I’ve never been so turned on, so tight and desperate for relief like I am right now.
I can’t think straight.
I forget what we’re even doing.
“You want to warm her up first.” Cash palms the dough, spreading it wide apart beneath his hands.
Jesus.
If he touched me like that, I’d come apart without a fight.
I might actually come apart right here, right now.
I’ve turned into one of his cult following women who have abandoned their dough to watch him while on the edge of an orgasm.
Get control.
“Let her get used to your touch before you go deeper.” His fingers push in and fold the dough over his knuckles.
I jerk.
Hard, like he’s touching me.
Molten heat explodes inside me. My fingers dig into the counter to keep from collapsing.
The logical part of my brain questions if he hears himself?
That should snap me right out of this hypnotic trance. He has to be saying these things on purpose—to make women swoon.
I should see right through that.
This morning’s version of Shay would see right through it. This evening’s Shay, though, notes that if he touched me like that, I’d be warmed up and coming in a second.
I’d be embarrassed if I could find my voice of reason, but it’s momentarily on a simpatico.
He stretches the dough long, not looking at anyone, almost like he’s forgotten we’re here.
His hat is pulled low, casting a shadow over his eyes. But I see his jaw tighten as he works. The way the cords of his neck stand out with effort.
We all see it.
“Do you know Cash?” Jaclyn’s whisper is husky, too.
“We met this morning.” Or crashed into each other.
Accused each other. Fought with one another.
Not flirted, and certainly didn’t intend to do whatever it is we both just did up there.
Jaclyn clears her throat. “Met or fucked?”
“Met.” I choke, but no one notices.
They’re entranced with his bare chest dusted with flour and the white powder clinging to the dark hair on his forearms.
I’m entranced.
And his jeans. Holy hell, his jeans ride low on his hips with the denim molded to his strong thighs. Thighs I can still feel on my body.
