Molly 1-844-332-2639 ext 449
The kitchen was entirely too hot. The air was thick with the rich aroma of roasting garlic and a wine reduction. A single bead of sweat traced a slow, agonizing path down the valley of my collarbone, trapped beneath the linen of my apron. I stood at the island rolling out pasta dough, my forearms aching from the effort. Then, a pair of hands slid around my waist.
I didn’t need to turn to know who it was. His chest pressed flush against my back, his body heat radiating through our thin clothing. He leaned over my shoulder; his breath a warm, spiced breeze against my neck that made my breath catch in my throat.
“You’re rushing the dough, dear,” he murmured, his voice was low against my ear.
Before I could reply, his flour-dusted hands covered mine on the rolling pin. He didn’t take over; instead, he guided my movements, forcing a slow and deliberate rhythm that felt entirely too intimate for a kitchen counter. With every forward lean, his hips pressed into mine, an explicit promise disguised as a culinary lesson.
“See?” he whispered, his lips grazing the sensitive skin just beneath my ear. “Patience makes everything sweeter.”
Cooking In The Kitchen
The kitchen was entirely too hot. The air was thick with the rich aroma of roasting garlic and a wine reduction. A single bead of sweat traced a slow, agonizing path down the valley of my collarbone, trapped beneath the linen of my apron. I stood at the island rolling out pasta dough, my forearms aching from the effort. Then, a pair of hands slid around my waist.
I didn’t need to turn to know who it was. His chest pressed flush against my back, his body heat radiating through our thin clothing. He leaned over my shoulder; his breath a warm, spiced breeze against my neck that made my breath catch in my throat.
“You’re rushing the dough, dear,” he murmured, his voice was low against my ear.
Before I could reply, his flour-dusted hands covered mine on the rolling pin. He didn’t take over; instead, he guided my movements, forcing a slow and deliberate rhythm that felt entirely too intimate for a kitchen counter. With every forward lean, his hips pressed into mine, an explicit promise disguised as a culinary lesson.
“See?” he whispered, his lips grazing the sensitive skin just beneath my ear. “Patience makes everything sweeter.”
I swallowed hard, my grip tightening on the wooden pin as my heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The scent of him enveloped me. I tilted my head back, resting it against his shoulder, exposing my throat.
He didn’t miss the invitation. His fingers traced up my arms, leaving a slow, burning path up my bare skin. At the same time, his lips found the pulse throbbing violently in my neck. He didn’t bite, but the suction of his mouth, followed by the slow, teasing graze of his teeth, made my knees buckle. He caught me easily, pinning my hips against the edge of the island.
On the stove, the sauce bubbled, completely forgotten.
I gasped, my hands tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer. He growled against my skin, his hands moving higher. “We have all night.”
Molly 1-844-332-2639 ext 449
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