“Come here, beautiful,” he said, and pushed me back and up onto the table, pressing against my chest until I lay down flat. He climbed up after me and straddled my waist. “Now it’s my turn to play,” he said. He grabbed a nearby pastry bag, filled it with the buttercream still sitting in the bowl, and began to pipe it over my chest. I couldn’t see what the designs were, but I could feel the swirling, light touches of the frosting, as intimate as any lover’s caress. I watched his face as he worked, and he was so stunning, he looked almost ethereal. Once or twice, however, he stuck his tongue between his lips as he concentrated on something in particular, making him look younger, more innocent, than he was. He moved down my body, circling my belly button, before decorating my hips, and then starting to work on my straining cock. If I thought the feel of the buttercream against my chest was intimate, the sensation of it being piped along my dick was indescribable. My hips bucked of their own volition, my body desperately seeking some sort of relief from the delicious torture Edward was inflicting on me.

He sat back on his heels between my legs and murmured, “Fucking hot.” He jumped down and said, “Hold on!” He returned a moment later with a Polaroid camera in his hand. “Please? I won’t take one of your face, but I want you to see this.” I nodded silently, and he snapped two pictures before setting the camera and developing pictures down, and then climbing back up on the table. “You are so fucking gorgeous, Jasper. But now? Now, I’m going to eat you.” And he proceeded to do just that.