Page 41 of The Pucking Fake Marriage

Classic Charlie, can never admitnotknowing in any situation. It’s going to feel good to knock her down a notch. Still, I decide to hold off on that until later.

“Let me see you work on this batch, then,” I say, crossing my arms.

She nods, her face registering my challenge. Turning back to the table, she starts to knead the too-dry dough. Her movements lack the grace and effortlessness they had when she was touching me.

“I’ve got to say,” she mutters, huffing and puffing with each breath. “Kneading didn’t seem this hard in any of the videos I watched.”

My lips are quivering again. “Maybe because they put enough eggs in the dough.”

She looks up at me, a face a mask of horror. “Oh my God, that’s it! How did you know?”

Brushing past her and heading for the refrigerator, I retrieve a crate of eggs and hand it to her. “I just do. The dough is way too dry.”

“Damn,” she spits at me as she reaches for an egg and tries to crack it open with a fork. There’s barely an indent the first time. She applies more force. The egg shatters, content spilling all over the counter and her skirt, missing the dough completely.

“Great,” she says, looking down at the skirt. “Just freaking great.”

It’s too much of an effort to hold back laughter. I walk over to her, coming up behind her. An idea forms in my mind. “Remember when I said that you were the best masseuse I’ve ever known?”

She stiffens, and I wonder if she’s bracing for me to askher about ballet again. Something about me mentioning it makes her shut down. As determined as I am to figure out why, this is more important.

“Well, yeah,” she finally says. The warmth of her skin is evident, even with the sliver of space between us. It gives me a slightly heady feeling I have to work through.

“What makes you a good masseuse?”

She scoffs. “Not skill, that’s for sure.”

“You’re partly right.” I take her dough-soiled hands in my bigger ones. Charlie shivers, and I long to press myself against her ass. Instead, I try to focus on the lesson at hand. “What makes it easy for you is that you go with the flow. You don’t try to make everything perfect, according to some recipe. You follow your instinct.”

I crack two eggs in the dough. Taking Charlie’s hands again, I start to help her knead it. Something about our fingers mixing together in the dough makes its own kind of magic.

One that makes it fucking hard to remember my name. Or my promise.

“This is good enough,” I say, a few seconds later.

Charlie gives a rueful thanks as she steps back and examines the mess on her skirt. “I knew I should’ve worn an apron. I just thought making this wouldn’t take a lot of time…and that was five hours ago. I hate wearing stained clothes.”

“There’s an easy fix for that,” I smirk. “Take off your skirt.”

Damn it. Didn’t mean to say that. Something about the tension building up in my groin is making it hard to sort through the thoughts that shouldjust stay in my head.

Charlie stares at me for a few seconds. I hold her gaze,trying to read her expression and decide whether she’d want an apology or not.

But then…

Bringing her hands to her waist, she slides her skirt defiantly down her thighs. It slips past her knees, forming a puddle at her feet. Then she steps out of it.

I let my eyes trail up the expanse of smoothly toned legs and thighs, and…

She’s wearing a tiny black thong. The triangle-shaped piece of fabric barely covers a quarter of her pubic area. Her naked hips flare out underneath her top. Perhaps I never quite appreciated how damn curvy she has become since she stopped dancing. Or maybe I’m just noticing that for the first time.

Her gaze is still fixed on my face. I look into her eyes. Charlie’s unreadable half the time these days, but I can see her emotions in them as clear as day.

She’s challenging me.Trying to make it that much harder to hold on to my promise.

I take a deep breath, silently accepting the challenge. This isa fun game. One where I’m going to see just how long I can hold on.

She turns around to take the rolling pin. Her ass cheeks are completely bare, the G-string lost somewhere within her folds. Miles and miles of unblemished skin taunt me as she leans over the dough and starts to roll it out.

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