Page 60 of Cool for the Summer

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.

TWENTY-SIX

BECK

I enterHot Brew during a bit of a lull and am able to walk right up to the counter, where Meadow’s restocking the pastry case. Ruth’s wiping down tables and nods at me shyly when I wave hello.

“Well, if it isn’t the competition,” Meadow says, eyeing me with one expertly arched, penciled-on black eyebrow.

I know she’s just joking, but I still have to tamp down the rush of nerves. I’ve discussed my plans with her, explaining that the main focus of Beck’s Cookie Counter will be, obviously, cookies, and I’m only going to serve cold beverages—milk, water, and soft drinks. After talking with Stacy, she and I decided that if the store finds its footing, I might feature her pies and cakes, which right now are only available from her directly by special order. So there’s not actually that much overlap between what I’m offering and the existing businesses in Rosedale.

Meadow, for her part, was pragmatic when I broached the topic. “People love sugar,” she said. “They’re either going to come here and get coffee, then go get a cookie, or get a cookie and decide they want coffee. In my book, this is a win-win. Besides, you know I’m just the manager. The owner couldn’t care less about a new store, unless it’s another coffee shop.”

Having both Meadow’s and Stacy’s support is wonderful. I’ve been working long days ordering supplies, refining my recipes, and overseeing the installation of the equipment in the shop. Then I go home to Donovan and Cleo, sometimes too tired to do more than flop on my bed and pass out.

“I need the largest coffee you can give me,” I tell Meadow. “One of those really big nineties-style mugs would be ideal.”

She laughs. “One bowl of coffee coming up. Is that for here or to go?”

“For here, actually. I’m going to do some work if that’s okay?”

“Go for it. The Jack Avery table is free,” she says, nodding to a small table by the window next to an outlet. “He and Pete will be getting home soon, won’t they?”

“Less than a week now,” I confirm.

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