Chapter 1: Under the Counter Service
The bell above the door of Sweet Hearth hadn’t even finished its final jangle. Clara heard the lock snap into place, a sound as definitive as a hammer on an anvil. She didn’t turn around, her hands continuing to pipe rosettes of vanilla buttercream onto a tray of red velvet cupcakes. She knew the footsteps. The deliberate, confident tread that vibrated through the worn pine floorboards.
“We’re closed, Ethan.”
“I see that.” His voice was a low rumble, closer than she expected. The warmth of his body radiated against her back, a solid wall of heat that cut through the bakery’s cozy air. The scents of sugar and yeast were suddenly overwhelmed by the clean, sharp smell of his cologne and the faint, lingering hint of his afternoon workout.
His hands settled on her hips, large and firm through the thin cotton of her dress. Not a question. A statement.
“I’m working,” she said, but her voice hitched as his thumbs began to make slow, circular motions on the bone.
“You’re always working.” His lips brushed the shell of her ear, his breath hot. “Pipe faster.”
A shiver, unwanted and electric, raced down her spine. Her fingers, usually so steady, trembled. A rosette blobbed messily. “Damn it. You’re making me ruin them.”
“They’ll taste the same.” One of his hands slid from her hip, skating around to her stomach and pulling her flush against him. She felt him, hard and insistent, even through the layers of their clothes. A thick, hot pulse of answering desire ignited low in her belly. It was always like this with him. An immediate, chemical reaction she was too tired to fight tonight.
“Ethan…”
“Shut up, Clara.” The command was gruff, but his other hand was already gathering the soft fabric of her skirt, pushing it up her thighs. The cool air of the bakery kissed her skin, a shocking contrast to the heat of his palms as they traveled upward. He dropped to his knees behind her with a quiet grunt.
Her breath caught. She stared straight ahead at the half-frosted cupcakes, her knuckles white around the piping bag. “Don’t you dare.”
“Keep frosting,” he growled, his voice muffled against the back of her thigh. He nipped the soft skin there, not hard, but enough to make her jump. “Pretty please with a fucking cherry on top.”
Then his mouth was on her. Through the lace of her panties, his tongue was a broad, wet stripe. Clara gasped, her head falling forward. The piping bag slipped from her grip, smearing a long, useless line of buttercream across the stainless steel table.
“I said keep frosting,” he repeated, hooking his fingers into the sides of her panties and yanking them down to her knees. The air was directly on her now, a brief, shocking cold before he buried his face between her legs with a hungry sound.
There was no finesse, no gentle exploration. This was Ethan. Direct, demanding, devastatingly effective. His tongue drove against her, a relentless, slick pressure on her clit. He circled it, then flattened his tongue and licked a long, slow path that made her knees buckle. She braced herself against the table, flour dust puffing under her palms.
“Oh, god.” The words were a choked whisper.
He hummed against her, the vibration shooting through her core. One of his arms banded around her thighs, holding her still, open for him. The other hand came up, fingers pushing inside her without preamble. He worked them in deep, curling, finding a rhythm that matched the ruthless suction of his mouth.
Clara’s world narrowed to the feeling of his tongue and his fingers, to the coarse texture of his hair under her clutching hands, to the metallic smell of the table under her cheek. She was panting, little broken sounds escaping with each exhale. She tried to muffle them against her arm. The bakery was silent except for the hum of the refrigerators and the wet, obscene sound of his mouth on her.
“Taste so fucking good,” he muttered, pulling away just enough to rasp the words against her inner thigh. “Like you’ve been thinking about this all day.”
She had. That was the humiliating, exhilarating truth. She’d caught a whiff of cinnamon at three PM and for a stupid, dizzy second, had thought of him.
“Ethan, just… just fuck me already,” she breathed, the vulgarity feeling foreign and necessary on her tongue.
He stood up in one fluid, powerful motion. She heard the rasp of his zipper, the crinkle of a foil packet. He didn’t turn her around. He just pushed her forward, bending her over the flour-dusted table. Her cheek pressed into the cool metal beside the ruined cupcakes. His hands gripped her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her ass.
He didn’t ask if she was ready. He was already there, the broad, blunt head of his cock pushing against her. She was slick, open from his mouth, but he was big, and the initial stretch was a bright, almost painful shock. He let out a ragged groan as he sank into her, inch by devastating inch, until he was fully sheathed, his body covering hers.
“Christ, Clara,” he snarled, his voice tight.
For a second, he didn’t move. They were both still, connected, breathing in ragged unison. Then he pulled back and drove into her, hard.
It was a frenzy after that. A punishing, glorious rhythm. Each thrust slammed her into the edge of the table, jolting through her. One of his hands fisted in her hair, pulling her head back. The other stayed clamped on her hip, sure to leave bruises. She hoped it would. She wanted the marks, the physical proof of this madness tomorrow.
She came suddenly, violently, her inner muscles clenching around him in wave after wave of blind pleasure. A ragged cry tore from her throat, echoing in the empty shop. He followed seconds later, his rhythm fragmenting into sharp, desperate jerks, a guttural sound ripped from his chest as he pressed deep and held there.
Silence. Heavy, broken only by their ragged breathing. The smell of sex and sugar hung in the air, a bizarre, intimate perfume.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He stayed leaning over her for a moment, his forehead against her shoulder blade. Then he pushed himself upright. She heard him dispose of the condom, the rasp of his zipper.
Clara didn’t move. Her legs felt like water. She stared at the smeared buttercream, now flecked with bits of flour from the table.
A damp cloth appeared in her line of sight. Ethan wiped her thighs clean with a startling, quiet tenderness that felt more disorienting than the sex. He tossed the cloth into the sink, then pulled her panties back up, his fingers brushing her skin.
“The cupcakes are fucked,” he said finally, his voice back to its normal, easy tone.
She pushed herself up, her arms shaky. “You’re an asshole.”
“You love it.” He grabbed a clean towel, wet it, and handed it to her for her hands. He leaned back against the opposite counter, watching her. His green eyes were dark, satisfied, but there was a restless edge in them she knew too well.
She cleaned the buttercream from her fingers, avoiding his gaze. The familiar post-coil emptiness began to seep in. It was just a scratch for an itch. That’s all they were. That’s all it ever was.
The back door, the one that led to the alley and the dumpsters, rattled suddenly. Then a key turned in the lock.
Both of them froze.
The door swung open, and Liam walked in, a six-pack of local IPA dangling from his fingers. He took in the scene: Clara, flushed and disheveled, leaning against the frosting table; Ethan, too casually posed by the sink, his shirt still slightly untucked; the intimate, charged wreckage of the air between them.
Liam’s easy smile faltered for just a heartbeat. His blue eyes flicked from Ethan to Clara and back again. Then the smile returned, wider, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Did I interrupt a staff meeting?” he asked, his voice light. He held up the beers. “Or can anyone join the party?”