There was frosting everywhere—in my hair, on my skin and clothes, all over the counter, the mixer, the backsplash. It was on every conceivable surface except for the cake. I stared in dismay at the disaster that was our kitchen. This was what I got for trying to actually cook.
It was his birthday, as well as our 5th anniversary, and all I had wanted was to make a nice dinner and a cake to celebrate. He did all the cooking because I was completely inept. But I thought even I could handle cake from a box and frozen lasagna.
I had been wrong.
I’d left the pan in the oven too long and now the lasagna was a bit burnt around the edge. Salvageable but not the most tasty of dinners. An open window had taken care of the worst of the burnt smell. And I had managed to get the cake baked, even if it was lopsided, and cooling on a wire rack. It was after I’d pulled the smoking lasagna from the oven that I realized I had forgotten to buy frosting. A panicked call to my mother and she gave me a recipe for butter cream frosting. Easy enough: butter, confectioner’s sugar (which I was surprised to find we actually had) and a little milk. It was just mixing the ingredients in a bowl. How hard could that be?
I learned quickly that stand mixers had speed settings for a reason. Once everything was churning slowly in the bowl and nearly mixed, I thought it would be a good idea to speed up the process. Whipping the dial to high had been a bad, bad mistake.
And now, he would be home soon, I had frosting everywhere, the cake wasn’t decorated, and the table wasn’t set. I’d had this plan and now everything was ruined. Panic started to creep up my throat but a glance at the clock assured me that I had enough time to get dinner on the table and get cleaned up before he got home from work. He’d never be the wiser if I could keep him out of the kitchen. A deep breath, and I set to work. Remembering to leave the mixer on low, I added more butter and sugar until I thought I might have enough to cover the cake. A few minutes later it was done, and I was glopping the stuff on top of the chocolate confection, spreading it a bit haphazardly. If he asked, I’d say it was supposed to be funky and artistic. I’d blame Pinterest, he’d believe me.
The slamming of the front door sounded a second before I heard him call out, “Babe? I’m home.”
I gave a very unmanly-like eep and raced into the hallway, blocking his view of the kitchen. He was sorting through the mail. “You’re early.”
“Yeah, I decided to…” he trailed off as he looked up. A smirk crossed his lips. “What the hell happened to you? Did you get into a food fight?”
Crap! I’d forgotten I was a hot mess. I gulped as I blushed furiously. “I was trying to cook dinner. You know, to celebrate. But it was a total fail. The lasagna got a little burned and the frosting exploded. I think the cake is edible but it’s lopsided and—“
The feral look in his eye made me stop talking. I swallowed hard as he prowled closer. He didn’t stop until he was right up in my personal space. His hands clamped down on my hips and he arched his neck forward until he could lick a long stripe up my cheek. I shivered.
“Tastes good,” he murmured, his voice low and sultry.
“That’s—that’s good. I tried to—ughn.” This time he was licking the frosting off the edge of my jaw. Arousal shot through me and that fast, I was hard.
“How about,” he began, his lips right at my ear, “we get you cleaned up? You’ll probably need my help. Who knows where all this frosting ended up? I should probably inspect you very carefully, to be sure we get it all.”
I grabbed his hand and dragged him up the stairs. Dinner could totally wait.