“I told you you’d taste it,” I correct. “Not the components.”
“That feels like a technicality.”
“It is an important one.”
She folds her arms. “You’re moving the goalposts.”
“I’m maintaining standards.”
She tilts her head, challenging. “So what you’re saying is that if I’m going to try it, I have to try it properly.”
“Yes.”
“Fully.”
“Yes.”
“Under supervision.”
“Very much so.”
Her mouth twitches. “This feels very much like bear poking.”
“I’m enforcing culinary integrity.”
She laughs softly and my focus promptly goes on holiday.
“Fine,” she says. “Show me how you’d want it tasted.”
I reach for a biscuit. Dip it into the coffee. Lift it out at exactly the right moment. Then I scoop mascarpone on top, smooth and deliberate, my hands moving on instinct.
I hold it out to her.
She looks at it. Then at me. “You’re not serious.”
“Open your mouth,” I say.
There is that low voice again. But rougher this time. It surprises both of us.
Her breath catches. Just slightly. “Bossy boots.”
“Only when it matters.”
She hesitates for half a second longer, then leans in and opens her mouth.
I feed her. She takes the biscuit slowly, lips brushing my finger as she pulls away, a soft, unmissable touch. It is nothing. It feels like everything. My pulse reaches dangerous levels.
I watch her face with an intensity I make no effort to hide.
She makes a sound. Soft. Unguarded. Not loud, not theatrical. Just a low, involuntary hum that goes straight through me like a live wire.
My body reacts before my brain has a chance to intervene. Heat. Tension. A sharp, immediate awareness of her that has nothing to do with food and everything to do with proximity. And my cock thinks it might be time to play… and it definitely is not. Or is it?
I step closer without deciding to.
“You’ve got cream again,” I murmur. My voice comes out deeper, rougher than it has any right to be.
She freezes. “I do not.”
