beneath me like the sweetest sin.
Audrey
“Please, Jack—just… inside me.”
The words tear out of me, raw and desperate, like I’ve been holding them back since that first kiss under the tree. No—longer than that. Probably since he put his hand in my till box at the Christmas tree lighting and saved Skippy and me from feline annihilation.
“Protection?”
“I’m good.” I turn my head, licking frosting off his wrist where it braces beside my head. “And I’m on birth control.” I catch his eyes. “You?”
“Yes.” He drops his head. “Totally good. Promise.”
I reach down, wrap my hand around him—thick and hard and throbbing. “Now.” I touch the tip to my entrance and shiver.
“Fuck.” With one hard thrust, he’s inside me, stretching, filling, claiming, until my head tips back against the stainless steel and a broken sound escapes my throat.
“Yes,” I breathe, clutching his shoulders. “Yes, yes—”
He groans, forehead pressed to mine, pushing deeper until the world blurs to sugar and heat, and everything else falls away.
I’m not thinking about margins. Or how closing the bakery this afternoon might cost me six dozen whoopie pies’ worth of sales or whether losing the Gingerbread Showcase was a PR misfire. For once, I’m not running a cost–benefit analysis on my own heart.
I couldn’t if I wanted to. Because he starts to move.
Each thrust rocks the table beneath us, steel squeaking against tile. My legs lock tighter around his hips, dragging him closer, urging him harder. A forgotten pan crashes to the floor, a bowl falls to the ground, making lazy circles on the floor, and my ass slides over a slick of icing.
We laugh, then moan—breathless, gasping, greedy. His mouth finds mine again, hungry, claiming, tasting like cinnamon and trouble. I arch into him, sticky and undone, choosing this—choosing him—over the safe, tidy spreadsheet of what my life is “supposed” to look like.
He grabs the edge of the table above me. Metal bites his knuckles as he braces, as if he’s anchoring both of us to this exact second. The angle shifts—deeper, sharper. My nails rake down his back. “God, Jack—don’t stop—”
His other hand slides between us, fingers circling my clit. Teasing. Tapping. Circling. Pinching.
White-hot pleasure explodes low in my belly, building fast, sharp, unstoppable—my hips bucking as the orgasm tears through me, electric and inevitable, leaving me shaking and smeared in sugar like I’ve been blessed by the patron saint of bad but good decisions.
Jack thrusts once more, stilling on a groan that echoes around us, his breath hot against my neck, his body heavy and perfect.
The refrigerator humming and the tiniest jingle from a renegade cookie cutter settling under the table are the only things tethering me to reality as the heat of him pulses inside me.
Then a lazy drip of frosting slides off the cart’s edge onto the table beside me with a plop.
I giggle, both of us moaning with how my muscle contracts around him as I do.
Jack hums against my neck. “You’re pretty happy for someone who had her baking sanctuary violated.” He lifts his head, eyes skimming our crime/sex scene. “Not to mention every health code in Maine.”
He’s right. The me before Jack would’ve measured the risk, counted the cost, wrung the joy out of it until it looked like safety and success. The me before Jack would’ve needed a return on investment.
I swipe a finger across my frosting-smeared hip and hold it up. “Seven, at least.” I touch it to his lips. “Exhibit A.”
He then licks it clean with a wicked grin.
My heart does a somersault.
I think about this morning, about how I dodged his eyes like I could avoid gravity, like pretending not to want him would make it true. I think about Eileen’s knowing look, the town’s gossip, and my mother always urging me to be safe and precise.
The plan has always been “do it right.” The path has always been “don’t mess it up.” But right now the only thing that feels right is messy and sweet and a little ridiculous.
He kisses me again—slow this time, a tasting-me kiss, a you’re-not-alone kiss. My chest pinches with an ache as it expands. Giving me more room to breathe. To enjoy.
Skimming my sides, his hands ease me upright, shifting me higher onto the table while he pulls out of me. Then, kissing my knee, he bends to make sure my fuzzy socks are in place like they’re—I’m—precious cargo.
And I realize, with a tiny shock, that I’m… happy. Not everything’s great, thanks for asking while I tally shortfalls in my head. But in-this-moment-enjoying-life happy.
“Should we be worried about customers?” Jack steps back, grabbing his shirt off the ground.
“Making Whoopie is closed for the day.” I move to get down, but Jack stops me by putting his shirt over my head. Once my arms are in, he lifts me off the table, setting me down gently.
I move in a circle, careful to avoid cookie cutter shrapnel. “Which is probably a good thing.”
“Hideaway Harbor is resilient.” He nods solemnly, finding my Crocs by the door and slipping them on my socked feet. “And well-frosted.”
“Over-frosted.” I glance at the carnage of piping bags. “I’m going to have to disinfect every square inch.”
“I’ll help.” His promise lands warm, making me smile.
I plant a hand on the counter and lean into it, for once at ease with sharing my space with someone. “Oh, you’ll help, Hollywood.”
His gaze drags over my mouth, slow and heated, before he hooks an arm around my waist and pulls me in, kissing me.
We don’t get around to cleaning up until much, much later.