Page 20 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

“Can you make me one too? Apple,” I say, feeling reckless.

“Icing on the side?” she asks.

“Sure. Why not.” I squint at her. “Is that what he would want?”

Cookie snorts like I’ve insulted her baking skills. “He wouldn’t want apple.”

“Fine. An éclair?”

Now she sighs like I just asked her to hand-frost each éclair while reciting her divorce decree. Which is fair. Small-town women are powered by petty vengeance and lemon zest. “I have a few that still need icing. I’ll put your chocolate on the side.”

“Perfect,” I say. “Put my chocolate on the side. Just like my feelings, sticky and best avoided.”

A short drive later and armed with pastries, I stroll into the funeral home like it’s a date and not an interview for an accomplice.

Is this a date? It involves sharing food again, so it’s at least date-adjacent. That makes two. I bet he shows a red flag today.

He walks out looking like leading-to-sex music should be playing. The man works with corpses and still manages to look like he gets eight hours of sleep and gives devastating oral.

When he sees me, there’s almost a smile, quick and shy, but his eyes give him away. He’s glad I’m here. “Business, or...?” he says as he crosses to me. He smells like sandalwood, vanilla, secrets, and a man who owns more than one black turtleneck.

I want to bite him just to see if he bruises pretty and purrs when touched. I don’t. That’s date five behavior, or a felony, depending on the angle.

“Both,” I say, holding up the paper bag. “I brought you raspberry crumble. Icing on the side.” I lower my voice and try for seductive. I hit somewhere closer to lukewarm deranged. “It’s hot. And there’s a window.”

Now he really smiles, but it’s not playful. It makes my ovaries file a complaint with the department of Why Are We Not Being Pinned Against the Wall.

He leads me into a small kitchen with breakroom vibes and a little eat-in table. We sit.

I slide over his crumble and unwrap my éclair. I slice off a bit and dip it into the side of chocolate like this is how I always eat them. We both know it’s a lie. I’d normally just bite in, all frosting and filling and lip-smearing carnage.

He takes his first bite, closes his eyes, and makes a sound that speaks directly to my g-spot in tongues. I wonder if he makes that sound when he comes. If it’s deeper. Or rougher. Ifhe growls or purrs when he finishes or maybe both. My thighs clench under the table, which feels rude considering we’re sitting across from a literal cremator. But then again, he did bring the moan noises first.

“What brings you here?” he asks, like he didn’t just drop a sex noise into the middle of a Wednesday morning.

I figure it’s best to strike while he’s still got ecstasy on his taste buds and before my legs forget how to function. “So hypothetically... how illegal is it to cremate a Labrador-shaped man who used to have opinions on women’s rights?”

“Legalities depend on who’s watching and if the dog is microchipped,” he says, slicing another bite. “Also how you’d like the ashes presented.”

The fact that he doesn’t even blink? Arousing. The fact that he clearly has a system in place? Dangerous. I’ve got half a mind to ask about volume discounts or whether he offers a punch card. I think I might be falling in love. On date two. But who can blame me? He has the vibe of a man who alphabetizes his lube by viscosity. And probably has a favorites section for “special occasions,” like Tuesdays or first dismemberments. The man’s energy screams clean tools, full consent, and blackout curtains.

“I have a problem with my garden.”

He refills his fork and dips it in the icing. “Bite?”

If he feeds me, we might need to find an empty coffin and close the lid.

“I’ve had very bad luck with pets,” I say as he leans in, fork raised to my lips. “The garden is getting... crowded.”

He holds the fork in a silent command. It’s a little power play. And I don’t hate it.

“Do you typically feed your clients?” I ask, then take the bite. It’s delicious. If he hand-fed me anything else, I might start purring like a rescue cat. I don’t even like being taken care of, butapparently my body does, because everything below my waist is staging a coup and planning our wedding.

“No,” he says, watching me chew. “But you’re not a typical client, are you? Repeat business is... unusual.”

I offer him a bite of my éclair dipped in chocolate because why not? If we’re going to mouthfuck each other with sugar, I get a turn.

It’s obscene, the way his mouth moves. Like he’s dissecting me with his tongue, starting with sugar and ending in sin. I want to taste it off his lips, then off his throat, then see what else he can make disappear with that mouth. I need to leave. Or climb him like a ladder. No in-between.

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