Just My Type(66)

Judging by the heavy pulsing between my thighs, and the wetness in my underwear right now, it was definitely a wonderful idea to change Baker’s name in my phone to Tiny Dick Nubbin.

I’ve never known what it’s like to want someone so much you don’t know if you’ll be able to wait until you’re completely alone to have them, and you just say “fuck it” and get creative, because you can’t wait. But I do now. Jesus God, I do now.

“I’m gonna be inside you, and you’re damn well gonna know it, Tink.”

Baker drops his hand from my cheek and his arm from around my waist, kissing the top of my head before he turns and starts walking away.

“I’ll handle the hallway poop. You put the food on the table,” Baker says over his shoulder, his voice getting louder as he disappears around the corner. “And you know I meant that in a ‘You did a wonderful job preparing it and I don’t want to get in your way of setting it out’ way, and not in a chauvinistic, ‘Get in the kitchen and fix me my dinner’ way, so don’t poison my food. Kisses!”

I’m still laughing as I carry the warm pan of mac and cheese to the kitchen table a few minutes later. And I’m still turned on. Baker said he didn’t care if we waited a week, or a month, and I know he meant it. Even if we did wait, I’d still be a mom. I’d still have interruptions, and obligations, and I’d still have someone else living under the same roof as me.

Fuck waiting. I’ve been unintentionally celibate for long enough. I like Baker. I more than like Baker. And I want him to screw my brains out immediately. So what if we have to be creative and sneaky?

Yep, it’s official. Looks like Baker’s original plans for us tonight are back on. Time for some creative, hurry-so-we-don’t-get-caught funny business.





CHAPTER 24





Ember

Assless Chaps and a Cattle Prod


“This is absurd. Get him off the table.”

Both Baker and my son completely ignore me, their unblinking, wide eyes glued to the same spot—the empty place setting at my small kitchen nook table for four, where there is now a tiny table, and a tiny chair. And a tiny Ron Jeremy, sitting on that tiny chair, at the tiny table, at his own goddamn place setting.

“I will do no such thing,” Baker states quietly, his voice in awe as he continues staring at Ron Jeremy eating little cut-up pieces of watermelon, apple, and carrots. “Look at how majestic he is, sitting there at that table.”

“We’re celebrating that R.J. no longer hisses when you’re in the room, Mom,” Lincoln whispers as he continues staring at the hedgehog sitting at his little table. “That deserves a yummy dinner, at the head of the table.”

Ron Jeremy makes little squeaking noises each time he bends forward and nibbles on his food. He’s kept everything nice and neat on the table while he eats, and just sits there like a fucking good boy. It really is kind of adorable, especially since he’s no longer trying to drag me back down to hell with him, but I don’t want him on the table. This is where we eat our food. But I’ve also been contemplating kitchen counter sex all evening, which would most likely put an ass on the counter, where I prepare the food, sooo….

While the men are busy being mesmerized by a hedgehog eating at a tiny table, I walk over to the stove and grab the dessert I put here to cool when the timer went off a few minutes ago. Dishing out some for each of us in little ceramic bowls, I spray a healthy amount of whipped topping from a can on top of each before taking them over to the table and distributing them.

The kitchen is suddenly filled with moans of appreciation and forks scraping against bowls, adorable hedgehog sitting at a tiny table forgotten for the moment.

“I thought that mac and cheese was the best thing I’ve ever eaten, but I changed my mind,” Baker says, reaching over with his fork to try and blatantly steal some of Lincoln’s dessert.

Lincoln bats Baker’s fork away with his own, and then the two of them spend a few minutes laughing and having a fork battle before they resume eating again.

“It’s the best dessert mom makes for the farm. I mean, she used to make for the farm,” Lincoln informs Baker in between bites. “She makes a lot of good stuff, but this one’s my favorite. It’s called Apple Lincoln Cake.”

When Lincoln starts to giggle as soon as he says the name, a sharp pang goes through me when I realize what an idiot I’ve been. I was so busy missing home that I stopped doing a lot of the things I did there, like baking, because I figured it would just make me sad. Hearing my son’s laughter talking about his favorite dessert that I named after him makes me realize I need to start bringing more of home here. Especially for Lincoln.

“Mom, tell Baker why it’s called Apple Lincoln Cake,” my son prods, barely able to get the words out, because he’s eight, and he’s a boy, and the story behind this name always makes him lose it.

“So, I did all of the baking for the store part of the pumpkin farm,” I speak, crossing my arms and resting them on the table in front of me, while Baker sets his fork down and gives me his full attention. “I use a lot of my family’s old recipes, but I also make up a bunch of my own. Anyway, we’ve had this recipe in our family forever, and it’s usually made with pumpkin pie filling. I decided to play around with it when Lincoln was a baby, and made it with apple pie filling instead. Lincoln loved it when I first fed it to him and let him be my taste-tester. He got so happy he—”