“You want to hold my hand, princess?” I try to keep it light but it’s hard. And getting harder.
“Hands plural,” she says, pushing my hands and hers into the dough together.
Her back is warm against my chest, my arms encircling her small frame, her hands on top of mine. I can’t resist; I press against her ass, grinding her hips into the edge of the counter. She shifts but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tell me to stop.
“You always this bossy?” I lean down around her short frame to better see what we’re doing, my mouth hovering near her ear. She smells fucking amazing. No idea what it is, but fucking amazing.
“Only in the kitchen,” she says, lifting her eyes up to meet mine.
The implication that she’s not at all bossy in other ways is not lost on me. A million ways that I’d like to take control of that fine ass of hers makes my dick harden.
She turns back to the bowl, maneuvering my hands into the dough with practiced precision.
“You do this a lot?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.
When she twists to look at me questioningly, her mouth is an inch from mine. “Do what?”
“Bring strange men into your kitchen and rub food all over them.”
She laughs, that light sound that comes from deep in her chest. “Just the handsome ones.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “You think I’m handsome?”
This close up, her dark brown eyes have me in a head lock. Her breath catches, and spinach puree slops over the side of the bowl. She laughs again and drops her gaze. “You should probably stay focused on the task at hand.”
“Which task is that, princess?” I shouldn’t be flirting with her. I know this. I force myself to focus on the gnocchi dough, pressing my fingers in, coating the dough in puree, folding it over and starting again.
My brow furrows as I concentrate, and she laughs at me softly.
“What? I’m doing it like you said.”
“Yes, you are.” There’s approval in her voice, and I like that.
I push my hands deeper into the dough underneath hers, letting her move my fingers however she wants, intentional and slow. The dough is soft and yielding, the puree slippery between our fingers, and her hands are impossibly small on mine as she guides my movements.
She shifts her ass against me as she slides her fingers down then back up to my wrists. Fuck, my cock is so hard. If she keeps doing that, I’m going to fuck her right here and that absolutelycannot fucking happen. So I focus on the rhythm she’s setting and take over, matching her tempo.
Her pulse is jumping in her neck and she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth like she did last night when I fed her the pesto. FUCK.
“Like this?” I’m trying desperately to stay focused on the dough. Not on the pulse point I want to trace with my tongue. Not on her ass that I want to bury myself inside. Only the dough.
“Yes. Just like that,” she says lightly.
Is she feeling anything close to what I’m feeling right now?
She taps my hands. “All done. We don’t want to overdo it.”
I pause, my hands still under hers, my heart thudding hard enough that she has to feel it against her back. I flip my palms over, oily from the puree coating my skin, and drag them roughly up her palms, then back down again, applying the same firm pressure I used on the dough. She feels so fucking good.
Her lips part silently as she watches my hands dwarf hers. Her breathing grows shallow, labored.
She’s feeling this. And she’s definitely feeling my hard cock pressed against the small of her back. I push into her intentionally, making absolutely certain she understands exactly what she’s doing to me right now.
“That’s…impressive,” she says, clearing her throat.
“So’s your ass, princess.” I drag my wet hands up her arms to her hips, my fingers spreading wide to grip as much of her as I can. “Fuck, this ass is just—mmph.” I grip her hips, wiping most of the oil off my hands, and squeeze, pulling her back against me.
The skin on the back of her neck flushes pink. “You’re not wrong,” she says, her eyes sparkling.
