Page 31 of Kiss Away Your Pain (Wounded Hearts 2)

“Oh yeah?” She chuckles like she has no faith in my statement.

“Work it with your hands until it’s mixed together well, like a dough-ball. Then we’re going to roll it out and fold it over, roll it out and fold it over. When we do that a couple times, the dough becomes nice and flakey.” I take a sip of whiskey; it warms my throat on the way down.

When she has her dough-ball, I take some flour and coat the wooden rolling pin then hand it to her. “Try to make a rectangle if you can.”

She takes the rolling pin from me, looks down at the ball of dough then back at me, and laughs. “What? It’s round.”

“You’ve got this. You’re doing great. Give it a try.”

She eyeballs the dough like she’s giving it a warning then plops the rolling pin into its center. Fighting with it, she’s got it lopsided and misshapen.

“I don’t think this is right.” She looks up at me. My eyes flicker to her twisted lips. I hold back from kissing her.

I can’t help but laugh.

“Here, give me your hands.” She does and I dust them with more flour, then dust mine and add a little more to the rolling pin. I tuck behind her, struggling to temper my desire. “Put your hands on the pin.” She does and I put mine on top of hers, then I gently roll the dough. “It’s more like a ballet than a wrestling match,” I say, getting a whiff of her. She’s sweet honey in warm milk.

“Hey,” she retorts. “I told you I’m not good at this stuff.” She lets out a pathetic little laugh.

I help her roll it out into a rectangular shape, focusing on the dough, baking, baking with Anastasia, baking biscuits,notmy dick practically in between her ass cheeks. “Now, fold in each side and roll it out again.” Still standing behind her, I place my hands on either side of her, watching her fold the dough. “Try it again. I’ve given you the basic shape.”

She rolls the dough more slowly. “How’s this?” she asks, turning her beautiful face to look up at me, our lips only inches apart, her breaths shallow.

Fuck me, I want to kiss her again, taste her.“Better.” Remembering what happened after our kiss and not knowing why she ran away upset, I step back and lean my hip against the counter. “Do that one more time, then we’re ready to cut ‘em and bake ‘em.”

She rolls again while I wash my hands. I take the biscuit cutter and cut out the biscuits, placing them onto the parchment paper on the cookie sheet. She washes her hands as I put them into the oven.

Taking another sip of whiskey, she shakes her body. “Whoowh. That was stressful.” I’d love to see that shake without my T-shirt on her.

I laugh at her cuteness. “What? It’s supposed to be relaxing and fun.”

“Okay, you relax and have fun while I tremble and drink.” She laughs then swigs another sip.

I take out a clean bowl, hand mixer, and the ingredients for the whipped cream. “The hard part’s over. Now we whip up some cream.”

I pour heavy cream and vanilla into the bowl and add the powdered sugar. “If you’ve ever made at least a box cake, you can absolutely do this.” I plug in the mixer and hand it to her.

“This one, I’ve got,” she says confidently, placing the mixer in the bowl and flipping it on without checking the speed.

Poof! A cloud of powdered sugar explodes as the cream mixture whips out of the bowl, splattering her chest, face, hair, and arms, and the top of the island.

“Ahh!” she squeaks. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her lips are pursed together, and her hands are lifted and frozen still like a cop shouted, “Hands where I can see ‘em.”

I erupt into fold-over laughter.

“It’s not funny.” She laughs. “It’s not funny. I don’t understand. What happened?” she asks, opening one eye and then the other, turning to face me.

I temper my laughter. “You always have to check the speed before you turn it on. And you have to start slow.” I drag out the last word, swiping my finger across her cheek to wipe off some splatter. I stick my finger in my mouth and watch her eyes follow the motion. Then I pull my finger out of my mouth and run my tongue along the edge of my lip, still watching her eyes follow my movement. “It tastes sweet,” I say, cocking my head, then shrug and smile. I swipe more cream with my finger, placing it toward her lips, locking my gaze on her eyes. I give a small nod and she opens her lips, letting me in. Once my finger is in her mouth, she closes her lips around it, not breaking our gaze. As I pull it out, she sucks gently.

“It does.”

Jesus, this woman.

“Let’s clean you up and try again. Stay right there and let me grab a wash cloth.” I go to the linen closet and get a wash cloth. When I come back, she’s wiping the top of the island with the sponge from the sink.

I wet the cloth with warm water and gently wipe the cream off her face and arms. “The bathroom’s down that hall in case you want to check my work and get your hair.”

“Be right back.” She grins and takes the cloth from me.

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