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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.”
