Page 115 of Only Mine
My arm brushes against her bare side when I reach for the Arborio rice, and she gives a sharp inhale.
“Keep stirring,” I remind her. “The rice needs to be coated in fat before we add any liquid.”
“Coated in fat,” she repeats, a hint of a smirk playing at her lips. “Sounds filthy.”
“Cooking can get dirty.” I allow my chest to press against her back for just a moment before retreating. “It’s about heat and moisture and knowing when something’s ready to be devoured.”
Her breath catches. The wooden spoon falters in its circles.
“Don’t stop,” I warn.
Wrenley nods, leaning back so she’s pressed against my chest. I step away, denying her the contact.
She follows my retreat with a frown. “You know, most men would be a little more enthusiastic about a naked woman in their kitchen.”
I stare at her,reallyfocus on her without blinking so she knows exactly what I plan to do to her, while I pour a measured splash of wine into the pan, watching it sizzle and evaporate. “My kitchen. My rules.”
Wrenley bites her lip, reading my intent flawlessly, and shifts her weight, the apron sliding against her breasts in a way that makes my cock throb.
I correct her grip on the spoon. She tries to lean into me, but I move away, letting her chase the scent of my skin and the scrape of my voice instead.
She’s trembling and furious about it, and I’m fucking obsessed with it.
I say, “You’re too tense. Loosen your wrist,” and she does, but not before shooting me a look that’s all challenge.
I correct her again. “You’re doing it wrong.”
Then I brush her hip, just barely, a reward for good behavior. She flushes, then smirks, then flushes deeper when she realizes she’s playing right into my hands.
I make her stir and stir until her arms ache and the air between us is thick enough to scrape with a knife. I let her sweat it out. The kitchen is a crucible, and I want her melted by the time I’m done.
She tries to needle me. “You know, I could just take the apron off and?—”
“Keep stirring.”
Her eyes flick up, golden and furious and wanting. She wants me to break, wants me to lose the control I’ve spent years perfecting.
Fine. I let her think she’s getting close.
I move in, pinning her between the island and my body, but I don’t touch her anywhere except the back of her hand, guiding it in slow, torturous circles.
The silence spools out, punctuated only by the scrape of spoon on steel and the tiny, involuntary sounds that slip from her lips every time my hand covers hers. She’s about to crack, but I want the tension to distill until she’s blinking back tears, not sure if it’s the onions or the fact that I haven’t even kissed her yet.
She tries to break it.
“What happens if I let go?”
I lean in, breath grazing the shell of her ear. “Then I’ll have to take over. Is that what you want?”
Her eyes close like she’s bracing for impact. She doesn’t answer, but her wrist flicks just enough to send a fleck of rice over the side of the pan. I say nothing, but let my hand close over hers, guiding her through the motion.
She’s biting her lip now, fighting the urge to fucking climb me.
I want her to beg. I want her to admit that she’s as ruined by this as I am.
My mouth hovers just above her shoulder, not quite touching. “You’re shaking.”
She laughs, but it’s a broken thing. “You’re a sadist.”
