Evan sighed. Eyed the sign that should've meant the bakery wasn't open to customers today. Glanced back toward whiskey-spiced chocolate cake-in-progress and oven-heat and cooling-racks.

He thought about flavors, and heat, and sharing. And powerful shoulders. And niceness.

He flicked the lock. "Wait!"

The potential customer spun around -- he clearly hadn't been expecting this summons, headed toward what was presumably his plain blue Honda Accord -- and all those exuberant muscles ran back in Evan's direction. "You opened up!"

Evan looked at the, yes, very open door, and tried to resist the sarcastic impulse. "I did. For you. Thanks for the compliment. We don't have too much today, but if day-old vanilla-orange petit fours or apple spice cake pops would work, I've got a few of those."

"You deserve all the compliments. You should be on television or something. Your own baking show. Totally famous."

This was utterly sincere, and consequently disarming; Evan did not quite know how to reply. "Um. Thanks again. Sorry, though, I have to ask -- when were you in here before? I try to remember everyone, and I can't think of your name, I'm sorry." He did not add, I' would've remembered wanting those muscles to pin me against the back wall and pound me until I scream, though he thought it. Loudly.

"Oh." The man outright blushed. Tall, strong enough to bench-press mountains, and precious. Evan's entire body yearned that direction. Something about that self-deprecating smile. That paradox: bashful and towering, confident but adorable. Inviting exploration. Discoveries. Taste-tests, maybe. "Guess I should apologize again. We haven't technically met. I talked to someone on the phone, two days ago ... about the cupcakes ... they sort of accidentally got delivered to my apartment instead of the one on the next floor up ..."

"Oh," Evan said, "that was you!" and then winced. "Sorry about that -- my second assistant's new and he was in a hurry. He came back and said he was really confused that nobody seemed to be home, but he left them anyway." Which of course his visitor knew. Having picked them up. Obviously. Dammit.

He finished rapidly, "And of course he had the location wrong, I mean Mark did, he's still learning to read, one of these days we'll teach him, I swear. We got a new order over to that party, but of course you ended up with the first batch and you hadn't ordered any, you didn't actually want them, sorry again, is there anything I can do to make you happy?" Please, suggested his brain, please say yes. Say something along the lines of get on your knees and show me how sorry you are.

He retreated behind the counter: armor and concealment and honest inquiry, hands resting near the display case. The man watched him move; something moved in those eyes too, deep and hot and plush as velvet. Recognition. Desire. Unguarded as a gift.

The fantasy spun itself into silver, magical as October could be. A mysterious stranger. The taste of autumn through an unlocked door. A fleeting enchanted interlude, lush and erotic and tempting.

The heat of skin. The press of fingers. Those large hands and that fabulous firm weight pushing him down atop a counter and taking him, with care but inexorably so, a kind of relentless tender onslaught that'd dissolve all his defenses, wringing pleasure from his body over and over ...

Evan cleared his throat. Appreciated his countertops. Good armor. Loyal.