Page 89 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
“Open up, baby, and take this gorgeous sausage down,” she says, loud enough for the front few rows of people to hear.
The crowd loses it.
I open my mouth, maintaining eye contact as she feeds me. It’s ridiculous. And juvenile. And weirdly hot.
Kind of like us.
When I’m done, we switch up, and I feed her a chorizo. Then, she feeds me kielbasa, both of us playing it up for the crowd, but also just enjoying each other. Though when her lips close around the salami with a moan, I confess I start to sweat a little.
“End of round one!” Frank calls in the nick of time. “Clear the sausage tables! It’s time for the main event! All right, couples, get ready to show your honey how much you love ‘em.”
The khaki couple assumes what can only be described as a pole-up-the-ass kissing stance—rigid, proper, like they’re about to perform vertical CPR.
“How do you want to play this?” Makena asks, stepping close.
“Like everything else,” I say, sliding my hand into her hair. “All in. My big ass balls to the wall.”
She grins. “That’s what I like to hear.”
“Couples ready?” Hubba blasts his air horn again as he shouts, “And kiss!”
Makena’s arms twine around my neck, and we crash into each other, laughing hard enough that our teeth knock together.
Then, her mouth opens beneath mine, and she starts kissing me like she means it. Like we’ve got nowhere else to be, nothing else to do. Her tongue slides against mine, and the noise of the crowd disappears. I tighten my grip in her hair, and she makes a soft, eager sound—half breath, half moan—that lights up every nerve in my body.
Soon, we’re veering into Not Safe for Work territory, her fingers digging into the back of my neck as I glue her curvy body to mine. My heart slams in my chest, and I don’t care that everyone’s watching. I don’t care about anything but the way she’s kissing me back—hungry, happy, and all the way in.
Eventually, somebody whistles.
Nana shouts, “Get it, babies! Never been prouder!”
And then the air horn screams out the end of the second round.
Makena grins against my mouth, and I kiss her again, because I can.
“And we have a winner!” Hubba’s voice breaks through the cheers and whistles, pulling us from our kiss-drunk haze. “Leo Parker and Makena DeWitt are this year’s Sausage and Sizzle champions. By unanimous agreement from the crowd…and the fact that everyone else stopped kissing a full minute ago. Come up for air, kids. You’re making the sausage blush.”
We finally break apart, laughing and breathing hard. As we turn to wave at the crowd, they go feral, cheering loud enough to make my eardrums ring.
“Holy shit,” Makena breathes. “First crawdad mating call champions and now this? Can this road trip get any better?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t think it can.”
As we step off the stage, Nana is waiting with our prize, matching t-shirts that say “Official Weiner Circle Members” across the top, with extremely suggestive graphics beneath.
“Put them on,” she demands. “I need pictures for my socials.”
We pull the shirts on over our clothes, still grinning like idiots. After Nana’s done with her phone, the official festival photographer snaps shots of us with our arms around each other. Makena presses up on tiptoe to kiss my cheek, while I grin like I won the girlfriend lottery.
Because I did.
The rest of the day passes in a happy daze of meat and music. We eat our way through the festival, Makena moaning over everything, taking notes for food truck ideas, and feeding me bites of delicious things straight from her fingers just to watch me squirm.
We sway sedately to a bluegrass band, while I silently will my knee to hurry up and heal already. I’m so ready to be no-holds-barred on the dance floor with her again, like at Grammercy’s wedding. Later, we get matching bratwurst temporary tattoos—Makena on her ankle, me a larger one on my bicep that pulses obscenely when I flex—and buy Nana a hat that says “GILF Energy,” which she immediately puts on before taking to the dance floor with Eugenia.
By the time the sun sets and the festival is winding down, my knee is talking to me, and Makena is fretting that she might develop the meat sweats.
“I mean, thereissuch a thing as too much meat, Parker,” she says as we leave Nana gossiping in the beer tent and head for home.
