I catch the subtle glances the women exchange. See their eyes flicker between one another, laden with unspoken thoughts.
They're all wondering the same thing I am:What am I doing?
And honestly, I don't have the answer
My eyes shut for barely a beat. The texture always gets me, but not today.
Today, it’s her.
I lean in closer, my lip almost touching her ear. “You’re doing good,” I murmur. “Just like that.”
The kitchen is too warm now. The air is thick with the scent of yeast mingling with her, and it’s intoxicating.
I notice a sheen of sweat on her collarbone. Notice the way her T-shirt clings to her skin, outlining every curve.
My cock is a steel rod, pressing painfully against my zipper.
But I ignore it.
Barely.
“Almost there.” My hands still cover hers. “Just a little more.”
She nods, and I lose myself watching her, watching her learn, and watching her concentrate.
“Let’s add some flour.” I sprinkle a little at a time, letting it fall slowly between our hands.
Her hand leaves the bowl to scoop a handful.
“Don’t dump it.” It’s a whisper. “Introduce it.”
She complies, and for the first time in my life, the ingredients aren’t pulling me into this recipe.
She is.
“That’s it.” I should look at the mixture, but I can’t tear my eyes away from her. “Feel how it thickens.” Just like my thickening voice. “How it pushes back.”
This is the time when I’m usually so engrossed with mixing the dough—pulling, pressing, folding—that I don’t notice anything else. Only the flour clinging to my skin, and every wet and sticky sound. Every drag of the dough.
Right this second, I notice every touch, graze, and press of her skin—her body.
“The trick”—I barely get the words out—“is letting it cling. Let it grab onto you and don’t fight it.”
The dough begins to pull away from the sides of the bowl.
My breathing deepens. Not because I’m tired from the mixing, and not because I enjoy the contact more than I want to admit, but because it grows softer underourtouch.
“You’re looking for elasticity.” I lift a corner, stretch it, and let it snap back.
“Perfection. That’s it.” I fold the dough. “Come together for me. Give me a little resistance. Good girl.”
Shay’s hands freeze.
“The dough,” I clarify. “I was talking to the dough.”
Her head tilts up to look at me. And shit. Desire flares behind her eyes. Desire, lust, and want.
Where the hell was all this when we were alone in my room?
