Andy looked like a god in his tight black jeans. He didn’t have a shirt on and the muscles moving under his mocha skin made Tanya forget about chocolate cake.
She expected him to kiss her as soon as he had opened the door. Instead, he led her into the bungalow’s kitchen. It felt domesticated, and somehow more intimate than kissing.
The kitchen turned out to be a kitchenette. Tanya appraised the tiny space with mounting panic. No double boiler. No stove. And no oven. How on earth was she going to bake a cake if there was no oven?
“Second thoughts?” Andy stood in the doorway. His smirk was audible. “You could always forfeit the bet and ask Isabelle if she has more of her birthday cake left.”
“Very funny. Not. Did you get the ingredients from the restaurant?”
“Good. Are you going to stand there the whole time, watching?”
Tanya longed to touch his mouth again, to feel that hard roundness with her fingers and on her lips and under her tongue.
“I guess I’ll skip the step that says to preheat the oven, then.”
Andy nodded. “Just as well. Your oven looks hot enough to me.” His face was deadpan.
Tanya cleared her throat. “Where is the butter?”
“On the counter.”
“In this heat?” Tanya poked her index finger into the pale-yellow block and felt it slither all the way in. Pure velvet. Like a very ready pussy. Tanya swallowed hard. The craving for Andy’s fingers glided down her spine all the way to her knees. “Here, you do it. Grease the baking pan.”
Andy’s hand dug into the silky surface of the block. He took his time paying attention to the innermost folds of the baking pan, caressing until every inch was perfectly lubricated.“One ready receptacle,” he said as he handed the pan back to Tanya. (...)