Macarons at Midnight (16 page)

While Tristan chatted, Henry experimented with different decorations to go on top of the Bakewells; flowers seemed too time-consuming, a simple dusting of confectioners’ sugar not enough.

In the end, he piped a simple zigzag design on top of each tart, and took a photo with his phone so he could replicate it in the bakery if they tasted as good as they looked. And smelled.

“Please,” Tristan said, leaning over the table and clasping his hands together. “Please let me have one. I’ll do anything.
Please
.
”

“Sure,” Henry said, laughing, and pushed the tray across.

Tristan shoved half a Bakewell in his mouth at once and groaned in pleasure. “S’good,” he mumbled. “Tastes like my mum’s.”

Henry took a bite of another—they were good. Sweet and sharp from the jam, a little chewy from the almonds. His chef’s mind was already churning with the possibilities—as well as the raspberry jam variety, he thought blackcurrant would work well, maybe blueberry too, or apricot.

“Really good,” Henry agreed.

“Good enough for Honeyfly?”

“Oh, for sure. Tell your mother I said thanks.”

“She’ll be chuffed to bits,” Tristan said. “One of her recipes used in a swanky New York bakery? She’ll love it.”

Henry was grinning as he leaned over and kissed Tristan, licking a speck of icing from his lips as he went. “What exactly does ‘chuffed’ mean?” He asked.

Tristan sighed. “Pleased. Really happy. She won’t be able to believe it.”

“You’ll have to take pictures.” Henry smiled. “If you don’t mind, I can even put your mom’s name on the card in the display case.”

Tristan chuckled. “She’ll probably faint on the spot.”

T
HE
MACARONS
needed time to cool down before he could do anything with them, so Henry set the trays of freshly cooked shells on a counter and let Tristan lead him to the couch. He’d been itching to get his hands on him all morning, even if they had been doing a fair amount of underhanded groping. It still wasn’t the same as when he got to put his full attention to it. Henry leaned forward and gave Tristan a long, deep kiss. Tristan sighed when they pulled apart.

“I really like you,” he said. “It’s probably not very cool to say it, but I do.”

“You can say it. I don’t mind.” More than didn’t mind. Henry’s whole body reacted to that one little statement. “I really like you too. And people who try to be cool are boring.” Henry blew a raspberry into Tristan’s neck until he giggled.

It felt right to stretch out on the couch and make out while the scorching afternoon drifted into hazy early evening, fingers and lips exploring while the sweet treats sat forgotten on the bar. When Henry tugged Tristan’s shirt up, up, and off over his head with his exploring fingers, neither of them seemed to mind. In fact, it seemed particularly
right
for them to be shirtless, and Henry wasted no time in pulling his own off too.

Tristan ran his hands over Henry’s chest, lightly exploring the planes of muscle and soft, dark hairs. One fingertip caught against Henry’s nipple, and they both gasped softly.

“You want?” Tristan asked.

Henry caught a wrist and brought it down to his crotch, pressing the palm against the firm bulge in his pants. “Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “I’d say I do.”

Tristan tugged him to his feet and led them to the bed. It was cooler back here than in the kitchen, and Henry couldn’t help but admire Tristan’s creamy, soft skin dusted lightly with freckles. He seemed so much more laid back than most guys in New York—Henry would bet he’d never gotten his eyebrows waxed or spent a hundred dollars on a haircut.

There were no nerves when Tristan reached for Henry’s belt, unbuckling it and pushing the jeans down over Henry’s hips. They fell to the bed in a tangle of bodies, laughing and kissing and touching, and it was really, really good.

Henry kissed down the soft expanse of Tristan’s white belly, trim but not gym toned, and hesitated at the band of Tristan’s black boxers.

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah. Of course. Please.”

He peeled the tight shorts off slowly, and Tristan’s heavy cock sprung back against his belly with a soft thud. Tristan grinned like a cat and stretched his arms up over his head languidly. Like this, Henry could see all of him: soft belly, tight, pink nipples, the light hairs that covered his legs from ankle to midthigh.

“I’d forgotten. You’re—” Henry swallowed hard and rubbed his thumb just under the head of Tristan’s cock. “Not cut.”

“Hm? No. Hardly anyone in the UK is.”

“Oh. I think I knew that.”

“Does that matter?”

“Of course not.” Henry carefully pinched the extra bit of skin between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed it gently. “You should know, though, that I’m gonna spend
hours
playing with this.”

Tristan laughed, then groaned, then squirmed as Henry cupped his balls. “I think I’m okay with that.”

Although Henry was convinced he’d never get tired of playing with Tristan’s foreskin, he gently tugged it back and caught the head of his cock between his lips. Tristan groaned, and Henry felt like a god.

He was good at this, liked it too. There was something very empowering about making another man feel good, and there was nothing that made a man feel powerful like getting a really good blow job. Henry applied himself to the task, stroking and groping and squeezing the flesh that didn’t fit in his mouth. He flickered his tongue over Tristan’s thick shaft, and he bucked his hips a few times against the soft sheets, seeking out his own friction.

Tristan’s precome was a steady trickle as Henry sucked, and he swallowed it down eagerly.

“Shit,” Tristan gasped.

Henry moaned. His fingers pressed back behind Tristan’s balls and petted the sensitive skin there. A few moments later, with the combination of pressure from his tongue and fingers, Tristan bucked and came, spilling into Henry’s mouth.

Breathing hard, Henry pressed his cheek to Tristan’s hip and shoved his hand into his own shorts. He squeezed his dick hard, thumbing under the head and grunting as he spilled into his own fist.

“Holy
shit
.”

Tristan laughed and brushed his fingers through Henry’s hair. With supreme effort, Henry dragged himself up to rest his head on Tristan’s stomach.

“I would have returned the favor, you know,” Tristan said as Henry caught his fingers and brought them to his mouth for a kiss.

“I know. Next time.”

The thought that there would be a next time filled him with a new kind of warmth.

As night crept into New York, Henry kicked off his underwear and cleaned himself up quickly before resuming his place on Tristan’s chest. There was something particularly delicious about lying naked on soft sheets as the air around them cooled, drying the sweat on their bodies.

It was late, really late, when they finally rolled out of bed, and Henry finally returned to finish the macarons. He ended up staying the night, sleeping in Tristan’s bed, in Tristan’s arms. The cookies made an excellent breakfast.

T
RISTAN
STARTED
making it a habit to stop in at Honeyfly for a coffee and a muffin most days on his way to work. Sure, it meant leaving the house a few minutes earlier than he was used to, and then a few minutes earlier again when he started taking the time to stop and talk to Millie or Rose.

He always paid for the coffee and pastry before ducking into the kitchen at the back of the bakery to say hello to Henry; Henry, who let him poke through the trays of cookies, and wouldn’t let Tristan leave until he’d sampled at least one. Most days, he left with another two or three tucked into a paper bag to eat at lunch or with his habitual afternoon cup of tea.

Taking the stock made Tristan feel a bit awkward, which was why he always paid before going to see Henry. He wasn’t a freeloader, even if Henry was mind-bogglingly rich.

The jingle from the bell over the door was welcoming, and Tristan took a deep breath of the cool, sweet, air-conditioned air as he ducked into the shop. At this time of the morning, most of the patrons were business people or students, and they were all after coffee from the huge machine on the back wall as much as the sweets.

Rose lifted a hand in greeting and finished serving before leaning on the counter to grin at him.

“So, what will it be this morning, then, Mr. Green?”

“Um….” Tristan scanned the display cases, and smiled. “A croissant? Please? And a latte.”

“No problem.” He handed over a crumpled five-dollar bill and waited for her nod before ducking behind the counter. “I’ll get this made up for you.”

“Thanks, Rose,” he said with a smile.

In the kitchen at the back, Henry was humming along with the radio, piping swirls of thick paste into dainty pastry shells.

“Are those Bakewells?” Tristan asked, coming up to stand behind Henry and resting his hand on Henry’s upper back.

“Yup.”

Henry stretched into the touch and kept his hands still as he tilted his head for a kiss. Tristan obliged with enthusiasm and rubbed comforting circles between Henry’s shoulders.

Since the weekend, things had changed subtly between them. They still spoke and texted as often as they had before, it was just that now things seemed a little more solid. Secure. The big “boyfriends” talk hadn’t come up yet, though when it did, Tristan knew what he wanted to ask for.

Henry grinned, his face giddy. “The first four dozen tarts sold out in an hour, Tris. People are going crazy over these things. I’ve got raspberry and blackcurrant ones on the go at the moment, and I think I’m going to start playing with other flavors later in the week.”

“Sounds good to me.”

As Henry continued to pipe the almond paste on top of the jam, Tristan stood behind him and rubbed his shoulders, feeling tight knots under the surface. Probably due to all the hunching over Henry did, he thought.

The tarts looked like Henry had refined them since their first attempt on the weekend; the pastry now had a neat, scalloped edge around the top of the shell, and Henry was applying the almond topping in a neat swirl instead of just dolloping it on top.

“Do you want to get dinner in the week?” Tristan asked.

“Sure. I’ll take you somewhere nice.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Sure I do. What’s the point of having a hot English boyfriend if I don’t get to show him off?”

There it was. The B-word. He tried not to let the happy shivers show. Tristan just grinned and kissed the back of Henry’s neck again.

“I need to get off to work. I’ll let you figure something out and give me a call, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Henry twisted for another kiss, and was already piping the next line of tarts, singing and wiggling his butt, when Tristan headed back into the shop.

There’s no set way of making Bakewells; individual tarts, large round tarts cut into portions, and large square versions are all equally common, and equally delicious!

Pastry

• 1½ cups almond flour
  
• ¾ cup butter
  
• Pinch of salt
  
• Splash of water or milk to mix
  

Filling

• 1 egg, beaten
  
• 1 cup ground almonds
  
• 1 cup fine sugar
  
• ½ teaspoon almond extract
  
• 1 cup melted butter
  
• 1 tablespoon raspberry jam
  

Start by making the pastry; rub flour into butter until it resembles breadcrumbs. Add the salt. Add a splash of water or milk at a time and use a knife to bind the dough together. Knead lightly until the dough is smooth, and leave in the fridge for an hour or so to rest.

Roll out the dough and cut into rounds. Grease a muffin tin and set each pastry round in the bottom. Place the tray in the oven on a low heat while you make the filling, just to start baking and drying the pastry out.

(You can also skip this step by buying a ready-made pastry shell!)

Stir the egg, ground almonds, sugar, and almond extract into the melted butter until it forms a thick paste. Add a dollop of jam to the bottom of each pastry shell, or if you’re using a premade shell, cover the bottom with a generous layer. Add the almond mix on top. An ideal ratio is 1 part jam to 3 parts almonds.

Bake in a 400
°F
oven for 20 to 35 minutes, depending on the size of your tart (bigger tarts will take longer to bake). They’re cooked when the top springs back when pressed. Allow to cool, then decorate.

T
RISTAN
’
S
SUNNY
mood evaporated the moment he stepped into the office. It wasn’t that any one thing in particular happened—just the feel of the place, the people and the atmosphere and the stark white walls seemed to zap him of the high Henry’s kisses had given him.