Page 48 of House of Desire

“Guess I’ll need to be a good boy, then,” he says and I almost combust on the spot.

Clearing my throat, I begin moving around the kitchen. And talking. And talking. And talking some more. I get into the excitement of sharing my passion for baking, but Parker doesn’t seem to mind. He asks questions here and there, seeming to catalog the steps in his mind. I grab two of the bowls, handing them to him while I grab up the others.

“Why do you weigh everything instead of using measuring cups?” he asks, as I lead him over to the mixer.

“Precision. Depending on how you fill the measuring cup, there is variability in the amount of the ingredient you’re getting. If you weigh it, you’ll always be sure what you’re creating comes out the same every time. When someone comes into the Whimsical Whisk, it’s because they are craving something we create. I want it to taste the same every time.”

I pour both of my bowls into the mixing one, indicating Parker should do the same.

“That makes sense,” he says, pouring the sugar in with the flour.

Before I can say anything, he flips the switch to high and the beaters fling the dry ingredients all around. Lunging over, I flick the switch back to off, puffs of flour floating in the air. I look up at Parker and his face is covered in flour, his mouth hanging open.

“We don’t typically turn the mixer on high,” I say, laughing at his stunned face. “Or at least, not at this point.”

He turns to me and with the most sheepish grin I’ve ever seen. “Whoops.”

I don’t care the room is a mess. Happiness bubbles from deep within me at this man who exudes confidence despite being covered in flour.

“You have something on your face, right there,” I say pointing to one spot, with a giggle.

“You don’t say,” he answers, deadpan. “You have a little something right here,” he says, grabbing a handful of flour and lightly tossing it in my face.

“Rude,” I say, grabbing my own handful and flinging it at him. We pause for a moment, looking at each other, both of us a mess, until we break.

Handfuls of flour are flung as he chases me around the small room, but I grab up an empty cookie sheet, blocking his projectiles. He scoots closer to me, causing me to back up until I realize he has me pinned. My back presses against the wall while my chest rises and falls with my panting breaths. He stalks closer, the bowl of what remains of the sugar and flour in hand.

“Don’t you dare,” I say, holding up my cookie sheet in warning.

He moves closer, gabbing my wrist of the hand holding my only weapon, but with his body looming over me, I forget our game and drop the cookie sheet without a thought. The clattering doesn't even register with him this close to me.

Parker releases my wrist and trails his fingers up my arm until his hand is resting against my neck, his thumb stroking my jaw.

“You have some sugar just here,” he says before lifting his thumb to his mouth. His tongue flicks out, licking the sugar crystals from it, and my entire body warms. “Delicious.”

I can’t wait another second to kiss him. Kissing him is almost all I’ve been able to think about since our couple’s therapy session when he kissed my jaw. I fling my arms around his neck, pulling his mouth down to meet mine. His thick arms wrap around me, pulling me against his body. He tastes of sweetness as my tongue traces his lips, asking for entrance which he gives.

My fingers find his hair band and tug it free, before fisting in the soft strands.

A moan escapes me and his hands move over my ass, squeezing, going down to my thighs, encouraging me to wrap my legs around him, which I do. Eagerly.

He grinds his impressive erection against my center, making me pant with desire.

“Parker, I need more,” I say against his lips, and like a man starving, he shoves his tongue back into my mouth, tasting me with a white-hot passion as he carries me to the workbench we had been using.

He sets me on the edge before swiping all the instruments and bowls to the floor, causing an even bigger mess. The naked hunger in his eyes as he moves to capture my mouth again while he shoves my legs further apart, settling between my welcoming thighs, pushes any thoughts of cleaning from my mind.

Movement catches my attention over his shoulder and I pull back before his lips can make contact, green eyes questioning.

“Parker,” I say, panic setting in as the camerawoman moves to get a better angle of our desperation. My need for him is making me forget we are always being filmed.

He looks over his shoulder, looking for what upset me, and his face darkens.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he yells, anger thundering in his voice.

My body tightens at the volume while the woman squeaks and scurries from the room, leaving us alone even though she’ll probably get in trouble for doing so.

“Anastasia, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled, but the thought of them recording you made me panic a bit.” He leans his forehead down, settling it against mine as his hands move up and down the outside of my thighs, calming instead of heating. “Plus, I’ve been wanting to kiss you since I first saw you and they ruined it.”

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