Chapter Forty Three
Bake Me Up Before You Go-Go
I wake up to silence.
The kind that settles over a house that’s been well-loved lately—blankets kicked off, sunlight slanting through the open windows, and the faint scent of something sweet and sex still clinging to my sheets.
Rolling over, I snag the camera monitor we have for the nursery and stare at my girl.
Aurora’s on her stomach, diapered butt high in the air, face tilted toward the camera like she knows I’m watching. Her chubby cheeks are rosy and one hand is clenched around the ear of her bear, the other tucked between her puckered lips.
I stare for a while, just watching her chest rise and fall, the sound of her soft little sighs echoing through my too-quiet room.
Heart full and aching, I snag the monitor and get up, dragging on sweats as I head for the door. Second I open it, the soft sound of a song I now know by heart, drifting through the warm, oven-scented air.
Smiling, I quietly head toward the kitchen, where I can hear Georgia softly singing.
She’s baking and listening to her playlist. The one I made from memory—every female voice she’s ever played through her phone, humming under her breath while working through case files or washing dishes or brushing her hair.
It started as a note in my phone. Became a playlist for our date night under the stars.
She’s had it on repeat ever since.
That night, I asked her why she loves female singers so much. Never hear her listen to anything else but ballads and anthems, strong, powerful voices. She shrugged, cheeks burning red hot, but simply said, “I just do.”
I stop short at the kitchen threshold, spotting her like I’m programmed to find her in any room.
She’s standing barefoot in front of the island, wearing nothing but one of my flannels that can’t be all that buttoned judging by the way it’s falling off her small frame.
The hem barely skims the curve of her ass, and the sleeves are rolled up, hair clipped up in some messy twist. There’s flour on her fingers, cinnamon in the air, and sunlight pouring over her like a fuckin’ dream.
She’s stunning.
I’ve found her this way too many times to count since I filled my cabinets with food she can eat, and baking shit she can safely use.
To me, it was a no brainer, but to Georgia, it was stress relief in the form of soft dough, and early mornings gettin’ her head right before she heads off to a hard day of work.
Work that seems to be tugging on her soul, more and more, every day.
We spend every morning in this kitchen. Her humming, us dancing, coffee on her tongue, her body wrapped around mine, soft and sleepy and pliant.
And when I’m done lovin’ on her, we eat whatever she cooked out on the porch in the wicker rockers I bought, just for that purpose.
The mornings are still cold, and sometimes, it’s so early, steam rises off our coffee like fog from the ground, but in those quiet moments, I’ve never felt so damn whole.
Georgia tips her head back, a smile tugging on her lips and softly sings the soulful words of “A Case Of You” by Joni Mitchell like she means every damn word.
My heart fumbles in my chest, and my cock throbs painfully, pressing thick and hot against the inside of my sweats.
I move before I can think, stepping up behind her and wrapping my arms around her waist, my face dipping into her neck.
“Morning, freckles,” I rasp, voice still rough with sleep and need.
She leans back into me instantly, a soft sigh escaping her. “Morning, sunshine.”
My hands roam over her hips, her belly, slipping under the warm cotton to cup her bare skin.
My fingers meet nothing but heat and smooth flesh.
“No panties?” I groan, rolling my hips into her. My cock glides between the swell of her ass cheeks and my spine prickles, my balls tightening. “Always tryin’ to kill me, aren’t you?”
She giggles, but it cuts off with a moan as my hand slides up and cups her breast, thumb brushing over her hard nipple.
“Kade,” she gasps, hands still planted in the dough. “I can’t stop. The dough will go bad.”
“Then don’t,” I murmur against her neck, my fingers teasing the flannel’s buttons.
“But I can’t stop either. You—lookin’ like this?
Sunlight in your hair, wearin’ my shirt, settled and comfortable like you never wanna leave this place…
” I swallow hard, lips ghosting her throat. “Like you never wanna leave me.”
Her breath catches and she whimpers, melting against me. “Maybe I don’t.”
“Baby,” I choke out. “Say it again. Say you wanna stay.”
“I do,” she’s quick to breathe, her heart racing under my hands.
“Fuck. Could come just from hearin’ you say that.”
“That sounds like a personal problem,” she pants, her eyes fixed on where the flannel slips open, revealing soft, freckled skin and the tight peaks of her nipples.
“No,” I groan, sliding my hands down her body, pushing the shirt so it falls, catching on the crooks of her elbows. “Sounds like my favorite kinda good morning.”
“Sounds like every morning with you.”
“Like I said. My favorite.” My hands drift over the counter, brushing cinnamon-dusted bowls and a mixing spoon, but I pause on a bowl full of something white and sticky that looks sweet. “What’re you makin’, darlin’?”
“Cinnamon rolls.”
“So,” I mutter, smiling in her hair. “This is icing?”
Georgia nods, voice cracking as she whispers, “Vanilla. It’s so good.”
She shifts her hips back, grinding against me deliberately, and I groan in actual pain.
I drop a hand between her thighs, sliding my fingers along her lower lips, already wet and slick, teasing her clit as I rock my hips forward. My cock catches between her ass cheeks, pressure building with every stroke.
Her head drops back, breath catching. “Oh god… that feels so good.”
“Can you come like this, baby?” I whisper against her ear, sliding my fingers deeper, my cock throbbing against her. “Can you come on my hand with my fingers buried in your pretty cunt, my cock rollin’ against your ass?”
“Yes,” she chokes out, no hesitation.
“Don’t stop what you’re doin’, then,” I murmur, curling my fingers inside her, my other hand spreading over her lower belly. “Don’t make a sound. Just keep your hands on the counter, fingers in that dough, and let me feel you. Can you do that, Georgia? Can you let me taste what’s mine?”
“T-taste?” she stutters, voice wrecked.
“Yeah, baby.” I bite down gently on her shoulder, licking where I leave the mark. “Come all over my hand, and I’ll eat you for breakfast while you make yours.”
Her whole body tenses, trembling hands kneading the dough in ragged, uneven strokes.
“That’s it,” I murmur, rolling my hips harder, grinding against her with every motion. “You’re soaked. You love this. Love makin’ a mess in our kitchen, moanin’ my name while you pretend you’re busy.”
“I’m not—pretending,” she says with a sharp gasp.
“No? Then why’re your hands barely workin’, baby? Why’s that pretty little pussy of yours clenching around my fingers like it knows what’s comin’?”
She bites her lip, hips jerking, breath catching. “Because you’re insatiable.”
“So are you,” I murmur, fingers barely moving, just letting the pressure against her clit and g-spot be guided by the slow, torturous grind of my hips.
“I-I’m not.”
“But you are, baby. Think I haven’t noticed your body’s never satisfied with just one orgasm or two? Your pussy clenches and begs again and again until I’ve wrung you dry and you're passed out.”
Georgia tenses, but I shake my head, sucking hard on her throat. “Don’t you dare apologize. Getting you off isn’t work for me, it’s a fuckin’ gift. And I’ll do it as many times as it takes for you to feel good.”
“I always feel good with you.” She whimpers, little fingers digging holes into the poor dough. “I can’t… Kade… I’m gonna—”
Her thighs quake, her body locking around me, and I tilt her head back just in time, catching her loud moan with a deep kiss. My hips never stop, hand never slipping free. She’s dripping all over my palm, pussy squeezing the hell out of my fingers.
It’s hot as hell.
When our mouths separate, I don’t move, don’t stop or release her. Instead, I reach to the icing bowl and dip two fingers into the thick, sugary glaze.
She pants, watching me in the sunlight, dazed.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh,” I whisper. “Just watch.”
I trail the icing down her throat, letting it drip slow and thick. Down her chest. Around her nipple. Over the curve of her belly, circling her navel. Down, lower still—following the same path I took with honey the first time I ever touched her like this.
She shudders violently, breath stuttering as I pull my fingers from her and suck them clean, moaning around the taste that is solely her .
Then I flip her around, kneel, and lick every drop off her skin. From collarbone to breast, to stomach and between her thighs. I lift one of her legs over my shoulder and bury my tongue inside her pussy, groaning at the taste of her and sugar and morning sun.
She cries out again, one hand gripping my hair, the other flattening against the counter for balance.
While I work her with my mouth, I reach down, grip my cock, and stroke myself slow, matching the pace of her moans.
As soon as her second orgasm hits, I rise, flip her around again, and bend her over the counter.
“Cover your fuckin’ mouth, darlin’,” I grit out, on edge. “I’m not coming on my hand.”
She bites her own fist just as I slam into her, burying myself to the hilt in one rough, deep thrust. Her body bows, little whimpers and moans slipping free around her flesh, and I grip her hips, fucking her hard, fast, relentless.
When I feel the edge start to crash over me, I press her tighter to the counter, hips locked to hers, and come hard, filling her with everything I’ve got. She shudders under me, breath catching again.
I rub her clit in slow, tight circles, still rocking my hips.
“I can’t,” she cries. “Not again.”
I drop my lips to her ear, low and dark. “Want my cum as deep as it can get, baby. Need you to come before I pull out.”
“Kade,” she pleads, shaking her head. “God, it’s so good.”
She clenches around me with a broken whimper, her body giving in before her mind can fight it.
“I told you,” she pants. “I’m on birth control. Your efforts are a waste.”
“Making love to my woman could never be a waste,” I murmur, kissing down her spine, still buried deep inside her. “Never.”
Sighing, she melts into the counter with a quiet giggle. “I take it you want more kids, then.”
Only if they have your smile.
Choking back the words is harder than it should be, but I nod against her, peppering her back and neck with soft kisses. “Yeah, darlin’. I really fuckin’ do. Want a big family with laughter and chaos and messes.”
And I want it all with you.
“That sounds really nice,” she whispers, eyes meeting mine, all soft and glazed. “I think I’d love a life like that. A home filled with so much love.”
Fuck.
“Then lemme give it to you,” I whisper, kissing her slowly. “Let me give you a home, Georgia Walker.”
And it’s the words she breathes against my lip that change this thing between us from earth shatteringly big , to unshakable forever.
“You already have.”