Page 72 of Never Let You Go

My thoughts drift again to dangerous territory. How would it feel to be handled by him?

More importantly, do I want to be handled by him?

Enjoy the little things.

“The baker’s gestures need to have the energy to make the necessary changes happen. The repetition, the succession between these three movements, make four fundamental but separate elements—flour, water, yeast, and salt—become one to create dough, a living thing.”

There’s nothing left from the initial mess that was in the trough. Instead, there’s a bouncy, even ball that’s pliable and reacts to his movements.

My takeaway? He definitely has good hands.

“Your turn,” he says.

A tinge of disappointment at myself helps me through this next leg of the work, giving me the false energy to lift, extend, set, fold the dough, and repeat.

“Give it a little more love,” he says.

“Wh-what?”

“The dough. Give it more love. You’re projecting a weird energy into it.”

My hands falter, and the dough slips, collapsing on itself. “I’m not good at this,” I mumble, then grab the dough again and get back to it. I have to master this. I will master this.

“Hey,” Christopher says after a few beats. He comes next to me, his arms crossed. “You’re doing great. Give it one more turn then set it to rest another ten minutes.” His voice is deep and kind.

“Kay” I whisper.

Christopher leans against the prep table. His arms are uncrossed, his hands now holding the edge of the table, his head hanging down. He seems very focused on his shoes. I focus on everything else about him. The way locks of his hair fall on his forehead, and how it would feel to run my fingers through his dark curls. The curve of his full lips and the wonder of how they would taste against mine. His powerful arms and how they’d held me and carried me and made me feel precious and wanted.

The scent of his skin.

The ticking of machines, the purring of the overhead light are the only sounds apart from our shallow breaths. They fill the whole room. Christopher clears his throat. His knuckles are white, his hands flexing on the table. “What is your motivation for this apprenticeship. Deep down.”

God. He seems worried about my chances of success. I owe him an answer I can live with. One that’s not too far from the truth. “It really is to keep my job. And also, I like to think it would have made my grandmother proud.”

“She the one who thought all men were shit?”

“What?”

“You said that, the other night. Something about misery and stuff. She’s the grandmother who made you believe that?”

“Yeah, she’s the one. She also didn’t think I amounted to much, so me being here, being successful at this apprenticeship, it would probably make her proud.”

“She sounds like a piece of work.”

“That’s putting it nicely.”

The timer rings.

I push myself up, wash my hands, and grab the dough. It’s larger and seems heavier. I’m having difficulty managing it. The last leg involves more technical movements. Christopher moves behind me and guides my hands.

“You need forceful movements, Alexandra. Like this.”

His front to my back, he cups his hands over mine, and I abandon myself to his guidance. He accelerates my movements, lifts my forearms higher so the dough can extend more, and slaps it down with energy. I’m molded to his body, encapsulated in him. His pecs flex against my shoulders. His thighs are spread on each side of my hips. His voice resonates through my bones as he comments on what we’re doing. Then, his comments die down, and it’s just the sound of our labored breaths as we work the dough, arms tangled, my body pinned under his, surrounded by his.

“One more round,” he says, the low growl of his voice vibrating through my entire being, his breath tingling my neck. The front of his body still flush against my back, I rock against him as we move in unison for the next round.

A tremor takes hold of me, an unfamiliar weakness in the knees that seems to be the signature mark of Christopher’s presence around me. I let go of the dough and hold onto his forearms as he completes the last fold. When he’s done, he stays right behind me. With shaking hands, I cover the dough with the clean cloth.

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