Page 27 of His for Hanukkah

But Tate just seemed amused. Pressing his advantage, Adam tugged him into the kitchen.

Everything was already waiting on the counter. He must have slept more deeply than he’d realized.

It looked like the set-up for a cooking show. He investigated more closely. The potatoes were washed and set next to the large bowl. A grater rested on a small plate. Another bowl held two eggs. A bag of flour had a tablespoon resting on the top.

A covered prep bowl held pre-grated onions. It took him a moment to realize that Tate didn’t want them to sting his eyes by grating them himself.

It was becoming increasingly hard to think of Tate as anything but Daddy.

Tate indicated a neatly hand-written note card. “I texted Kate and Susan to get their recipe.”

Adam thought he might cry even without the onions.

“Thank you.” Biting back the rest of what he wanted to say kept getting harder.

“Alright, then, baby. Go ahead.”

Adam perused the recipe, then picked up the first potato. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever grated anything but cheese before. The potato slid down the grater easily and the reservoir inside slowly filled.

As he worked, Tate ran soothing hands down his back and arms. He wasn’t getting in the way, just letting Adam know that he was there.

He occasionally made small comments, praising Adam’s work and telling him to put down the stub of the potato when it got too close to the end.

It felt nice having Tate there behind him, keeping his fingers safe and his back warm. Cozy and special.

When Adam was almost done with the second potato, Tate’s hands moved to his front, teasing under his shirt. Tingles of excitement ran through him, but he tried to concentrate. He checked the recipe.

Next was salt. Two teaspoons. He nearly dumped the whole can in, though, when Tate’s fingers brushed roughly over his nipples. Tate didn’t seem to notice anything though, so he bit back his moan.

His next task was putting the shredded potatoes into a cheesecloth and wringing the water out. It was an interesting process and watching the water stream out the bottom was strangely satisfying.

He was finding it increasingly difficult to think, though, as Tate stroked down his thighs, narrowly missing his dick. It was starting to plump up, but Tate just continued his lazy exploration.

Adam took a deep breath and tried to focus. He broke the two eggs, dropping the shells back into the bowl. Tate slid his hands back under his shirt, now kneading and pinching his nipples without any pretense. He let out a little whimper.

“Go wash your hands, sweetheart,” Tate whispered against his ear.

He should… what?

Tate crowded him over to the sink, where he belatedly realized that he needed to turn on the tap and pump the soap.

Now he could feel Tate’s muscular chest against his back, his hard shaft pressing against his ass. He was supposed to be washing his hands to get the egg off, but he had no idea if they were clean.

Tate handed him a dish towel and he mindlessly dried his hands. He allowed Tate to guide him back to the prep station, their bodies pressed closely together.

His brain was short circuiting. He knew that Tate’s body couldn’t get hard in a way that he’d be able to feel through his jeans. And he’d spent enough time this afternoon with his nose buried between Tate’s thighs that he knew, biologically, Tate wasn’t built the same way as most men.

Yet there was still only one way to interpret it what he was feeling: Tate was hard for him. God, that was hot.

When Tate started licking and sucking his neck, Adam just gave up. Latkes, shmatkes. In fact, he didn’t care if he ever ate anything again.

“Don’t forget the flour, love.” Tate said it into his neck, the words rumbling across his skin. “I think you need two tablespoons.”

“Mmm-hmmmm…” Adam moaned. He would agree to anything for this to continue.

Tate laughed, and it shook through both of their bodies. He loved that he made Tate so happy.

“Pick up the tablespoon, sweet boy. The latkes need flour.”