Page 87 of Down Knot Out
I work the fruit through the mixture, crimson streaks marbling the pale dough. Holden’s hands cover mine, guiding the motion, teaching me the difference between mixing and folding through touch rather than words.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
Heat that has nothing to do with baking floods my cheeks. I turn in the circle of his arms, flour dusting my onesie, sticky strawberry juice on my fingers.
“What’s next?” I ask, though the catch in my breath suggests I’m not focused on the recipe.
His pupils dilate as his focus drops to mymouth. “Cream. We add the cream to bring it all together.”
But instead of reaching for the carton, his hands frame my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones. “Chloe...”
“Scones first,” I whisper, though every cell in my body wants to forget about baking and lose myself in the hunger building between us. “Then we can discuss dessert.”
He laughs, the sound rusty but genuine. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m practical.” I duck under his arm to grab the cream, pouring it into the bowl in a steady stream. “And I want to see your face when the first scones I’ve ever made come out perfect because of you.”
We work together to bring the dough into a rough ball and turn it onto a floured surface. His hands guide mine as we pat it into a circle, showing me how to cut clean wedges that will rise perfectly in the oven.
The scones slide into the heated oven with a soft whoosh of displaced air. Holden sets the timer and turns to find me hopping onto the counter, my legs swinging.
“Come here,” I say, patting the empty space between my knees.
When he reaches me, I part my legs for him tostep between them. The position brings us to nearly equal height, his face level with mine.
My hands find his shoulders, kneading at the tension still lingering beneath his T-shirt. “Better?”
His lashes sweep down as he leans into my touch. “Getting there.”
But a fragility lingers in his expression, a hairline crack that might shatter under too much pressure. I stroke my fingers down his arms, feeling the fine tremor still running beneath his skin.
“Talk to me,” I whisper. “What do you need?”
He opens his eyes, and the raw honesty in them steals my breath. “I need you.” His hands find my hips, firm and trembling all at once. “Not just physically, though I want that, too. I need to know you’re real. You’re here. You’re mine.”
My breath catches, because I feel it, too. The fear of not being enough, of being loved but still left behind.
“Then take it,” I say, barely louder than the rain. “Take me. Show me I’m yours. Because I’m not going anywhere, Holden. And neither are you.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chloe
Holden’s breath hitches. He grips my hips, grounding himself in the feel of me. For one breathless moment, his eyes burn into me, his chest rising and falling with quiet urgency.
Then he exhales. Slow. Steady.
His hands slide up my thighs, guiding me forward on the counter until our bodies align. His mouth finds mine in a slow, aching kiss that says everything he couldn’t speak aloud.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t speak. He reaches past me toward the cutting board, his chest brushing my shoulder as he gathers a few of the strawberries I diced. Juice stains his fingers red, dripping down in glistening trails that make my stomach clench.
He holds one up between us. “Open.”
The single word sends heat pooling between my thighs. I part my lips, and he places a piece of the sweet fruit on my tongue. His finger lingers at the corner of my mouth, and I catch the tip between my teeth, tongue darting out to catch the juice on his skin.
His sharp inhale cuts through the beat of rain on the porch roof. His pupils dilate until only thin rings of gold and green remain. His thumb traces my bottom lip, and my breath catches.
“More.” I open my mouth wider.
