Sugar Dusted Dad Bod (Dad Bod Christmas)

5. Cady

Five

Cady

I t’s been three days since Jasper set me straight about the mistletoe, and we’re almost back to normal. Almost. Each evening when I turn up for the late shift, Jasper says hello and smiles at me, his hands dusted with flour as they work a mound of bread dough. I smile back, suddenly shy.

Then we chat all through the late shift, weaving easily around each other as though we’re in a choreographed dance, never stepping on toes or barging shoulders. The kitchen is warm and bright, and the air tastes like powdered sugar.

We laugh, we smile. We steal glances at each other, saying nothing as the radio throbs out another holiday tune. The nerves fizz in my tummy, until I’m queasy with how badly I want my boss.

And… that’s it. Three nights of working together in a single room, three nights of unacknowledged tension simmering between us, and not a peep. At this rate, I’ll be gray by Christmas.

If Jasper would only kiss me… if he’d only lift me up and hold me against his chest… if he’d only press me against the refrigerator and shove a leg between my thighs…

I’d welcome anything from this man. Anything. And yet he insists on being a perfect gentleman, keeping a careful distance as we move around his kitchen. It’s maddening.

“It’s really coming down out there,” Jasper says tonight, frowning at the kitchen window. Out there, snowflakes whirl past the glass, the clouds of them so thick that they block out the night sky. “Maybe I should walk you home early, Cady.”

Oh, yeah: this is a new form of torture, too. Jasper has always walked me home after my late shifts, for as long as I’ve worked here, but since The Mistletoe Incident, we walk the whole way to my apartment in taut silence. There’s only the crunch of our boots through the snow.

Then we climb eight flights of stairs and hover outside my front door, both out of breath but waiting for the other to say something. Heat climbs up my throat, and my lower belly twists, and I practically levitate with how badly I want Jasper to touch me already.

But he never does, and so I crack and let myself in for the night. Each time, as Jasper waves goodnight through the closing door, he looks both disappointed and relieved.

“It’s not that bad,” I say, looking out the window too, but I can’t hide the doubt in my voice. “We need to get these orders done.”

Tonight is Christmas Eve, and then the holiday rush is officially over. We’re so freaking close, and it’s just as well, because Jasper is visibly exhausted. There are new silver strands in his beard.

If this man were mine to fuss over, I’d make sure he was drinking lots of water and eating his five a day. I’d chase him to bed early each night, and then I’d kiss my way down his big body and really put myself to work, sending him off to sleep with a smile.

Instead, all I can do is drag him to the break room between orders and fix him a strong coffee to keep him going through the shift. Jasper scrubs both hands down his face and groans into his palms, but he collapses into one of the metal chairs and calls me an angel when I set his coffee down on the table. So… there’s that.

“Cady,” Jasper says when I come back with my own coffee too. If I was smart, this would be a decaf burning my palms, but clearly I’m a dumbass. Besides, I need to stay fresh so we can get through these last few orders. “It’s still coming down hard out there.”

My boss frowns out of the break room window, his thick, dark eyebrows pinched together. He’s right: a baby blizzard rages outside, but somehow I can’t bring myself to fret over it.

I’m here with Jasper O’Reilly. Nothing will ever hurt me while he’s near.

But the light flickers overhead—then plunges us into darkness.

“Motherfucker,” Jasper says with feeling.

Our abandoned coffees cool on the break room table as we stumble around the dark bakery for the next ten minutes, cursing quietly and bashing our shins on the counter edges, fumbling for emergency flashlights and testing the breaker. No luck. And when Jasper tugs the front door open, we see why: there’s a howling wind, a snowdrift up to my thighs, and a whole city block with no lights.

“Shit,” Jasper says. “ Shit. I should’ve walked you home when I had the chance. I think we’re stuck here, Cady. For a few hours at least, and maybe overnight.”

Sheltering behind my boss’s broad shoulder, I can’t hide my delighted grin. “Oh, that’s awful.”

* * *

Back in the break room, we gather round the small table and dig into a hot pecan pie—the last successful bake from the now-dead ovens. There’s no way to get these final orders out to folks, not with the city buried in snow like this, so we may as well give up and enjoy the last hour of Christmas Eve.

“I’m sorry about this,” Jasper says for the dozenth time, swigging from his lukewarm coffee and setting it down with a thud. I roll my eyes, digging for another forkful of pecan pie.

“Oh, do you control the weather? That’s impressive. You should’ve said.”

“Cady. Come on.”

“What’s that?” I nudge Jasper’s foot under the table with my own. “I’m sorry, I have a rare medical condition. I can’t actually hear apologies when it isn’t the person’s fault.”

Jasper snorts and stares out of the window again.

We’ve lit candles and spaced them around the small break room. It smells comforting in here, like the inhale you take right before blowing out a birthday cake, and thanks to a whole day of baking in industrial-sized ovens, this building is toasty-warm.

Even the radio is battery operated, meaning we still have our soundtrack of Christmas carols. Being snowed into the bakery with Jasper like this is a freaking dream come true—if he’d only lighten up and stop blaming himself.

Distraction time.

“What do you normally do on Christmas Day?” I ask.

Jasper shrugs one massive shoulder. “Order pizza, lay horizontal on my couch, and watch whatever sports channel I click past first.” He’s still frowning out of the window. “Not very interesting, but after a whole December of double shifts, I’m beat.” He turns to me, and those piercing blue eyes send a shiver down my spine. “How about you?”

I aim for airy, but my voice sounds way too fake when I say, “Oh, you know. The standard loner’s Christmas. A takeout burrito and trashy rom coms on my sofa.”

Jasper tilts his head, watching me closely. I stuff a giant forkful of pie in my mouth to hide from that knowing gaze, then nearly melt with how crumbly and buttery and sweet it is.

This man is a legendary baker for a reason. Holy hell.

“No friends in the area?” Jasper asks.

I shrug, chewing slowly so I don’t have to answer. The truth is: yes, I have friends from book club, but they all have holiday traditions with their families. And sure, I could ask to join and they’d all probably say yes, but who wants to be the tragic tag-along for Christmas? Not me.

Besides, I have my own holiday tradition: working the late shifts at Sugar Dusted bakery right up until Christmas Eve, then collapsing in my apartment on Christmas to eat junk food and moon over my absent boss. It’s a treasured appointment, and I always keep it.

“You could come to my place,” Jasper says, then winces right away. Like the words escaped without permission. He pushes on, though. “Not that—I wouldn’t make you eat pizza and watch the sports channel. I’d cook for you. A proper meal.”

And give up his lazy recovery day after a month of double shifts? I bite my lip against a smile.

“I don’t have a tree, though.” Jasper sighs and knuckles his forehead, like this is a serious problem we need to solve, and not the sweetest offer I’ve ever received. “So I could either go out and get one early—assuming the city’s power is back on by then—or I could come and cook at your place instead. Cady?”

My knees thump against the break room floor, and Jasper stares down at me, bemused. “Did you drop something?”

Uh-huh. Sure, I dropped something.

I’ve dropped any pretense that I don’t love this man. I’ve snapped. I’m toast.

And it’s not a fond, lukewarm love either. It’s not a platonic, friendly love. I am head over heels, bursting full of butterflies, up to my neck in L-O-V-E love with my gorgeous boss. If I don’t tell him now, when will I?

“Cady?”

Jasper startles when I duck beneath the table and touch his knees. The metal chair creaks, and he’s already breathing hard when I say, “Move back.”

My boss says nothing, but he shifts his chair back so I can crawl all the way beneath the small table and out the other side, popping up between his legs. Jasper stares down at me, blue eyes so intense in the candlelight.

His chest rises and falls beneath his baker’s tunic. He’s gripping the armrests so hard his knuckles turn white. My knees dig into the floor, and it’s not the comfiest, but I’m not stopping this now. No way in hell.

Not so long as Jasper gazes down at me like that, hungry and hopeful, like he’s scared this is all a dream. Like he might wake up drooling on his couch any minute.

“Is this okay?” I ask, stroking up his strong thighs. Jasper’s muscles tense and shudder beneath my touch, and he inhales sharply before nodding once.

“Yeah, I—yeah.” He shifts his weight in the creaky chair again as I untuck his tunic then reach for his belt. “Fuck. Cady . Yeah. I’m okay with this if you are.”

His belt buckle clinks, and his zipper scratches down, then Jasper grunts as I draw his cock out into the candlelight.

Theory confirmed: Jasper O’Reilly is huge all over.

“I should—I should take care of you first.” Jasper watches, wide-eyed, as I wrap my hand around him and give an experimental pump. He grunts, hips twitching forward. “We’re doing this all backward.”

“I don’t care.”

I really, really don’t. Because Jasper has worked so freaking hard all December and he deserves to unwind, damn it. He takes care of me constantly, bringing that tree to my apartment and checking in on me when I’m sick. He’s not just a boss to me.

He’s the best man I’ve ever known.

And the only man I’ve ever touched like this. He’s so girthy. Am I doing this right?

“Grip a little tighter,” Jasper mutters when I ask, wrapping his big hand around my own to demonstrate. The heat of his palm feels so good against my bare skin, and there’s something unbearably sexy about the way his arm muscles flex as he jerks himself using my hand. “Oh shit, Cady. Yeah, like that.”

His shaft is hot and thick and long, with a prominent vein running up the side. When Jasper lets go and grips the armrests again, I run the pad of my thumb over the head, spreading a bead of moisture gathering at the slit. It’s a little sticky.

Jasper makes a breathless grunt, leaning forward another inch.

Wetting my lips, I shuffle forward and lean down.

“You don’t have to—”

My lips brush against the head, giving him a chaste, closed mouth kiss. The second we make this contact, the break room temperature climbs by at least ten degrees, and I’m cooking under my baker’s tunic. My fingers flex, and my eyelashes flutter.

Need to get my tunic off. Need to get bare for this man.

But first, need to show my boss exactly how much I want him.

“Oh, Christ,” Jasper mutters when my lips part, welcoming him past my lips. The head rests heavy on my tongue, and I give a gentle suckle. It’s salty and warm, and it twitches and throbs. “Jesus Christ.”

I hum.

Then the break room is quiet except for the carols seeping from the radio, and Jasper’s ragged breathing, and the creaking of the metal chair—plus a few slurps and moans from me.

I can’t help it. I’m not even putting on a show; it’s just so good . Powerful and submissive all at once. Here I am, knees digging into the floor as I service my older, much bigger and stronger boss. When his hands leave the armrests to play with my braids and stroke along my jaw, I whimper around my thick mouthful. When he curses softly and thrusts along my tongue, I sigh.

This is what I want. This is where I belong. Not because I’m subservient to Jasper, but because I love him and trust him and I know he’s worshiping me right now too. It’s no secret. When he says my name over and over, it sounds like a prayer.

“Cady.” His voice is deep and gravelly. “This is— god. Cady.”

My knees throb from pressing into the hard floor and there’s a crick in my neck from bending over. Still, I never want to move, never want to draw my head away, and I’d stay down there all night if Jasper didn’t slide his hands beneath my armpits and lift me up.

For a split second, I’m weightless and confused, traveling through space.

Then I’m sprawled in my boss’s lap, his spindly chair shrieking beneath our joined weight, and my chin is slick from sucking his cock.

“We’re gonna hit the deck,” I rasp as the chair shrieks again.

“You’re right.”

Jasper stands, lifting me as easily as a doll, and takes us to the cracked leather armchair in the corner of the break room. It’s the nap chair; the one for stealing forty winks during extra-long shifts.

It doesn’t make a peep as we settle down. I wriggle around so that I’m draped sideways across Jasper’s lap, his strong chest and curved belly pressed against my side.

I wipe my slick chin on my forearm. Jasper grins.

And—he’s so freaking handsome like this. Wild and hungry and free, touching me like he owns me, stroking a hand up my thigh before hooking his fingertips over my thick winter leggings. I lift my hips and cling onto his shoulders as Jasper tugs down, and then my leggings and panties are tangled around my boots and ankles. I’m bare-assed in my boss’s lap, dressed in only my rumpled baker’s tunic and bra.

Jasper pauses, the pads of his fingers tracing idle circles on my thighs. “Can I kiss you?”

Can he kiss me? After all that, can he kiss me?

My laugh is a wheeze. “You’d better.”