Page 38 of Seek Him Like Shelter

Elian grabbed a wineglass, slipped a few ice cubes into it, then poured me a glass. While my horny self watched the way his forearm muscles moved with each motion, thinking of other things that might make those muscles twitch and tense in similar ways.

“You alright?” Elian asked, picking up on something strange in my face, leaving me praying that he wasn’t great at reading desire.

“Yeah,” I agreed, giving him a small smile as I reached for my glass. “Thank—“ I started to say before our fingers brushed on the glass, and I swear a spark sizzled up my arm. “Thanks,” I said, ignoring the slight husky sound to my voice. “So, what are you cooking?” I asked.

The tomato scent was much stronger now. But this close, I could make out hints of other scents. Garlic, oil, basil, and oregano.

“Cheese ravioli,” he said, going over to the counter to grab a large metal bowl, bringing it back to the island, sprinkling some flour on the surface, and then dropping a ball of dough onto the concrete countertop.

“From scratch?” I asked, mouth falling open.

To that, Elian’s brows scrunched. “How else is there to make it?” he asked.

“Well, from the freezer,” I admitted, suddenly feeling a little stupid because, obviously, someone had to roll the dough and fill the ravioli before freezing it.

“You haven’t lived until you’ve had it fresh,” he assured me, producing some weird, wavy metal utensil that he used to slice the dough ball in half, putting some of it back into the bowl, then reaching for a piece of wood.

“What is that?”

“A rolling pin,” he said, looking even more confused.

“Don’t rolling pins have handles?” I asked, looking at the thing that tapered to each end, but didn’t have actual handles.

“This is a French rolling pin,” he told me. “They’re easier to use, I feel,” he said, sprinkling flour on it and the dough, then rolling it out, and giving me another forearm show to gawk at.

“You are clocked in,” Elian said a while later as I watched him drop little blobs of cheese in rows along the dough, then place the other flattened bit of dough over top of them.

“This is practically meditative,” I told him, even if calm was the last thing my body and mind felt right then.

“Come here,” he said, and I was off the stool before I could even think better of it.

Elian wiped off his hands, then dug in a drawer until he produced a little tool that had a spiky circle at the end.

“That looks like a boot spur,” I declared as he reached for me, moving me between him and the island, the whole of his front against my back.

I actually felt the chuckle vibrate from him and into me. Which wasn’t helping the chaos moving through my body.

“This is a pastry wheel,” Elian said as he reached around me to run it down a row of the cheese blobs, cutting the dough. “You try,” he said, pressing the wheel into my hand, but not moving away, just standing there right behind me, smelling like heaven and feeling even better as he watched over my shoulder.

I set to work, cutting vertical lines between the blobs of cheese, then doing horizontal ones as well.

“That’s it?” I asked, excited at having helped, even if it was in the simplest way possible.

“Nope. Now we need this super specialized piece of equipment,” he said, opening a drawer… and producing a fork.

“A fork?” I said with a smile. “For what?”

“For sealing the edges of the ravioli,” he said, demonstrating by pressing the tines of the fork around all four edges of each ravioli. “Here. You got this,” he said, handing me the fork, then turning his attention to stir his sauce. He produced a loaf of Italian bread, then set to slicing it, filling it with butter, garlic, and herbs while I worked at sealing the ravioli.

Elian even let me lower the ravioli into the boiling water when they were done, and I moved to take my seat again, feeling like I’d finally had my first cooking lesson. Even if, objectively, Elian had done all the actual cooking. It still felt like an accomplishment.

“I can’t wait to try it,” I admitted, sipping my wine again as Elian tossed a quick salad, then set the table as we waited for the ravioli to finish.

Within another twenty minutes, we were sitting at the table with our food, and I was trying not to seem like I was rushing through my salad to get to the ravioli.

“Oh my God,” I groaned as I finally got a bite.

“Better than the omelet?” he asked, eyes warm as he watched me shove another ravioli into my mouth.

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