27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sam
A banging in the distance causes me to sit up in a panic. Trying to blink the sleep from eyes, I look around the room. Where the fuck am I?
The night comes rushing back to me and a smile tugs on my face. The scent of coffee fills the air. Damn, I need some of that to shake this groggy feeling.
“Good morning, sleepy head.” Addie's voice floats over from the kitchen. Her face lights up with the sunlight pouring in from the window.
“What time is it?” I rub my eyes, trying to shake the drowsy feeling from my head.
“It’s seven.” She moves some bowls and grabs things from the fridge with her fully functioning brain.
“In the morning?” Who the fuck wakes up at seven for fun? My eyes struggle to adjust, not wanting to be awake yet. “Why are you up?”
“Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise! Also, I had a craving, and I owe you some more food for your labor.” She props her elbow up on the counter. It takes me a second to realize she’s in my shirt again, with her bare legs out the bottom. Fuck, that shouldn’t drive me as crazy as it does.
“And what craving would that be?” I have a craving, too. Her body and mine and that sweet, little piece of heaven between her legs.
“Cinnamon rolls. They’re my specialty.”
Cinnamon rolls make me think of my mom. She always made them for special occasions and holiday mornings. They taste like the favorite part of my childhood. The fact that they’re Addie’s specialty just makes me more magnetized to her.
My eyebrows raise, and I think in this moment, I fall a little harder. “My mom used to make cinnamon rolls for us all the time. You have a high bar there to beat.”
With that, she rolls her eyes at me. Throwing off the covers, I make my way to the kitchen. Addie points to a mug on the counter behind her, knowing I’m beelining straight for the coffee. I slept like a baby, but yesterday’s activities have me wanting to hibernate at least until tomorrow morning.
“If you’re in a hurry, I can drop one off to you later?” She points to the ingredients on the table, and while I’ve spent a good amount of time with her, it still doesn’t feel like quite enough.
“I’m in no rush to head home.” With a shy smile, she nods and gets back to her dough. Attaching the dough hook, she turns on the machine to start kneading the dough, then crosses her arms and faces me.
“Thanks for all your help yesterday. I got a few more things put away this morning. Once I get some new decorations after payday, I think this place will clean up pretty nice.” Her eyes dart around the room, as if imagining exactly where she will put things.
“I think it’s the perfect start-over home for you.” She’s been so hard on herself lately. It makes me happy to see her feeling more content with the way the dice are rolling.
She nods. “Me too. I’m gonna miss Isla, but not having to wear a bra all the time will be a nice bonus. And no pants.”
“Can I be invited to your no bra and no pants party?” My face lights up at the thought, because that sounds like the best day of my life waiting to happen.
She slaps me with a towel from the counter. “Damn, I sleep with you one time and you’re already pussy whipped.”
I don’t need to fill her head with more shit to use against me, but damn, that was the best sex of my life. I never even got to see her in the lingerie. My dumbass got too excited and forgot about the damn thing. Idiot.
Instead of replying, I level her with a fake glare and pour my coffee. The place came with barstools, which is a blessing because that’s the only place to sit besides the bed. But drinking coffee in bed while she works in the kitchen would make me a bad boyfriend. Shit. Boyfriend? Fuck. Maybe I am pussy whipped. Is that the boy version of dickmatized? It’s too early to be thinking this hard about this. Not that I would have any objection to that title, but I should see where this goes first.
“Did your mom teach you how to bake?” I ask, finding myself curious as to how she ended up having her happy place in a kitchen.
“Oh, well, kinda.” She nods her head back and forth in thought. “Mostly, no. She’s a great cook, but baking I found all on my own a few years ago. I like working with my hands and that it’s such a labor of love. It just makes my mind a little quieter.”
A feeling I can relate to all too easily.
“I get it. Working with your hands is good for the soul. Are you close to your parents?” We’ve discussed quite a bit about her family, but I find myself wanting to know more. I want to try to figure out what makes her tick.
“Yeah. Actually, I talk to my mom almost every day. My dad works a lot, but he video chats me from his crappy, old laptop at least once a week to see my face. I’m really lucky.” She leans forward, rests her elbows on the counter, and props her head in her hands.
She has no idea how lucky she is. A bit of jealousy hits me. For the first time in a while, I can’t help but to wonder if it would be worth it to fix the shit with my family. At least with my siblings and my mom. My dad can fuck off ‘til the cows come home for all I care.
“That’s great.” I must not be as good at hiding my emotions as I thought because her eyes soften and she grabs my hand from across the counter.
“I’m sorry that you don’t have that. But I know for certain that Cal and Liv miss you. Liv was so excited to see you out the other night. If you ever want to explore that, I’ll be your backup. No one ever wins an argument with me.”
“That is not news to me in the slightest. And thank you. I’ll think about it. And if the time ever comes, you can be my security team.”
“Deal.” She gives my hand a squeeze and lets go as a timer goes off. “Now, get over here and be useful. It’s time to teach this chef how to bake.”
“Yeah, I specifically hire a pastry chef so I can avoid this.” Looking around at the dough ball in the bowl, I already feel lost and out of my element. Give me a chef’s knife and a chunk of steak.
“Yeah, and I specifically do not give a single shit. Get off your ass.”
Well, shit. Sappy moment gone. Not that I’m sad about it. Too many feelings—especially with my family—makes my skin crawl.
Clutching my hands across my chest, I feign a wounded expression. “Damn, Shortcake, they were right. Redheads are mean.”
“I’m not mean, I’m bossy. There’s a difference.” She bobs her head along to the tune of her attitude. The raise of my eyebrows gives off the unspoken, Yeah, okay, as I come around the corner to stand next to her.
“Okay. So, first, we’re going to roll out the dough.” She turns the bowl upside down on the counter and the dough lands on the small part of the counter with a dusting of flour.
“Don’t we need to let it rise or something first?”
“Good question, but no. I used instant yeast; it bloomed in warm milk before I made the dough. So, I know it’s good. Active yeast would be a different story.”
And I’m already confused. Five-star dishes? No problem. Baking shit? No, thank you.
“Okay, that is almost helpful. Do you have a rolling pin?” I watch her eyes dart around the kitchen, as if trying to remember something.
She holds up her index finger to me. “Hold, please.” She starts frantically searching drawers. The furrow in her brow becomes deeper with every drawer shutting. “Hm, it seems one of the few things I left at Target was a rolling pin. And, apparently, I didn’t pack one, either. Damn, I should have stolen Isla’s. She can’t even cook.”
“Hey, she took my class. She can kind of cook now. And I’m sure Cal uses it for something.”
“Pick a team, Sam. Cal will survive.” She puts her hands on her hips and starts tapping her foot. “Well, that sort of puts us in a pinch, doesn’t it?”
“Do you have anything else we can use?”
She walks around her kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers once again.
“Yes! This will work!” She turns around, holding a bottle of wine like it’s a million-dollar prize. “Wine. Delicious, and also a great tool in the kitchen. Or a great weapon, if you need to smack someone on the back of the head.” She pretends to whack me in the head with a giggle escaping her. Well, now I am even more afraid of her. Perfect.
“Remind me to not get on your bad side. And thank you for that educational lesson. May I have the tool-slash-weapon, so I can get these cinnamon rolls rolled out before my instructor beats me with her makeshift rolling pin?’
“You may.” She hands me the wine bottle and places it in my palm. “You want to roll them out kind of thick, but not too thick. But also not so thin that you don’t have any delicious bread.”
My arm drops to my side in exasperation, because what the fuck kind of instruction is that? “Thank God you don’t teach cooking classes. That makes no sense.”
“Well, I don’t really know how thick. I just wing it and go by feel.” She puts a hand defensively on her hip, with sass leaking out of her every pore. “It’s called baking with love.”
“I feel like you are misinterpreting love for rage, but okay. Can you, like, mimic with your hands how thick it should be?”
She pinches her fingers to about a quarter-inch thick. “What is that, like, a half inch?” She inspects her fingers and shrugs.
“If you think that is a half inch, then I’m really excited for how big you’re gonna tell your friends my dick is.” It hits me that her best friend is my soon-to-be sister-in-law. “Actually, on second thought, let’s just keep that between us.”
Her laugh fills the room and she cocks her head. “What, you don’t want your sister-in-law thinking you have a tiny weenie?” She pulls up her fingers to the half inch again.
“That’s not what you said last night.”
A blush rises up her cheeks. “ Anyways , roll it out and I’ll go melt some butter. Like, a quarter cup.” She quickly turns on her heels and hides her pink face.
“Do I need to turn on the oven?”
“Woah, Nelly, I am the teacher here. I already turned it on.”
I hear her shuffling behind me and the distinct beep of an oven turning on. A laugh slips out.
“Something funny?” She turns around, hands on hips once again. She’s sternly staring at me, making me hold back my laughter.
“Nothing at all. This is just really relaxing.”
Once again, she rolls her eyes at me, before walking over with the melted butter. Then, she grabs the brown sugar, regular sugar, and cinnamon.
“Okay, next, we are going to evenly coat the butter from edge to edge. No dry spots at all. I can melt more butter if we need it.”
I follow her instructions to a T, evenly coating the butter. Unfortunately, she was right, baking is surprisingly relaxing.
“Next up, we’re gonna sprinkle this brown sugar all over in a thin layer, then a little bit of white sugar, and then a boat load of cinnamon.” She watches over my shoulder as I follow the steps, making sure everything is evenly coated, and there are no dry spots.
“I think we’ve got enough sugar on here to give ourselves diabetes.”
“That’s when you know you did the perfect amount. When you’re done with that, give them a heavy dusting of cinnamon, and then we will move on to rolling them.” The amount of glee in her voices reminds me of a little kid on the way to the park. I love the pure joy that she radiates. Even when it’s mixed with a heavy dash of sass and rage. It makes the perfect mix.
“To roll these out, we're going to go short ways so we get a wider cinnamon roll. We will probably only get about nine, but they will be large and in charge, so no one will be sad. Plus, I don’t think neither you nor I can finish nine cinnamon rolls in a quick amount of time.”
She must’ve been hiding in the closet still when I slammed four cinnamon rolls by myself on Christmas morning, but I let her pretend that nine will last us. Or her, I should say.
She literally makes me measure out each cinnamon roll to be the same size. The dough she can wing, but with this, she says it has to be precise, so they all bake to the same size. She uses the measure app on her phone, and then makes me measure and mark each one. Damn, and I thought I was anal and hypercritical in the kitchen. I have nothing on her.
“Next, we let them rise. They should be ready to pop in the oven in about an hour.”
“I thought they didn’t have to rise.” This is precisely why I hate baking.
“They don’t have to do a pre-rise, but they still have to do a normal rise.”
This whole conversation makes me feel like we’re not paying our dessert and baking guys enough at Flambé. For food, it’s easy, because meats cook to a certain temp. You learn what flavors complement each other, and you go from there. Baking is a whole other beast.
The cinnamon rolls come out of the oven, and I don’t know if I’m drooling over the sight of Addie bent over in a kitchen or the smell of the cinnamon rolls. It is probably a mixture of both. But I’m leaning more toward Addie.
Working with her in the kitchen makes her that more attractive. Is baking my cup of tea? Not really. It may be relaxing, but I’ll stick to my day job. However, sharing a kitchen with her and making a meal together sure as fuck is. Damn. I got it bad for the damn redhead. What the hell was I thinking?
“And now, we are going to make the frosting.”
Okay. I’m out.
“How about you make the frosting, and I stare and admire how good you look in the kitchen?” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder and point to my now designated bar stool that I would really like to return to.
“Fine. And here I thought I was going to make you my apprentice.” She feigns disappointment as she grabs all her ingredients and moves them in front of her.
“I’m already the apprentice to one pain in the ass. I don’t need to double-book myself. But thanks for the thoughts.”
I watch her mix all the ingredients, creaming the butter and cream cheese, and then slowly adding in the powdered sugar. I do my best to fight off a laugh when a puff of white comes out of the mixture and covers her face with powdered sugar.
“Well, now you really look sweet,” I say, and she flips me off as she reaches for the rag to get the powdery dust off her face.
The frosting comes together in no time.
“Want to taste it?”
There are a few things I’m itching to taste. All right, the frosting could be one of them.
“Sure.” I dip my fingers into the frosting and gently smudge it across her lips. “Oops, let me get that for you.” I watch the flush rise up her neck as I lean in, kissing her and licking the frosting off her lips. She tastes about as sweet as the frosting.
I can feel the moment she gives up on the current project at hand and gets lost. And I get lost with her. My hands tangle in her hair, and her hands wrap around my back, pulling me in.
She pulls back, catching her breath, and I see a sinister look in her eyes. It turns me on as much as it scares me.
“Do you trust me?”
That’s a heavy ask, but I answer with a nod of my head without thinking twice.
“Close your eyes. Actually, I have a better idea.” She grabs the dishtowel from the counter, shakes it out so the remaining powdered sugar flies free, and walks around my back. Reaching up on her tiptoes, she ties it like a blindfold around my eyes.
Suddenly, my boxers shimmy down my hips, and my cock twitches at the anticipation. Something cool slides across the tip of my cock before I feel her hot mouth close around it.
Holy fucking shit. She is licking the frosting off my cock. The blindfold causes me to feel everything in tenfold. Every feeling is intensified, and her mouth feels like complete and utter heaven.
Reflexively, I feel for her head, my hands quickly finding their way into her hair. She lets out a moan and I can’t help but groan. Her moan on my cock shouldn’t be allowed to feel this good. Her tongue slides up underneath me and swirls around the tip.
“Fuck, Addie.” My hand pulls on her hair and her hands grip my legs as a sound of approval leaves her mouth. Oh, yes. “Does my girl like her hair pulled?”
She nods around me. My hips plunge forward a little, meeting her halfway. Pushing farther down her throat, I feel the slightest slip. Okay, that’s enough of this. I rip the blindfold from my head, and the sight alone almost has me coming down her throat. But there’s only one place I want to come, and it’s buried deep in her pussy.
“Okay, your turn.” Giving her no chance to argue, I step out of my boxers, swing her over my shoulder, and toss her down on the bed. The whole studio apartment layout definitely has its perks.
Her eyes are wide and slightly glassed over, anticipating what's to come next. Reaching forward, I pull my oversized T-shirt off her frame and run my hands over the curves of her body. She is a work of fucking art.
I kiss my way down her body, making my way to the line of her panties. My body is begging me to take her now, and fuck, do I want to. But first, I need to feel her come all over my face. I pull her panties to the side and run my tongue along her, enjoying every fucking second. She bucks as my thumb finds her clit.
“So sensitive for me, are you, baby? You want to come?”
“Yes, please.”
I slide my finger in, meeting little resistance because she is fucking dripping for me. “Did sucking me off get you this hot and bothered, baby?” There is no way I could be so lucky to find a girl with a soul like hers who gets this turned on by me. Life isn’t ever that lucky for me.
“Yes. Now, please stop messing around and make me come.” Her sass probably shouldn’t make my dick get even harder, but what can I say? I love a strongheaded woman. And her wish is my command.
My finger finds her clit as my tongue explores every piece of her. She comes apart on me in seconds. Hands grip my hair, pulling it so hard it almost hurts. This is the hottest experience I’ve ever had, and I haven’t even got off yet. I think she’s going to kill me.
While she is still in her post-orgasm stupor, I roll off the bed to grab another one of the condoms. We’re going to burn through these quick if we keep this shit up. And I am crossing every finger of mine that we do, because this shit right here is fucking heavenly.
“Roll over, baby. Ass up.”
She complies, no sassy remarks. Just eager.
Sliding my cock into her, my eyes roll back. “Fuck, you’re tight, baby.”
This shouldn’t be this good. All of it is good with her—the conversation, the laughs. All of it makes me want more. Especially this. If I thought our chemistry was good before, this just confirms it. Our bodies work together like we’ve been doing this for years. Her ass bounces back, meeting my thrust halfway, and the slight shake of her ass has me ready to come.
“Sam, I’m gonna come again.”
“Come for me, baby.” Knowing my release isn’t far behind hers, I pick up the pace. Leaning slightly forward to rub my thumb over her clit, I feel her detonate below me, and the way her pussy clamps down has my cock bursting. Fuck, I wish I could fuck her bare. But for now, this is fucking perfect.
I slide out of her and toss the condom in the trash.
Laying on our backs, we catch our breaths. She rolls her head to look at me with a blissful smile on her lips. I can’t help myself from needing to be closer to her, and my lips meet hers. This one feels different. There is none of the rush of the moment. It’s soft, and fuck, it makes me feel things. Things that scare the shit out of me. But the thought of not chasing this feeling? Ten times worse.
I pull back and give her one last peck, then walk over to the kitchen and slide my boxers back on.
“Can you hand me your shirt?”
Seeing her in my shirt, with sweat coating her forehead… Just, damn.
“Now that we’ve really worked up an appetite, let’s eat.” I lean down, intending to help her to her feet, but find her hands on my face instead. She reaches up for another kiss. The soft smile on her lips will be the death of me one of these days.
She pulls back. “Okay, now we can eat.”
She serves us each a cinnamon roll. If they taste half as good as they smell, she will get an A+. Grabbing the plates, she comes over to the barstools and places one in front of me with a fork. Staring down at it and then hers, I wait for her to dig in. When I turn my head, her green eyes are boring into me.
“Are you going to eat it?” she asks, while white-knuckling her own fork. What the fuck is up with her?
“Uh, yeah.” Realizing that her making her favorite dish for me is probably a little nerve-racking, I debate on some payback for what she did to me her first time at Flambé.
I cut off a piece and graze it through the extra bit of frosting that has spilled over the top and down to the plate. When I pop it in my mouth, the sweetness mixed with the spice of cinnamon explode in my mouth. Fuck. Forgetting all about payback, I moan as I savor it.
Turning my head, I see a smug smile on her face. “So, you like it, huh?”
This is the best fucking cinnamon roll of my life, and I hate it because I will have to lie to my mom when I tell her that hers are the best. Because Addie’s are next level.
“The best I’ve ever had.” The thought rumbles around in my head because everything with her is the best I’ve ever had.