He presses his weight into it. His shoulders flex. The muscles in his back roll. The way his biceps bulge is intoxicating. He drags the dough toward him, his pelvis following the motion, and my stomach flips.
It’s too much like fucking.
When he finishes, he licks his thumb. Slow. His tongue skims over the pad of it, catching a smear of flour.
“Just like that.” The murmur is more to himself than to me, and his voice is low and hungry.
Then his gaze flicks to me, just for a second.
My breath hitches.
Flour smears across his skin, and I want to lick it off. Want to taste him. Want to drop to my knees and—
I should not be this aroused. Not fromthis. Not from watching a man handle dough. But damn, he handles that dough like it’s his lover’s body.
“Now that our dough is relaxed and ready like a good massage”—he claps his flour-dusted hands together—“it’s time to roll these buns.”
Giggles ripple through the kitchen.
Even I smile.
The setting sun streams through the windows, spilling over his shoulders.
“We’re gonna roll it out into a rectangle.” His palm circles his round, soft ball of dough.
I take a deep breath as I glance down at mine and reach for the rolling pin. My fingers slip on the smooth wood before I grip it awkwardly.
Roll it out.
Rectangle.
Easy bees.
“I didn’t come for the cinnamon buns.” Glitter and decals pointed red nails flash as Jaclyn’s hand closes around her rolling pin. “I came forhim.”
Her eyes never leave Cash, as she plants the rolling pin into the dough and pushes.
“We all came for him.” Nettie purrs like her daughter. “Those shoulders could still carry a woman anywhere.”
Her dough is already rolled out.
“And that neck.” She inhales. “I’d nibble it like a naughty kitten.”
I grab my drink with my free hand and take a large gulp. I’m going to need liquid help to make it through their commentary, his actions, and my own heated body.
How did I end up here again?
“Roll it out.” My gaze snaps back to him. “Long strokes. Even pressure.” His hands glide along the length of the rolling pin.
Slowly.
Like he’s savouring the feel of the smooth wood under his palm, and he doesn’t even look at us while he does it.
I whisper his words to myself. “Roll it out. Long strokes. Even pressure.”
I roll. The dough sticks to the counter instead of flattening.
I’m not doing this right.
