Snog for Sommer on Smut for Good!

Sommer Marsden is one of my favorite writers of erotica, and I feel honored every time she contributes a story to one of my anthologies. Now I’m posting a snog scene of my own for the Smut for Good campaign to support Sommer and her family in their fierce battle with cancer. To find links to dozens and dozens of  steamy snogs, and to find out how to donate if you can, go to http://smutforgood.co.uk

This snippet is from my story “Crème Brulee” in the new anthology All You Can Eat, edited by Andi Marquette and R.G. Emanuelle, a book chock full of tasty (and satisfying!) goodness.
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The newcomers seemed to be busy building a fire of driftwood on the beach. I moved my car to the far end of the parking lot. In the glow of the overhead light I leaned over the front seat into the back to get my treasures out of their chilly container. Raf took the opportunity to knead my upturned butt and tease between my thighs, but with a steel-willed effort I got the ramekins safely onto a towel folded on the front seat between us.
“Crème brûlée!” I said triumphantly. “Have you ever had it?”
“Just seen it on restaurant menus a time or two without paying attention. What’s it mean? Bruised cream?”
“That sounds intriguingly kinky, but no. More like broiled cream. The top is covered with raw sugar, melted under a broiler or a propane torch, and then it hardens like glass.” I dug some plastic spoons out of the side pocket on the door where I tend to shove them when I get drive-through coffee. “Dig in,” I said, knowing what would be likely to happen.
Raf’s spoon broke on the mottled golden surface.
“You’re the stonecutter in this crew,” she said. “You do it.”
I took out my pocketknife, covered it in the plastic wrap that had protected the desserts, and brought it down hard on one sugar-glazed portion. Cracks rayed out, letting glimpses of the inner custard showed through. “That’s yours. Now you break my shell.”
She did it with one hand, while the other pulled my head close for a long, sensuous kiss. Finally, she pulled away. “So did I break through?”
I couldn’t even remember whether we’d done anything as slow and sweet as kissing last year. “Oh, yeah.” I was breathless. “No shell left at all.”
“Looks like some crunchy bits left in the dishes.” She took my spoon and scooped up some of the rich creamy custard along with fragments of sugar glaze. “Mmm. Now I know what you see in this. Such rich, smooth cream inside that stony exterior.” She took another bite, then offered me one. We alternated with the spoon, feeding each other, until the last bites were accidentally-on-purpose smeared across our lips. The licking and kissing that followed got us so revved up that driving all the way back to Wellfleet without relief was out of the question, so I pulled off at the Pilgrim Springs Trail parking lot, mercifully unoccupied.
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