“You don’t need to court me,” I panted out. “What more can one know about another?”
He took my hands in his and forced me to measure the flour. “There is still so much I’m eager to learn about you. But right now, consider this courting. We’re doing an activity that I love together.”
I sighed, accepting my fate. I’d bake the damn cookies, but I’d grind my ass against him the whole time for putting me through such torture.
A low growl left the back of his throat, a huff of air hit the top of my head, and his length hardened against me. “That’s mean,” he mumbled.
When he reached around me to cut a plum and start the jam, it made my knees weak. He sliced the fruit, twisted and parted it. When he stuck his finger into the ripened flesh to pluck the pit out, my mouth felt dry, my arm hairs stood on end, and I did not fight the urge to lean into him.
He had to know what he was doing to me, yet he carried on, encasing me in his muscular arms and the scent of the rosemary soap he liked. I had no escape.
Then a faint laugh rumbled in his chest before he said, “Do you still dislike cooking?”
“No.” It was all I felt capable of saying.
“Why are you so stiff, Elsedora?” he teased.
“Because if you pit another stone fruit in front of me, I am going to use all the wind within me to blow your clothes off and have you right here on this work table.”
He chuckled again. “Not until we’re done. We still have to knead the dough.”
I groaned.
My heart rate increased as he set the fruit aside. His fingers threaded through mine, guiding me to knead the pastry dough. Every touch, an overload to my senses.
“What now?” My impatience mounted.
“Now we let them proof before adding the fruit, and then we’ll bake them.”
I might drown in my lust by the time we finished baking. “How long?” I demanded.
“An hour or so.” His deep voice sounded so casual that I nearly collapsed against the counter.
Finally, I did what I had wanted the whole time. I spun to face him. He rested his palms on either side of my hips. All it would take was a few inches and his lips would be mine again. I’d never felt possessive before—never thought myself capable of it.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“That I don’t want to let you go. Ever. And about how much I want you.”
He braced there; the intensity of his stare grew. It made me want to squirm out of the room. Maybe I’d miscalculated what he wanted.My flight instinct threatened to take over.
With a deep breath, he said, “Go wash up.”
Fuck.
I’d ruined it.
“Alright,” I answered with bated breath.
“Quickly. Now.” He ushered me over to the sink and pumped the spigot. We washed our hands with the bar of soap, and he wet a rag to gently wipe away the flour from my face and hair.
Reeling as we dried our hands, I said, “I shouldn’t have said—”
He interrupted me by bending down, grabbing me around the waist, and hoisting me over his shoulder. I squeaked in surprise and dropped the rag.
“Emmerick? What are you doing?”
“You win,” he huffed. “I can’t wait an hour for those to proof.”
