"Niah." His voice is careful. "Are you okay?"
"No." The honesty surprises us both. "I'm not. I went to my room and I tried to... I have this pile of your clothes, and I thought it would help but it's not enough. I need..." My voice cracks. "I need to not smell like him. I need to smell like you."
Amos is up the stairs in three strides. His hands cup my face and his thumbs stroke my cheekbones, his scent wrapping around me warm and real in a way the clothes can never be.
"You're shaking," he says.
"I know."
"Dominic's on his conference call for at least another hour." He releases my face and takes my hand instead. "Come with me."
He leads me down the stairs and toward the kitchen. I expect him to pull me into his arms, to kiss me, to do something that will overwrite the crawling sensation Richard left on my skin. Instead, he releases my hand and crosses to the island counter where ingredients are spread across the surface in organized chaos.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"I started this before dinner," he admits, gesturing at the carnage. "Thought I'd impress everyone with dessert. Then Father started drinking and I abandoned ship. I found a recipe for an apple galette and I thought, how hard can it be." He gestures at the disaster zone of unevenly hacked apple slices and a lump of dough that looks like it lost a fight. "The answer is apparently very hard."
The mundanity of it catches me off guard. I expected seduction. He's offering me... normalcy.
"You're going to lose a finger holding the knife like that." I cross the kitchen before the decision fully forms and take the knife from his hand. "You're using the flat of the blade instead of rocking through the cut."
"Nobody taught me to chop. I have a finance degree and a personal chef who quit last month." He steps back and watches me dice a apple in three clean strokes. "I knew you could cook but I didn't realize you were that fast."
"Two years of prep shifts will do that." I reach for the next apple and fall into the rhythm that my hands remember even though it's been weeks since I last held a knife. "I'm better with a knife than a mop."
"Clearly." Amos leans against the counter beside me, close enough that his scent fills the space between us. "Show me the technique. I refuse to be defeated by a tomato."
I hand him back the knife and position his fingers on the handle, adjusting his grip so the blade sits correctly against hisknuckles. "Curl your fingers under on the guide hand. The flat of your knuckle leads, not your fingertips. Rock the blade, don't push it."
He tries. The result is marginally better than his previous attempt, and his third try produces something that actually resembles a dice. "Like that?"
"Better. Here, let me show you again." I take the knife back and settle into position at the cutting board. "Keep the tip anchored and let the weight of the blade do the work."
"Keep the tip anchored," he repeats, and then he's behind me.
The shift happens so smoothly I don't register the repositioning until his chest is pressed against my back and his hands are covering mine on the knife and the cutting board. His chin hooks over my shoulder and his breath warms my ear as he guides our joined hands through the rocking motion.
"Like this?" His voice has dropped half an octave and his lips brush the shell of my ear.
"You know exactly what you're doing," I manage, but my voice comes out breathier than I want it to because his hips are pressed against my ass and his arms bracket mine against the counter. The warmth of his chest bleeds through the thin fabric of my shirt.
"I'm learning to chop an apple, Niah." His thumbs trace the backs of my hands while the knife rocks through another slow cut. "You're an excellent teacher."
"You're an excellent liar." I try to focus on the cutting board but his nose drags along the side of my neck, a deliberate scent-pull that makes my knees soften. My scent sweetens in response and I feel his chest expand against my back as he breathes me in.
"You smell incredible when you're trying to concentrate." His mouth hovers against the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. "Your scent goes warm when you focus. Did you know that?"
"I didn't, and you need to stop talking to me like that while I'm holding a knife."
He laughs against my neck and the vibration travels down my spine. His hands leave mine on the knife and settle on my hips instead, his thumbs pressing into the hollows above my hip bones. The pressure sits directly over the fading bruises Dominic left, and my breath catches in my throat.
I set the knife down because my hands have started trembling and sharp objects and trembling don't mix. "Amos."
"Mm." His mouth opens against my neck and his tongue traces a slow line from below my ear to the junction of my shoulder. A cramp rolls through my lower belly, not quite a spike but the precursor to one, a warning flare that my body is gearing up for something my brain hasn't authorized.
Slick starts to gather. I feel the warmth of it and press my thighs together, which does nothing except press me harder against Amos' hips. The sound he makes against my neck is low and hungry and nothing like the gentle Amos from the office.
"We should finish the sauce." My protest comes out wrapped in a sound that is definitely not appropriate for a kitchen. "The apples are going to..."
