Page 19 of The First Time

She straightens her back. “Thanks. Are you ready? We have to get going if want to make that cooking class.”

“Yeah, sure.” I grab my phone and wallet, then tuck them in my back pockets.

Thirty minutes later, we walk into the kitchen, where several stations are set up. People are laughing and talking all around us.

As I’m tying my apron on, I look over at Layla, who is ready with a big smile on her face.

“Tell me again why someone like you needs a cooking class?” I ask, struggling to get this damn thing tied behind me.

She watches me with fascination. “Turn around,” she smirks then starts to tie my apron for me. “Because it’s in Italy. It’s also more of an advanced class about making pasta from scratch.”

I turn around quickly, almost knocking over the stack of bowls in front of me.

“Advanced? Layla, I don’t know the first thing about cooking.”

She smiles. “That’s why you have me as a partner.”

When the class starts, Layla tells me she wants me to start, and she will assist. I personally think she just wants to watch me screw everything up.

I’m instructed to measure eight hundred grams of flour.

“What the hell are grams?” I whisper to Layla.

She points to a scale in front of her. “America is actually one of the few places that measure ingredients in cups.”

Somehow, I magically make it through measuring the flour with Layla’s assistance.

“Now go ahead and form your well in the center of your flour for your eggs,” the instructor says as if I’m supposed to know what she’s talking about.

I glance over at Layla, who is moving the eggs next to me, and at the station next to us to see what they’re doing.

“Seems simple enough,” I mutter to myself as I move some of the flour to the sides to create a hole in the middle.

I start cracking my eggs into the center, one by one, until I’m on my final egg. Just as I crack it, the entire contents of my eggs start to flow over my flour walls and onto the counter.

“Eggs overboard, Layla. Eggs overboard! What do I do?” I shout in a moment of panic.

Layla reaches over me and starts to push flour around the sides as she snorts. “You just need to close the gap that was allowing the eggs to escape.”

She is clearly getting a kick out of this. We both work to move the flour around and clean up the mess that I created. Once the panic subsides, I realize our arms and hands are touching as we work. Her scent surrounds me, and our earlier escapade is all that I can think about now.

She must notice the change in the air because she looks up at me, and her smile fades. She bites her bottom lip, and I think I let out a low growl.

Dammit. It’s been ten years since I’ve had those lips on mine. Three thousand, six hundred, and fifty days. That’s far too long. It’s eating away at me to keep my distance.

“Now, you need to…ummm,” she looks around and clears her throat, “you need to start slowly mixing the flour into your eggs until it starts to form a dough.”

“Got it,” I reply hesitantly.

“It looks like I need to start on the lemon sauce,” she says as she glances around the room. “Just let me know if you need anything. I’ll be right here.”

I don’t even remember the teacher telling us to do anything else besides add the eggs. I’ve been far too caught up in noticing every little breath Layla takes and what her hands feel like against mine. I want to take that hand and run it along my dick.

How am I this turned on when I just jacked off an hour ago and am currently kneading pasta dough?

There is something seriously wrong with me that my dick is behaving like a teenager when he’s around his crush. That’s what it feels like with Layla. Every move she makes goes straight to my dick.

I watch her measure her lemon juice, her lips puckered to the side in concentration. She’s so damn adorable and sexy at the same time.

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