I scoop the dough out of the bowl and smack it onto the counter with a soft thud.
Flour puffs in the air.
“Time to knead the dough, ladies.” My voice is steady, but rough as I step away from her.
Inside, my thoughts are a damn storm.
Women don’t belong in my space.
That’s what I keep telling myself. But here she is, invading it, making it so I can barely fucking breathe and loving every damn second of it.
Actually, that’s on me. I invited her up—demanded it.
“Hands on the dough.” My voice is stern. “Don’t be gentle. Don’t be afraid.”
“Of the dough? Or you?” Shay’s quip makes me smile.
She’s got fire.
Good.
I like fire.
I grab a handful of flour and sprinkle it over the dough. Then I gesture for her to step closer. “Come here.”
She hesitates.
I crook my fingers. “Now.”
Her socked-feet scuff the floor and her hips sway just enough to make my throat dry.
She stops beside me.
“Like this?” Her fingers gently press into the dough.
Too gentle, and she’s doing it on purpose. The glimmer in her eyes and the smirk at the edge of her mouth are a dead giveaway.
I reach out. My calloused fingers wrap around her wrists.
Her pulse jumps under my touch.
“Not quite.” I pull her hands down and press them into the dough.
Her breath hitches, and her chest rises and falls faster now. When she leans forward, the scoop neckline hangs open for half a second, giving me a flash of skin I shouldn’t be staring at. I have to drag my eyes away and tell my cock to calm down.
“Spread it wider.” Fuck, my voice comes out dripping with desire.
She shifts, and her thigh rubs mine.
I press in closer. “Harder.” My voice is rough. “It likes pressure. Likes to be handled.”
She obeys.
Her fingers sink into the dough until her knuckles turn white and her arm muscles flex.
I want to step up behind her again, wrap my arms around her, and really knead that dough.
Instead, I let go and step back.
