She looks at me with those wide hazel eyes, and they consume me. I forgot we have an audience. And I lose any shred of doubt as to why this is a bad idea.
“Put what in where?” The nervousness of her voice yanks me back to the present.
Nerves don’t belong in a kitchen. The space should hum with purpose. It’s a place where hands move by instinct. Where creating becomes a quiet agreement with time.
Measure.
Wait.
Listen.
“Put your hands”—my hands reach for hers—“in the dough.”
The first graze of this touch ignites fire inside me—a wild, uncharted fire.
I don’t invite women into my space.
I don’t give them personal lessons.
And I sure as hell don’t touch them.
Yet here I am. Twice.
Inviting.
Waiting.
Touching.
Our fingers sink into the cold mixture.
Her eyes snap up to mine. “Is it supposed to feel like this?”
My thigh brushes hers. Enough to make me aware of the heat between us.
“Yes.” That rasp wasn’t for the ingredients like it usually is.
God help me.
“Like this.” I guide her fingers into the dough.
She stiffens, and a little gasp escapes her. The sound goes straight south.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I flex my fingers around hers and press deeper into the dough. Sticky flour coats both of us as we turn and fold, but she’s still holding back.
“May I?” I gesture, asking permission to step behind her and guide her through it.
A slow smile curves at the corner of her mouth. “Yes.”
I adjust my stance behind her. My bare chest brushes her back. I didn’t realize how damn thin her shirt is. But I feel every inch of her backside.
She tenses, but doesn’t pull away.
Smart girl or foolish girl. This isn’t how I teach a lesson.
“Like this.” My hands cover hers again, but this time my fingers slide between hers.
