Page 114 of Saddle and Scent
Before I can ask what he means, he reaches out and brushes his thumb across my nose, leaving a streak of flour behind.
The gesture is playful, affectionate, the kind of thing that would be completely innocent under normal circumstances.
But there's nothing normal about the way my body responds to his touch.
Or the way his eyes darken when he realizes what he's done.
"Flour," he says unnecessarily, his voice slightly rougher than before.
Two can play this game.
Instead of wiping the flour away like a reasonable person would, I step closer to him. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can see the way his pupils dilate as he realizes what I'm about to do.
Then I go up on my tiptoes and press my lips to the side of his neck.
Not a quick peck.
A real kiss, with enough suction and pressure to leave a mark.
A hickey that will be visible for days.
When I pull back, his eyes are wide with shock and something that looks like barely controlled desire.
"Whipped cream," I say innocently, licking my lips. "On your neck."
His face goes absolutely scarlet.
"There's—" he starts, his voice cracking slightly. "There's no whipped cream out."
I just wink at him, enjoying the way he's struggling to process what just happened.
"Guess I was mistaken," I say with exaggerated innocence. "I'm going to go watch the pies rise."
I start to turn away, but his hand shoots out to catch my wrist.
"Oh no," he says, his voice dropping to that particular register that makes my insides turn to liquid. "You're going to be mischievous and attract Ray in here, and he's already enough of a douche to deal with on a normal day."
His thumb strokes across my pulse point, and I can feel my heart rate spike in response.
"Come here," he continues, tugging me gently back toward the work station. "Let's make more pies together. Keep those dangerous lips of yours occupied with something innocent."
Innocent.
Right.
Because there's nothing innocent about the way he's looking at me right now.
Or the way my entire body is humming with awareness of his proximity.
But I let him guide me back to the workspace, where we resume the careful process of assembling pies. Rolling dough, filling crusts, crimping edges with the kind of attention to detail that speaks to genuine artistry.
The kitchen continues to heat up, and it has nothing to do with the ovens.
Every accidental brush of fingers when we reach for the same tool.
Every moment when he leans close to check my technique.
Every time our eyes meet across the flour-dusted workspace.
