The Cake Decorator
"When Marcus needs a custom cake for his mother's birthday, he discovers his childhood neighbor has become much more than the shy girl next door."
Marcus hadn't been back to his hometown in nearly five years. The small bakery on Main Street hadn't existed when he'd left, but the woman behind the counter—her curves barely contained by a flour-dusted apron—was unmistakably familiar.
"Denise?" He couldn't believe his eyes. Little Denise Patterson, the quiet girl who used to read on her porch while he mowed lawns, had transformed into a vision of womanhood that made his mouth go dry.
She looked up from the fondant she was rolling, her brown eyes widening with recognition. "Marcus Thompson. As I live and breathe."
Her voice had deepened into something rich and warm, like honey dripping slow. The apron couldn't hide the generous swell of her hips or the way her chest rose and fell as she caught her breath.
"I need a cake," he managed, though his mind had gone completely blank on the details.
"That's generally why people come to a bakery." Her smile was knowing, confident—nothing like the shy girl he remembered. "For what occasion?"
"My mom's sixtieth. She loves red velvet."
Denise came around the counter, and Marcus felt his pulse quicken. She moved with a grace that seemed impossible for a woman of her size, each step deliberate and sensual. Her thick thighs brushed together beneath her dress, and he found himself wondering what sounds she'd make if—
"Earth to Marcus." She was closer now, close enough that he could smell vanilla and something sweeter underneath. "I asked what design you were thinking."
"I, uh..." He cleared his throat. "I trust your judgment. You're the expert."
"Mmm." She tilted her head, studying him with those knowing eyes. "You've changed. Used to be you couldn't stop talking about your plans, your dreams, your next adventure."
"Maybe I learned there's more to life than always looking ahead."
"Like looking right in front of you?"
The air between them thickened. Marcus became acutely aware of every inch of her—the way her dress clung to her belly, the fullness of her arms, the soft roll where her bra pressed into her back. She was everything he'd been taught not to want, and absolutely everything he did.
"Denise, I—"
The bell above the door chimed, breaking the spell. A group of teenagers tumbled in, laughing about something on their phones.
"Come back tomorrow," Denise said quietly, her hand brushing his arm. "After closing. We can discuss the... details."
Marcus arrived at seven-fifteen to find the bakery dark except for the kitchen in back. The door was unlocked. He found Denise piping elaborate flowers onto a three-tier cake, her concentration absolute.
"Lock it behind you," she said without looking up.
He did. The click of the deadbolt seemed to echo in the empty shop.
"You know," she continued, still focused on her work, "I used to watch you from my window. Every summer, shirtless and sweating while you pushed that old mower around."
"Denise—"
"I was fifteen when I realized what those feelings meant. Too young for you to notice me, too old to pretend I didn't understand." She set down the piping bag and finally met his eyes. "But I'm not fifteen anymore, Marcus."
She wasn't. God, she wasn't.
He crossed the kitchen in three long strides. His hands found her hips, pulling her soft body against him. She gasped—a small, surprised sound that went straight to his core.
"Tell me to stop," he growled against her ear. "Tell me this isn't what you want."
"Why would I do something stupid like that?"
Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him down to her mouth. The kiss was hungry, years of pent-up longing released in a single moment. She tasted like buttercream and desire, and Marcus knew he was lost.
He lifted her onto the stainless steel counter, stepping between her thighs. Her dress rode up, revealing thick brown legs and simple cotton panties already damp with want. She was shaking—they both were.
"I've thought about this," she confessed, pulling at his belt. "Every time I saw your mom in the grocery store, every time someone mentioned your name. I imagined what you'd feel like..."
"And now?"
"Better than any fantasy."
He helped her out of her apron, her dress. Underneath, she was glorious—rolls and curves and soft warm skin that begged to be touched. Her breasts were heavy in his palms, dark nipples hardening under his thumbs.
"You're beautiful," he breathed. "Every inch of you."
"Don't say things you don't—"
"I mean it." He kissed the doubt from her lips, then trailed lower, worshipping each part of her he uncovered. "I mean every word."
When he finally sank into her, Denise cried out his name like a prayer. Her legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper into her welcoming heat. The counter rattled with each thrust, mixing bowls clattering in accompaniment to their rhythm.
"Harder," she demanded, and he obliged. Her nails raked his back. "Yes, Marcus, just like—oh god—"
She came with a full-body shudder, her walls clenching around him in waves. He followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside her with a groan that came from somewhere deep and primal.
They stayed connected long after, catching their breath. Denise laughed softly, the sound vibrating through both of them.
"What?" he asked.
"I'm going to have to sanitize this whole kitchen."
"Worth it?"
She pulled him down for another kiss, slower this time. Full of promise. "Absolutely worth it."
The cake, when it was finally finished, was a masterpiece of red velvet and cream cheese frosting. But Marcus kept returning to the bakery long after his mother's birthday.
Some things, he learned, were worth coming home for.