Page 63 of The Best Men
And making it very difficult not to laugh as I try the frosting.
It’s sinful, and I tell Coco as much.
“So you definitely like the taste?” Asher asks me, his tone dripping with sex.
So much that my dick sits up and takes notice, hardening in my shorts. “Yes,” I say, since why waste words when I am so damn ready to be done?
“It’s orgasmically delicious,” Coco chimes in.
Now I’monlythinking of orgasms, and I’m at a loss as to what to say to the baker, and why I’m even here.
But Asher's not. “Thank you again, Coco. The cake is great. We’d love a Saturday morning delivery as planned. And now we need to go,” Asher says abruptly. He grabs my hand and tugs me up, and we leave in seconds flat.
“We didn’t get to finish . . . the whole thing,” I point out, but I’m not even sure what I needed to do in there since my mind is filled with rich and creamy thoughts.
“Finish what, Banks? The cake was amazing. Your sister picked it out. And I want to get you the fuck out of here and do bad things to you,” he says on the streets of Miami, teasing at the bottom of my T-shirt, sending a fresh wave of goose bumps down my arms. “You don’t always have to negotiate. Sometimes, it’s quicker if you don’t,” he says, using my words from earlier. “Then, you can just leave, so you can get to the good stuff in life.”
And . . . he has a point. Asher insists on enjoying things, and that’s not a bad way for me to live for the next few days. When I return to New York, I’ll return to my way?completecontrol.
“What’s the good stuff?” I ask, as his hand curls over my ass as we walk.
This man is into touching me in public, and I like it.
He whispers in my ear.14C, 17B, 22F. Why the hell do we have to see the officiant now?
Errands hate me.
* * *
An hour that lasts a lifetime later, we’re done with the officiant, and I rush down the steps of the office building.
I race to the car, and take the driver’s seat. I will speed home now. I will engage the turbo thrusters or what-the-fuck-ever. I don’t care. “Let’s go,” I call out, since Asher’s ten feet away, and why are his feet made of molasses?
Sauntering, Asher takes his sweet-ass time, then gets in the car like we’re sitting on the porch in the summer, frittering away the day. As he shuts the door, he flashes me a smile. “Got somewhere to be?”
I groan in misery. The sun is dipping on the horizon, and I want to return to the mansion and get naked with him. Screw, and then order dinner, and screw, and then swim, and screw. “Yes. In bed. With you. Now.”
I enter the address, hitgoon Waze, then pull away from the curb.
A block later, Asher gestures lazily to a side street. “Take a right.”
I point at the concrete ribbon in front of us. “Dude. That’s wrong. The GPS says go straight.”
“Just turn right.”
“No, that’snotthe most direct route.” I’m horny as fuck, and it’s all his fault.
“Trust me. I’m not wrong about this.”
I huff out a breath. “You are.”
He drapes an arm around my shoulder, squeezes. “If you know what’s good for you, turn here.”
“This isnotgood for me,” I grit out, but I listen.
“It is, Banks. Itis.”
I turn, and he points to . . . a freaking CVS.
