20. ashton
twenty
ashton
. . .
Speed of Night - Jess Moskaluke
Brooks and I don’t say a word about the other night, or about him witnessing a migraine episode.
We’re side-by-side all day, working through the weekly maintenance checks on all of the ranch vehicles in turn.
It’s a long job that takes a lot of coordination with just about everyone, because vehicles are constantly being taken in and out of our garages all day long.
Brooks is “the engine guy”—the one who fixes them all when they go wrong—so this task usually falls to him every week.
His assistant rotates, and today, it’s me.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the migraine three days ago.
Which was the first time he saw me after making me see stars.
He checked in with me no fewer than eight times in the first hour we were in the garage together.
One eye on me at all times, just in case I keeled over.
But by the end of the day, things were the same as always.
With an extra layer of tension.
We’re packing up for the day. One tractor has been pulled out of service until some new engine parts arrive, and one of our ATVs needs new tires, so they’re on order, too. But otherwise, most everything has a clean bill of health.
“You used those cookie cutters yet, Ash?”
“Come over in a couple hours and find out?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, a flirty smile curving my lips as Brooks’s gaze burns into me.
Truth be told, I already had plans to bake when I get home.
I found a new recipe I want to try, and other than sugar cookies with Emmy a few days ago, I haven’t made cookies for a little while.
“Don’t tempt me, little devil,” Brooks says lowly. He reaches around me to hang the last set of keys on the hook inside the key safe, pressing his chest against my shoulder deliberately. Slow movements to prolong the absolute agony of being utterly surrounded by him.
“Door’s always open, demon,” I retort. I swallow hard, trying to pretend the combination of his cologne and his entirely non-sexual touch hasn’t left me breathless.
He smirks like he knows exactly the effect he has on me, before pulling back and lifting his hat from the desk.
He places it on his head, adjusting the brim, and walks backward toward the door.
“You can lock up, right? You do know how keys work?”
I flip him off and he laughs, that rich, musical lilt echoing off the concrete walls as he turns around and walks away with an exaggerated swagger and swing of his hips.
I grab my water bottle and the garage key, dragging each of the large, heavy doors in turn until they’re closed enough that I can twist the key in the lock to secure them.
Then I drop the key in the key safe on the wall.
Time to do some baking.
God, my house smells amazing. Whilst my fun-shaped funfetti cookies were baking, I whipped up a batch of lemon curd, and then made some blueberry cookies.
The lemon curd cookies are in the oven right now, the s’mores ones are ready to go in, and I’ve just about finished the blueberry cream cheese frosting for the blueberry cookies when they’re cool.
Cupcake queen? Maybe I should rename myself the cookie queen. I bet that would go down well on my socials.
Nope. Maybe not.
I’m impatient. I press the back of my fingers to a cookie, testing the temperature.
If I frost them when they’re too warm, the frosting will melt and it’ll be a mess.
And they’re still a little on the warm side.
That’s fine. By the time I’ve washed up all the mixing bowls and tidied everything away, they’ll probably be ready to go.
I press my lip balm tube to my lower lip, squeezing a little cupcake balm from it and pressing my lips together.
It adds to the deliciously sweet aroma surrounding me.
Once the last mixing bowl is dried and stacked in the cupboard, I prepare a piping bag with a wide, round tip for the blueberry cream cheese frosting.
It smells incredible, and I can’t wait to take these cookies on a test run with my family.
I’ve made them a few times in New York, and I think I’ve finally nailed them.
The trick is to use fresh fruit, not frozen or freeze-dried, and add them into the dry ingredients, so they’re flour-coated before they’re mixed into the wet stuff.
It’s taken a little experimentation to get them perfect, but I’m pretty happy with them now.
It only takes a few seconds for me to slide the lemon cookies out and the s’mores ones in, before I pick up the piping bag.
Twelve minutes later, the frosting is done and the marshmallows are pressed into the almost-baked cookies.
I survey the scene. My kitchen is mostly tidy—thanks to the combination of mise en place learned in professional kitchens, and clean as you go picked up from more than twenty years of living on a busy working ranch—but there are crumbs on the counter that need to be wiped, and several trays of cookies waiting to be organized into boxes.
I’m just pulling the last tray from the oven when there’s a knock at my front door. My hands are full and wrapped in enormous oven mitts.
“Be there in a minute!”
I lay the tray on a wire rack as I hear my door click open and closed.
“How many times do I gotta tell you to lock your fucking door, Ashton?”
“Just walk into people’s houses now, huh?” I call back. I wipe my hands on a tea towel and then use it to swipe a few stray crumbs off the counter. Might as well dismantle the piping bag now I don’t need to answer the door.
“You said it was always open.”
“And if I’d locked it, I would’ve been a liar.”
“Exactly,” he says with a smug grin. “I knew it would be unlocked.”
“You’re an asshole, you know that?”
“Shut up and get over here.”
I’m not sure where the piping bag ends up—hopefully somewhere contained—because as soon as Brooks utters the words, I’m practically hurdling over the kitchen counter and sprinting to him. His lips are on mine immediately and I’m melting into him like I’ve done this every day for my whole life.
Can’t? Shouldn’t?
Tough shit.
Want, want, want.
Pressed against him, bodies flush and hands grabbing everywhere we can reach, we stumble through to my bedroom where he pushes me against the wall, caging me in with one hand cupping my jaw and the other braced above my head. He lifts my chin to look into my eyes.
“You sure you’re okay with this?” he asks softly.
The moment I nod, he presses his body closer until we’re flush from chest to toe, and the tenderness of his question, his need to know that I want this as much as he quite clearly does, has me blinking hard, trying to distract myself from tears. I push my hips forward against his.
“Oh. Oh, what have we here? Hard for me already, demon?” I circle my hips lightly, rubbing myself against the thick line of his cock pressing insistently against the fly of his jeans.
“Depends,” he says a little breathlessly. He nips at the skin of my throat, a sharp pinch of his teeth before his tongue flicks out to soothe it. “Are you wet for me?”
“Oh, honey,” I laugh. It’s a little unhinged. A little delirious. He hasn’t even touched me yet, not really, and I’m getting so wound up. That fire in my belly is starting to spread through my limbs as he presses his thick cock against my pelvic bone. “I’ve been wet for you all day.”
“How wet?” His voice is a rough, rumbling exhale against the space where my neck meets my shoulder, and he barely removes his lips from my skin to speak.
“Wanna see?”
He lifts his head to meet my eyes, dropping his chin in a nod.
I snake my hand between us, brushing against his erection as I dip my hand into the waistband of my shorts.
Fuck, they’re soaked. I slide my fingers between my lips, gathering the evidence of my arousal before lifting my hand to show him.
His cock bobs with his Adam’s apple as he swallows hard, releasing a shaky breath at the sight of my fingers, glistening with my juices. God, I love taking charge and watching this man come undone.
“Wanna taste?” I offer my fingers out to him and his eyes flare, the blue-gray darkening to a midnight storm as he tips his head forward. I tap my fingertips against his lips.
“Open for me, honey.”
The suction is unreal as his tongue rasps up and down my fingers, cleaning every drop of my arousal from my digits. After a few long moments of the most intense, silent eye contact, he pulls back, releasing my fingers with a pop and a string of saliva.
“There’s plenty more, if you’re still hungry,” I say. His eyes darken even further as his hands skim down my ribs, resting on my hips with thumbs hooked into my waistband.
“I’m famished,” he admits quietly, before slowly pushing my shorts down over my hips. I let them drop to the floor before stepping out of them.
“So eat,” I urge. “Help yourself. The first course is on me.”
He squats slowly, large hands gripping my thighs and sliding down my legs to my ankles as he lowers himself until he’s eye-level with my pussy.
The place I want him most. I’m aching for him.
I’ve already had a taste of what this man does to me, and it wasn’t nearly enough. I want, want, want. No, I need.
“My god, it’s an all-you-can-eat,” he whispers, leaning in and nudging his nose against my clit.
I jump slightly at the contact, but not as much as he does.
His hands push my thighs apart, thumbs gently spreading me open to reveal the tiny silver bar pierced through my clitoral hood.
It’s secured with equally tiny silver balls and nestled subtly in the folds of my pussy.
His eyes flare again as his lips curl into a grin.
“And it looks like I found my new favorite dish.”