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Anabelle had to admit, there were certain benefits to living above a bakery.
The first was that her studio flat maintained a delicious aroma of vanilla essence and cinnamon. She often awoke from dreams of cupcakes and frosting, simply from the scent that permeated her bedroom.
The second was that, in order the satisfy the cravings brought on by item one, the bakery owner—a motherly, middle-aged woman named Marnie, also Anabelle’s landlady—offered her a special discount on anything she purchased. It was all so delicious that Anabelle had had to increase her gym attendance to four times a week to avoid packing on too many pounds, but the raspberry and white chocolate blondies alone were worth it.
She absentmindedly picked up the last mouthful she had left on the plate at her elbow, rolling it between her fingers for a moment, eyes still fixed on the canvas in front of her, before popping it in her mouth and savouring the cloying sweetness.
For a pleasant change, the art piece she was working on wasn’t a commission, or something she would later put online to sell. It was simply a way to pass the lazy Sunday afternoon. Her palette was dotted with light, springtime colours—duck-egg blue and pastel pink, seafoam green and primrose yellow—swirling and dotted across the canvas with scarcely a plan as to where the next colour would start. It was a gentle flow of her own consciousness, the paint making her feel calm and happy.
When the knock at the door sounded, Anabelle’s heart jumped like an excited rabbit. It seemed so juvenile for the mere thought of her new boyfriend to cause such a reaction, but Matt was. . . Well, he was something else.
The third, final, and most crucial advantage to her living situation.
The first time they’d met, she was coming home from work—tired, hungry, and more than a little cranky. Teaching P.E. to classes of reluctant twelve- and thirteen-year-olds could be nothing short of exhausting at times. She paused at her front door, adjacent to the glass entrance of the bakery. She searched for her keys in the depths of her bag and as she finally drew them out, they dropped into a nearby puddle. Throwing her head back in exasperation, she bent down to pick them up, only realising she was being watched when she straightened back up.
Behind the counter was a guy. Not particularly tall or muscular, but certainly cute. His brown hair was styled neatly back, his jaw dusted with a light coat of stubble. Their eyes locked for an awkwardly long moment, before he waved and beckoned her inside.
As she stepped through the door, she’d expected a “how are you?” or “you must be the girl upstairs who eats too much cake”. Instead, he reached into the display cabinet, pulled out a rose and pistachio cookie, and said, “You look like you could use one.”
Unsure of whether to be offended by this comment, true as it might be, Anabelle reached for her purse, only for the guy to shake his head.
“On the house.”
Anabelle took the cookie, wondering if he expected her to eat it right there, or if she was free to leave. If she wanted to leave, that is. This close, she could make out the light hazel colouring of his eyes, the lower part of a tattoo peeking out from under his short sleeve.
Realising she was staring, she fumbled, “Oh, um, I’m Anabelle, by the way.” 
“I know,” he said. His voice was light and pleasant, with a mirthful lilt that went all the way to his twinkling eyes.
Anabelle had never described anything as “twinkling” before. She must be tired.
“I’m Matt. My mum’s the owner.”
Marnie’s son? Anabelle felt herself blushing, and hoped Matt didn’t notice. The subtle quirk of his lips betrayed that he had.
“I haven’t seen you before,” she said, stating the obvious and kicking herself for it.
“No, I’ve been off travelling. Only just got back.”
“Wow, where did you go?”
“Asia, mostly. Did a short stint teaching English in Japan.”
“Gosh,” Anabelle was impressed. “You speak Japanese?”
He grinned wider. “Would have made teaching a lot more one-sided if I didn’t.”
Anabelle hoped her human-tomato impression was less noticeable this time.
“Then I spent a couple of months in New England.”
“Ah, I’m jealous!” she said. “I’ve always wanted to visit one of the New England national parks. All that wide open space and trees—it looks amazing.”
“It was,” he nodded. He leaned forward, resting on the counter. Why were his forearms making her feel so tingly? “Asia was pretty stunning too, though. Look.”
Pulling out his phone, he showed her a short slideshow of photos from Vietnam, Thailand and Japan.
“You were there for the cherry blossom season,” Anabelle sighed. “It’s so pretty.”
“If you ever go there, don’t just stick to Tokyo,” he advised. “The rural parts are just as incredible.”
Yeah, if she could afford to go to Japan on a teaching salary and quasi-regular art sales.
“Noted,” she said.
There was a moment of silence, in which he simply looked at her, his eyes soft and expectant.
Anabelle ruffled her dark brown bob for something to do with her hands, then felt like a preening idiot.
“Mum said you were pretty.” The tone of his voice made it clear that he wholeheartedly agreed.
Anabelle pressed her lips together and fought the urge to bury her face in her hands. Her cheeks must surely have bypassed tomato and entered the realm of beetroot by now.
He chuckled softly and her stomach gave a pleasurable flutter.
“Sorry,” he said. “I have no verbal filter when it comes to women. Blessing and a curse, you know?”
She nodded, though to what she was agreeing even she wasn’t sure. All she could think about was how sweet his mouth was; how long his dark eyelashes were. He was different from any of her previous boyfriends. They had all been tall, dark and brooding. What could she say? She had a type. Or, at least, she thought she had.
From that moment on, every time Matt was working, either one of them was able to find some reason for Anabelle to stop inside for a while. Once he discovered she was an artist, they had a new shared topic of interest. He was gobsmacked that she’d never been to the Louvre or Pompidou Centre. He confessed to being no artist himself, but he was a great admirer of other people’s work.
“I told you,” she said, folding her arms together over the counter, more than a little aware of how it emphasised her cleavage, “I’m saving to go to New York. Most art galleries of any city in the world.”
He reached over and ran the tip of his finger lightly down the curve of her arm, and it was as though an electric current passed through her body.
In the present, Anabelle quickly unbuttoned the paint-splattered men’s shirt she had on over her day clothes and wiped her hands of excess paint with it before tossing it over a chair. Underneath, she was wearing a form-fitting white tank top and jeans.
Her face broke into an uncontrollable smile as Matt’s grinning face met her at the door. She’d always been so careful as a teenager not to smile too hard, self-conscious of the gap between her front teeth. But with Matt, she couldn’t seem to help herself. He’d only commented on it once to say how cute it was. God, she was so besotted, it was almost sickening.
Matt was looking equally casual in a black sweater and grey jeans, his hands in his pockets.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he said, and instantly looped her arms around his neck to kiss him.
“New job?” he asked, gesturing at the artwork on the table. They sat on opposite sides, and she picked up a brush-tipped with the palest orange.
“Nah,” she said, swirling the brush around the edge of the canvas.
“May I?” He picked up another brush and dipped it in a blob of sky blue from the palette. Their brushes danced together on the kaleidoscope of colours, the contrasting colours accenting each other perfectly.
“So I got you a present,” Matt said, resting his chin in his hand, his eyes still watching the brushes.
“Seriously, babe,” Anabelle sighed, “if you give me one more brownie I’m going to turn into one.”
Matt smirked. “No, something else.”
He pulled a small envelope from his jeans back pocket and laid it on the table beside the canvas.
“What’s this?” Anabelle put down her brush and lifted the loose flap. She saw the word ‘Paris’. “What . . .?”
She stared at the tickets in disbelief for a moment, her mind clunky as a steam engine as she tried to convince herself this was real.
“But… these . . .”
“Happy Birthday, sweetheart,” Matt was smiling, though his eyes looked strangely nervous. “It’s just for the weekend … You don’t mind, do you?”
“M-mind?” she stammered. Her tongue felt like it had been replaced by a slice of ham.
“We’ll start with the Louvre, then—” His voice was quickly muffled by Anabelle’s lips covering his mouth.
She could feel the fabric of her top pressing into the sticky paint, but she couldn’t have cared less at that point.
This guy. This gorgeous, generous, sweet guy who always smelled slightly of vanilla. He was hers.
She stood up and walked round to his side of the table. Her movements were strangely calm and steady for all the excitement fizzing inside her. Standing in front of him, she leaned down as though to kiss him again, pulling back at the last minute, her fingers tugging on the drawstring of his hood.
He teased the bottom hem of her shirt, pushing the paint-smeared cotton up her stomach before switching to the waistband of her jeans.
Her joy seemed to bubble over, and she practically jumped into his lap, her legs dangling either side of his hips, her whole body bouncing with the energy spilling from her. Their lips met again, and she opened hers fully to accept the warm invitation of his tongue. His mouth was perfect, and he tasted like spearmint.
His hands were on her body; her arms, her waist, her back. All she could do was cradle his face between her palms and keep him there, keeping them connected, wishing she could melt into him completely. She threaded her fingers through his soft hair as his spread over the swell of her ass.
“Fuck me,” she whispered against his lips, and he moaned into her. Within seconds, her tank was off over her head and on the floor. She was braless—by design, of course—and he supported the weight of her breasts in his palms, his fingers warm and eager as her massaged her. They kissed again, and he held her closer, one hand on her ass, the other stroking down the bumps of her spine.
His lips strayed from hers, along her jawline to her neck, pausing to bite at the soft skin of her earlobe. A shiver passed through her and she let out a gasp which quickly became a moan as his teeth grazed the side of her neck, the tender bites soothed with whispered kisses.
When his mouth reached her breast, she leaned her head back and let the sensation of his lips overwhelm her. She sighed softly, his tongue flicking at her quickly hardening nipple.
She couldn’t hold back a girlish giggle as his fingertips tickled her sides. He pulled back and she bent to kiss the tip of his nose, her fingers already making quick work of his belt.
“Babe,” she murmured, her lips bare centimetres from his. “You’re wearing far too many clothes.”
His sweater and belt were soon discarded to the floor with her own banished top. She ran her fingers over the imaged inked onto his arms. To look at his sweet face, you wouldn’t guess he’d be the type to have tattoos, yet somehow they suited him.
He gave a short hiss of breath as she released his semi-hard cock from inside his jeans and encircled her fingers around it. It twitched at her touch and she felt it stiffen further just from two pumps of her hand. She rolled her wrist in an even motion, running the pad of her thumb over the head, the polish on her nail sinfully red against his skin. She knew exactly how he liked it.
He reached to her jeans, swiftly undoing the clasp, his fingers diving right down to rub her clit through her panties. She knew he could feel the damp spot on the fabric, revealing just how much she wanted him in that moment.
Desperation taking hold, she slid from his lap and pulled him to his feet, his cock bouncing a little as he moved. As they moved to the couch, he kissed her neck feverishly from behind, one hand reaching around to cup a breast, squeezing hard. She could feel his cock jutting into her ass, barred entry by the seat of her jeans.
They collapsed onto the couch and she tugged at his waistband, removing his jeans and boxers in one fluid motion. He attempted to discard hers with equal efficiency, but they got stuck on her ankles partway down.
“Come on, you bastard things—” he grunted, tugging harder. The suddenly momentum threw them both off balance and they fell to the floor, Anabelle giggling uncontrollably.
“Well, they’re off,” he said triumphantly.
“My hero.”
“Come here, then, sweet damsel.”
He climbed back up onto the couch and pulled her to him, her thighs straddling his. As they kissed, she slowly ground her hips upwards, her mound rubbing against his cock in a foreshadowing of what was to come.
“Lie back,” she said, her voice laced with tantalising promise.
She gazed up at him as he reached out, pushing aside a dangling lock of her hair and holding it in place. He moaned with heated abandon as she took him in all the way to the base, the length of his cock heavy on her tongue. Her lips stretched around him, and she bobbed up and down in a steady rhythm.
She finished with a flair—trailing her tongue all the way from base to tip, before swirling it around the head and lapping up the slick sheen of pre-come coating him.
“My turn.” 
She hovered above him, and he supported her pert ass cheeks in his palms. There was a large freckle, just above the slit of her cunt, which she knew he loved, and he pressed his lips to it for a moment before invading her with his tongue.
A helpless giggle of ticklish delight escaped her, fading into a sigh as he exposed her clit with his fingers, focusing the pleasure on that sweetest spot.
Without warning, her knees gave an involuntary tremble, and she stumbled almost to the floor. He dragged cushions from the couch to keep her comfortable, before pushing her down onto her back and continuing his conquest. As he licked inside her, he massaged her clit with his fingers—expertly, playing her like a master pianist until the notes of her pleasure filled the small apartment like a symphony.
A lightning storm of ecstasy was growing between her thighs, but she didn’t want it to end there. She didn’t want to cum unless he was inside her with more than just his tongue. She pushed gently against his forehead.
“Not… not yet,” she panted. “Please, baby… I need you…”
As he crawled up her body, adorning her with licks, bites and kisses like an explorer mapping a trodden path, his cock slid easily into her. They both gasped as it filled her, fitting so perfectly. She wrapped her legs around him, locking her ankles together at the base of his spine, and he began to move. She gripped his shoulders, moving her hips to meet his downward thrusts. As he slid in and out of her wet heat, she pressed her own fingers to her clit, doubling the pleasure he was already giving her. He lifted her legs, supporting her with his elbows, and his cock hit a spot deep inside her that made her squeal unashamedly. 
“Harder,” she pleaded and he quickened his pace, striking that spot over and over, until she thought she might lose her mind with the pleasure of it. Her orgasm covered her like a silk blanket, an ocean of agonising bliss washing through her body.
He didn’t pull out, but slowed his rhythm, allowing her to catch her breath. In a sudden burst of momentum, she rose from her back, forcing him out of her and against the couch. She crouched above him and guided him inside her again, the muscles in her legs taut as she bounced up and down on his cock. It was like falling into heaven again and again, each time she sheathed him all the way to the hilt in her desperate wetness.
“Fuck, Annie,” he gazed at her, his eyes hazy with desire. “You’re beautiful. You’re so fucking perfect.”
She knew he was close. The muscles in his stomach and thighs were twitching, his breaths shorter. An idea suddenly struck her, and she rose to her feet, almost dragging him up with her.
“I want you to paint me,” she said. It was a corny line, but she could tell he loved it. He sat down on the couch and she knelt in front of him, both hands working his rock-hard length. She wanted him to see her as she felt. As she was. As his.
“O-oh fuck,” his eyelids flickered, his mouth dropping open. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come. Oh God, I’m gonna come, I’m…”
She leaned her head back, relishing the warm jet of fluid that erupted from him and decorated her soft, full breasts. Glancing down, she realised with a thrill of amusement that it looked like the icing the bakery used on their cinnamon pastries, rather than the ending of their horny story.
He stared down at her, his eyes flitting from her face to her painted breasts.
“God, you’re perfect,” he sighed.
Wiping the evidence of his passion away with her long-discarded top, she leaned forward and rested her elbows on his thighs, grinning mischievously.
“Guess you are an artist, after all.”
The End