I suck in a sharp breath.
I watch, mesmerized as he walks over to the stove.With long tongs, he lifts two large pieces of beef from the simmering sauce, placing them in a bowl.
“Your station, Chef Beckett,” he announces, bringing the bowl over to the island and holding two forks out to me.
I approach and take them.“Shouldn’t I have a knife?”
“Not to shred these, no.They’re very tender,” he explains, his eyes glinting.
“O…kay…” I frown, pressing my lips together in confusion.
Matthew laughs, coming to stand directly behind me, his chin resting just over my shoulder.“All you need is firm, steady pressure,” he instructs in a husky rumble.His hands cover mine to guide the forks.
With his fingers strong over my own, he shows me how to press the tines into the meat and pull it apart.The beef yields effortlessly.“See?”His breath stirs the hair at my temple.“When you know how to handle it, it just falls apart for you.”
He guides my hands through the shredding of a few more pieces, his hips pressed into mine.His lips so close to my ear I can feel the vibration of every word.My hands tremble under his; my whole body hums with awareness.After showing me once more, his hands release mine.His arms wind around my waist, pressing my back to his chest.His chin comes to rest on my shoulder, his lips a breath away from my ear.
“Alright, Chef.Show me,” he murmurs.The teasing vibration travels straight through me, coiling in my belly.
My hands feel clumsy.My heartbeat pulses frantically against my wrists.I try to focus on the task, on the simple mechanics of pulling the impossibly tender meat apart.But all I can feel is him.
The solid weight of his body.
The heat of his hands on my hips.
The intoxicating scent of wine on his breath as it fans across my neck.
I manage to shred a few strands of beef, my movements jerky and uncoordinated.Matthew trails his lips up my neck to the sensitive skin just below my earlobe.My hands falter, the forks clattering against the ceramic bowl.“You smell incredible,” he whispers, sending a sharp tremor down my spine.
“Pretty sure it’s the beef,” I manage, letting out a shaky giggle.
He hums against my skin, a sound of pure satisfaction.His thumbs begin to draw slow, lazy circles on my hipbones, just above the waistband of my sweatpants.A touch so light, yet so charged, it feels like he’s branding me.
“Matt,” I breathe.The word is a weak, helpless protest.“I’m t-trying to work here.”
“You’re doing great.”
His praise is raspy and intimate.Combined with the agonizingly slow caress of his thumbs, it is a pure, exquisite torture.Systematically dismantling my ability to think.To function.To do anything but feel.
I bite my lower lip, forcing my hands to move again.
But my focus is gone.
My body is alive with a desperate, liquid heat.Every deliberate pull of the fork feels linked to the deep, aching pull he’s creating inside me.
“Sh-shouldn’t you be working, too?”I ask, my voice breathless.
“I am,” he whispers, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the side of my neck.My knees buckle.His hands slide from my hips to my stomach, palms flat and warm, pulling me even more securely against him.
“Done,” I whisper.The last piece of beef is finally shredded.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.The words are possessive against my ear, making my core clench.
He turns me in his embrace, my back pressing against the hard edge of the island.Before I can process his intent, he scoops me up and sits me on the granite countertop.He steps between my legs, hands flat on either side of my hips.His face is inches from mine.He drops his gaze to my mouth for a long, torturous moment before turning to the ragù simmering on the stove.He picks up a wooden spoon and scoops a small amount of the rich sauce, dipping his index finger into it.
He brings his finger, coated in the glistening ruby-red sauce, to my mouth.“Taste.”His command is a gravelly, non-negotiable whisper.
Surrendering, I lean forward.My heart hammers as my lips part to wrap tentatively around his finger.The taste is an explosion of tomatoes and herbs, but it’s secondary to the feel of his skin on my tongue.A muscle in his jaw works, his expression one of intense, sensual concentration.When I slowly draw back, wicked delight zaps through me at the sound of his sharp intake of breath.
