DO NOT COPY

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The kitchen was a mess. Bowls stacked, batter clinging to the whisk, flour dusting your arms like powdered snow. You were barefoot, wearing nothing but one of his old shirts — oversized, worn soft from too many washes, and riding just a little too high up your thighs as you reached for the top shelf.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

You didn’t hear him come in — not until you felt it. That heat. That familiar, unmistakable presence that always curled around you before he even touched you. He stood behind you, silent for a beat, watching you stretch just enough for the hem of your shirt to tease the tops of your thighs. Then—

“You know” his voice low, husky with intent, “you’re doing a great job spreading that frosting.”

You gave a small laugh, distracted, smoothing whipped cream across the second cake layer. “Thank you,” you muttered. “Someone appreciates the effort.”

A pause. Then—

“But I was wondering, aside from frosting... What else can you spread for me, baby?”

You froze.

The spatula slipped from your fingers, clinking against the bowl. You turned, eyes wide, heart skipping — and there he was. Close. So close. One hand on the counter, caging you in. The other already tracing the bare skin of your thigh where the shirt had risen too high for decency.

“What—what did you just say?” you breathed, flushed, pulse hammering.

He smirked. Dark. Slow. Unapologetic.

“I said,” he whispered, mouth grazing the shell of your ear, “can you spread those pretty legs too?”