Page 6 of Catching Mr. Right

“Sure.” Her forehead puckers. “Not a sexy one, though. Mostly shoulders. I have magic fingers.” She wiggles them in front of my face.

“Good. Great.” I try to block out the visual of her hands kneading bare flesh, stroking, caressing, and the impact the idea has on my body. I did not need that prompt, but I sure as hell will drag it out later tonight. “So imagine this dough is someone’s flesh. Put some flour on your hands and then start massaging. Light but firm.”

“Okay.” She coats her palms with flour as I go back to the vegetables. By the time I pick up my knife, she’s kneading dough like a professional. “I think I’m going to imagine it’s a guy’s butt.”

How the heck do I not faint on the spot with how quickly all the blood rushes to my stupid cock? I can practically sense her hands kneading my ass. I squeeze my eyes shut, clench my teeth, try to block out the insistent throb in my dick. She shouldn’t bother me like this. I open my eyes and stare at her. Why does she get to me?

“I’m going to call him Chris.” She doesn’t even blink as she names the imaginary man under her hands. “Chrises are hot. Like Hemsworth, and Pratt, and Evans. Oh, and Pine.”

“Right.” I place a white salad onion on the board and carve perfectly thin rings. “I can’t say I’ve noticed.”

“Caspers are hot too, actually.” She stops to look me over. “I don’t think I know another Casper, so perhaps you should scratch that.”

There’s an itch that’s really starting to bother me that she makes me need to rub. Not going to happen. I clear my throat, and move on to a punnet of mixed tomatoes. “Stick to cooking.”

She beams at me, and I can’t help smiling, though I try to hide it behind a scowl. “Call me Cas from now on.”

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