Marcell sighed as he heard the bell over the front door chime. He did not need to leave the kitchen to know who was stopping by so late in the day, when the bakery was all but guaranteed to be empty. He was just going to have to wait a bit to be told ‘no’ again, cause the pies couldn’t wait.
He finished off the top crusts, then slid the four pies into the oven. Setting the timer, he tidied up the island where he’d been working and washed up at the sink. When he could delay no longer, he dragged himself out of the kitchen. At the back counter, he grabbed a mug and the coffee pot, carrying both to the front counter. He set the mug in front of his unwanted customer, and filled it, leaving plenty of room for cream and sugar. “Afternoon, Mr. Cunningham. Get you a bite of something sweet?”
Cunningham smiled in a city-slick sort of way. He reminded Marcell of the Sheriff’s man, in that he had a definite city shine to him, a way of moving and speaking that local folks just didn’t have. But Merry was as nice as he was pretty, and loved Marcell’s éclairs and special chocolate cake. Cunningham just made Marcell want to upend the coffee pot on his fool head. “I’ll take a piece of apple pie, and a yes for you.”
Marcell did not reply, just fetched the requested pie and added ice cream without bothering to ask first. He set the slice of pie and a fork in front of Cunningham. “There’s your pie.”
“And that yes?” Cunningham asked, turning up the wattage on his smile. Marcell bit his tongue against an urge to tell him it was broken.
“The answer will always be no, Mr. Cunningham,” Marcell replied. “Don’t know what’s wrong with your hearing, sir, but you might get that checked out when you get home. I ain’t leaving Midsummer.”
Cunningham flapped his hands, brushing the words aside. “You bake better than most five star chefs I know. You could own your own bakery—your own restaurant!”
“When Aunt Mary passes on, the bakery goes to me,” Marcell said, barely avoiding rolling his eyes. “Mr. Cunningham, you could offer me the world on a stick, slathered in gold, and I would still tell you no. Ain’t a place in the world got what I want. Everything I could ever want and need is right here in Midsummer, and this is where I aim to live and die.”
Scoffing, Cunningham said, “I can arrange better than whatever it is you think you want.”
Marcell burst out laughing; he couldn’t help it, the man was just that much a fool. Better than whatever he thought he wanted. What could ever be better than waking up in a big ol’ bed sandwiched between Ty and Boyd, like he had that morning?
The way Boyd had sat up and climbed out bed, going to the table and chair by the window and lighting a cigarette. The little light on the table had bathed his skin, made him look like a ghost. Marcell had started to tell him good morning, only to be startled silent by Ty simultaneously kissing his neck and pushing two fingers inside him. He’d still been stretched from the previous night, and it was only a matter of minutes before he was ready and eager.
Ty had turned him, braced him on his hands an knees so he was facing Boyd, who just continued to watch while he smoked, taking long, slow drags. It was as though he were a ghost, and had all the time in the world. Boyd had patience, and Marcell always forgot how evil that could make him.
Though Ty had patience too, he was infinitely more evil in that he would do whatever Boyd said—no matter what Marcell said. So when Boyd told Ty with a look that he should take his time, Marcell could only whimper as Ty made every thrust slow and measure, dragging the pleasure out, driving Marcell wild with wanting.
Boyd just smoked his cigarette and watched, the smirk on his lips taunting and promising, and Marcell knew without anyone asking or telling that he wasn’t allowed to come, even when Ty finally sped up, drove into him over and over, and finally cried out as he came.
Stamping out his cigarette, Boyd rose and strode to the bed as Ty pulled out and moved out of the way. Marcell went easily as Boyd pushed lightly, lying on his back and spreading his legs wide, holding tight as Boyd pushed inside him and wasted no time in fucking Marcell hard and deep.
Finally, finally Boyd wrapped a hand around Marcell’s cock, stroked him off quick and dirty, and Marcell came with a shout, felt Boyd thrust a few more times before they collapsed in a sweaty pile on the bed. “You’re heavy,” Marcell teased.
Boyd chuckled and kissed his neck, then rolled off. “Morning, Marcy, Ty.”
“Morning,” Tye drawled, and kissed Marcell, then leaned over him to kiss Boyd. Marcell’s cock gave a half-hearted twitch, watching them, cause that sight would always get a rise out of him even when he was ninety and beyond being able to do anything about it.
Marcell slowly untangled himself and sat up. “I’m gonna be walking funny in the kitchen all day.”
Ty and Boyd laughed, not sounding particularly contrite.
Marcell wondered what Cunningham would do if Marcell told him about his morning, what he would think qualified as ‘better’. So far as Marcell was concerned, the only way it could be better was if they’d been able to stay in bed.
Before Marcell could figure out exactly what to say, the door opened and his men walked in, as if summoned by his wayward thoughts. Boyd caught his eyes, and smirked, as if reading Marcell’s wayward thoughts. “Marcy,” he drawled. “We finished early. Want to go driving after those blackberry pies you got in are done?”
They sat down at the bar, a couple of seats down from Cunningham. Marcell poured a black coffee for Boyd and slid it across the counter to him, then made up an extra rich hot chocolate for Ty. As he set it down, Ty snagged his shirt collar and tugged him close enough to steal a kiss. Marcell laughed as he drew back, still chuckling when Boyd took his own kiss. “What do you want for a snack?” he asked them.
“Can we snitch one of those pies to take home?” Ty asked. “They smell almost as good as sex, Marcell.”
Marcell grinned. “I made an extra for you, don’t I always? They’re about done now.” He headed back toward the kitchen, pausing as he passed Cunningham. “Top off your coffee, Mr. Cunningham?”
“I’m good to go, Marcy. You ever change your mind, you let me know. Take care.” Laying a five on the counter, he picked up his hat, nodded politely, and left.