Fairy Cakes in Winter by Lane Hayes

Author:Lane Hayes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lane Hayes

6

Scott

My eyes flitted open at the usual ungodly hour they did every morning. I studied the slice of moonlight across my duvet before zeroing in on the man snoring softly beside me.

Oh.

Fuck.

Please tell me this didn’t happen.

It was one thing to bring someone home and quite another to have a damn sleepover.

With Theo.

I did not do sleepovers. Ever. They led to unrealistic expectations and awkward morning-after conversations. He’d been as concerned as I was that he make the last train to Bradford-on-Avon, so…how did we get here?

I licked my lips as I studied Theo’s shadowy features. He lay facing me with his hand tucked under his right ear, his blond hair matted to the pillow, and those long lashes feathering his cheeks. He looked like a fucking angel. I was pretty sure that made me the devil in this scenario.

I swiped my palm over my beard and strategized my exit as I replayed my favorite highlights from last night. I remembered taking a catnap after round one. We’d taken a shower together, which hadn’t been easy ’cause my bathroom had been built with elves in mind. But we’d already proved we were good at navigating tight spaces, and…I hadn’t been able to resist Theo.

One minute he was telling me about the healing qualities of nutmeg; then I was cupping my balls as I turned on the water, and saying something cheesy about showing him some nutmeg. It was stupid and silly, but for some reason, we found it hysterical.

When our laughter faded, we’d lunged for each other, fusing our mouths as we moaned greedily under the warm water. We’d parted long enough to wash up. I’d insisted on taking care of him, soaping his cock and balls, and letting water sluice over his pale skin before sinking to my knees to suck him dry while stroking myself to the finish line.

I vaguely recalled leaning against his thigh, completely dazed. It had taken longer than it should have to recover from that orgasm and get to my feet again. We’d made out with lazy, sweet kisses until the water ran cold. That was when I should have sent him on his way, but I missed my cue.

So instead, we’d dried off, redressed, and headed downstairs to the bakery for the tour I’d promised earlier.

He’d run his fingers reverently over the butcher block island anchoring the room and scanned the open shelves filled with mixing bowls, baking pans, and tubs of flour, sugars, and spices. He’d oohed and aahed over the skylights in the high ceilings, gushed over the appliances, and seemed oddly enchanted by weird details—like the neatly folded blue-and-white striped dish towels stacked on a shelf near a hook laden with clean aprons.

When Theo’s stomach rumbled, I’d offered to make an omelet in the hopes of staving off a new round of questions. There was nothing worse than standing around with your thumbs in your pockets while being interviewed by a hookup about European versus American brands of blenders. And I hated the idea of sending him home hungry.

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