Page 11 of His Big Pipe

Okay, so also remembering last night and how he stroked his cock, imagining it was me there with him, is damn hot, too.

What did it matter if he wasn’t a social butterfly, like me?

“It’s done,” he says, wiping his hands and turning to face me. His shirt is damp, from stray water and sweat. And it’s sexy.

I reach over to the sink. “I can turn it on and won’t get sprayed?”

His mouth turns up at the corner. “Try it.”

I hesitantly lift the handle and water pours out from the faucet straight into the sink. Just as it’s supposed to.

Turning, I throw my arms around his neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Oh god, big mistake. That smell. All man and musk—it’s overwhelming.

“You’re…welcome.” He awkwardly pats my back and once again I’ve made this weird.

I back away.

He takes his cap off and runs a hand through his damp hair.

“I gotta get changed,” he says, grabbing his tools.

“Thanks again. And don’t be long, it would be great to have some help as I make dinner.”

He grunts, which I assume is a yes, as he steps onto the porch and heads for his car.

By the time he returns, I’m dressed. The kitchen is completely full—all burners going, all surfaces covered in ingredients, containers, and utensils.

“Grab an apron,” I say, as he steps in. I glance up and he looks delicious, yet again, in a pair of dark jeans and a green Henley that brings out his eyes.

“Smells amazing,” he says, tying the apron around him, and I grin.

I roll out the dumpling dough on the floured countertop, my hands moving quickly to keep it from drying out. Sully watches me with a mix of curiosity and concentration, his large frame seeming almost out of place among the crowded kitchen.

“Alright, big guy, time to get your hands dirty.” I hand him a small ball of dough. “I’ll show you how to fill the dumplings.”

He nods, taking the dough from me. His hands dwarf mine and pinching the dough might be challenging with his big fingers. But we’ll manage.

“First, you roll it out like this,” I demonstrate, pressing and rolling until the dough is a thin, even circle. Sully mimics my actions, with an expression of intense focus.

“Not bad,” I say, inspecting his work. “Now, we take a spoonful of this filling and place it in the center. Then fold the dough over and pinch the edges to seal it.”

I show him how to do it, my fingers working quickly. He follows along, a bit clumsily at first, but soon gets the hang of it.

“Your dad taught you this?” He asks, voice deep and soft.

I smile. “Yep. He used to say that making dumplings is like creating little pockets of happiness.”

Sully glances at me, his eyes warm.

A familiar ache forms in my chest. “I miss him a lot. But cooking always makes me feel closer to him. Like he’s here with me.”

Sully nods, a small smile on his face.

Suddenly, I feel the need to apologize. “I should’ve asked you before inviting all your friends. I’m sorry about that.”

He shrugs. “It’s fine. I don’t mind them and their families. But sometimes I can’t help but feel a little jealous spending time around them.”

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