“Err…” I bite down on my bottom lip, mentally calculating how long it takes coffee to cool down so I can busy myself by putting ice in the cups. “I don’t do much with the roast. I just slick it up, spice it, and stuff it in the oven.”
“Can I do that? Slick, spice, and stuff it in the oven?”
Fuck on a diamond-back duck. Is there even such a thing?Why on earth does it sound so sexual when he says it? My vagina gives him two thumbs up, and my panties get two degrees past soaked.
“S-sure.”
I’m officially dead. Gone and combusted, turned to dust.
I somehow make it to the fridge, though it’s not graceful. I snatch the pork loin out and toss the huge hunk of meat straight onto the island. It’s in tight plastic packing, but it makes a cold and wet slapping noise that sounds suspiciously like a hard spanking.
There’s asmallchance I might need to recalibrate my gray matter.
I’m a flurry of buzzing, sizzling energy as I grab spices, the bottle of oil, and the roasting pan.
“I’d love to watch you make buns,” Wilder says.
I barely make it to the island before everything slips out of my hands, but at least nothing breaks when they all come crashing down.
Well, besides my hormones.
They’ve officially reached a new pinnacle.
This morning, everything was so complicated and uncomplicated at the same time. It was an uncomplicated complicated. I wish I could go back to just past eight. I wish Wilder weren’t here. If I never saw him again, I could get on with my life, pick up the pieces of myself, get real, and get on with it.
Yup. Just keep thinking so…
I make flapping hand gestures at the roast, and Wilder gets the picture. He tackles that while I locate a few things from the pantry. Flour, yeast, sugar, and the bag of potatoes. I have to make a pit stop at the fridge and then snatch a few things out of the cupboards.
After that, I test the coffee, but it hasn’t cooled off at all.
I should have put it in the fridge.
Wilder doesn’t look like he’s in a hurry, so I leave it.
I sneak a peek at what he’s doing with the roast, which is a mistake. Not only do I get a full side view of those red pants snugged around hard leg muscles and even harder… erm… yeah, not going there, but I get a full view of his hands, slicked up with oil, as he massages it into that big old piece of meat.
Official round two. Dead round two.
I free-fall straight into round three when he turns to grab the salt and pepper shakers from the spot right by the stove, and I get a full view of just how low those pants are riding. It’s all ass crack from this vantage point, which means… zero underwear.
I probably shouldn’t know that’s a thing, but I do.
Wilder hates wearing gotch with leather.
He’s suffered very few ill effects, despite what people might think about that.
He shakes salt and pepper onto the roast, smearing the shakers in oil. I don’t wince or cringe. I’m too captivated by his hips swaying and more ass crack revealing itself. Dear. Lord. Red. Again. It gives new meaning to a woman in a shop full of breakables.
Fucking hell, my panties are beyond redemption, and myshortsare now getting wet from watching this dirty display of roast preparation glory.
Wilder suddenly stops and stares at the salt and pepper. He realizes his mistake, but instead of getting me to fix it, he takes them straight to the sink and rinses them off. He washes his hands after, scrubbing every finger with soap. I still haven’t moved. I haven’t done anything other than stare like a creeper for the past few minutes. I’m transfixed by the way he uses the towel on those strong, calloused hands.
I know what those hands are capable of.
In a good way. Musically.
Why am I like every other woman who falls for a rockstar? What is it about talent that makes a person so unbelievably attractive?
