8. Sawyer
8
SAWYER
W atching Ginger bake—or mostly watching and partially helping—amplifies my attraction to her. I’m immersed in her scent, and it’s enhanced by her baking. The chocolate and butter smells perfectly compliment her own spicy, sweet perfume.
She’s so close, and she’s touching me. She’s not subtle about it, but there are always so many people around that I hesitate.
That red-stained mouth looks lush and soft. The fantasies I’ve had of Ginger’s mouth plague me now.
Fuck, her pretty pink tongue peeks out. The number of times I’ve imagined that tongue on my body…
I suck in a sharp breath as her nails dig into my chest.
Would it be such a bad thing to lean down and kiss her? To just drop my mouth over hers for a little taste…put my hands around her waist and tug her closer.
Grinding my teeth, I clench my hands into fists. I would be bad, very bad, to do that here. I can behave myself.
I can.
The spoon appears between us, but her teal eyes are mischievous. “Did you want a taste?”
Yes. Yes, I do.
I stare at her until I can unclench my jaw, lean in, and take the dollop from her spoon. The absolute decadence of her frosting makes me purr. A woman who can make something that tastes like that needs to be taken care of.
My nostrils flare as I look down at her. I want to take care of Ginger, to be here with her in the kitchen every day, to put together meals, to taste and learn together. To have that tactile experience.
I pull the spoon from my mouth, wanting more, to lick thefrosting from her skin, to feast on her.
Being this close to her makes me lose myself. I can’t think of anything but her.
I squeeze my hands into fists again before I turn to wash the spoon.
“Oh, you can just leave it. I have plenty of dishes to do.”
I have already started, though, so I wash a few of hers, too. It’s worth it to help out. Plus, I need to keep my hands busy.
Ginger appears beside the sink with her arms crossed. “You don’t have to do that.”
“My hands are already wet.”
She laughs, and her hand appears on my arm again, at the short sleeve of my T-shirt. Those long fingers play with the fabric, teasing my skin. A wave of heat engulfs me as I peer sideways at her. She’s watching my hands before her eyes lift to mine.
If Ginger bites her lip one more goddamn time…the way she worries it makes me want to soothe it with a kiss.
Fuck, it’s a good thing my hands are wet, or they’d be in her hair, crushing her against me and kissing her until her knees give out.
The blue of her eyes blazes brighter.
Sucking in a slow breath, I return my attention to the dishes, cleaning the two bowls and random utensils slowly and methodically. Her fingers stroke a few inches of my bicep. Every swipe back and forth threatens my restraint.
How easily she takes my silence. Most people would grow uncomfortable, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
I clench my jaw again as I finish the last spoon and grab a towel to dry my hands. The step to grab it makes her hand drop from my arm.
Ginger smirks at me and pivots on one foot to check the cake with a different fingertip. Nodding, she procures a spatula and loosens the cake from the parchment.
She brings the whole thing to the island and scoops frosting onto the center.
I watch the little wiggling motions of her hips as she spreads the frosting to the edges. That skirt hugs her so nicely. I can see every little movement of that round ass.
Clenching my fists and grinding my teeth, I push off the counter and stand next to her to see what exactly she’s doing.
Her smile is wide and silly, and I swear to God, the sun fills the room with more of its light.
She piles a thick layer of cream on nine-tenths of the surface. “This is like a Swiss roll cake but fancier.”
I bite back a smile and nod.
Her eyes twinkle at me. “That’s why I’m leaving this part unfrosted. It’s where I’ll start. Hopefully, it won’t break while I roll it. I’ve only tried this kind of recipe once before, and it fell apart. Gracie and I pulled it the rest of the way apart with our fingers.”
“Tastes better that way.”
Her grin makes me want to reach for her. “So, you obviously know your way around a kitchen, although you don’t seem to be a baker. Am I right?”
“I can make brownies.”
“From scratch or from a box?” Ginger’s challenge makes me almost smile back.
“Scratch.”
She gasps in shock. “Shakespeare and Chef Boyardee? Be still my swooning heart.”
I watch as she grows serious, using the parchment paper to help her start the rolling process. Some of the frosting oozes out of the sides, but the cake stays in one piece.
Clapping softly for her earns me another grin. I cherish every smile she offers me. If only I could sweep in and plant a congratulatory kiss on her cheek. Or her shoulder. Or neck.
She swipes another taste of the frosting from what’s left on the parchment paper. Her entire digit disappears into her mouth, and I’m back where I started, picturing her mouth on me. How her lips would spread around me, and her tongue would cradle my tip.
I shake the thought free when she piles dishes into the sink and puts the cake in the fridge. Then, she returns to me, leaning against the counter. I like how close she gets to me and that she keeps putting herself within my reach.
“So, what’s your specialty? You must have one. I’ve seen what you eat for lunch, and it’s not takeout, and it's not a measly sandwich.” She pointedly looks at my half-eaten chicken and rice.
“What’s yours?”
Those plump, red lips purse at me. “Eggplant lasagna. Although my regular lasagna is pretty bomb, too. I make the noodles from scratch.”
Talented. In many, many ways. I shake myself out of the spiral.
“And yours is?” Ginger prods me again—with her words and her finger.
I smirk at her. Her entire face lights up with delight. It squeezes my chest painfully.
“Short ribs and stuffed poblanos.” My voice is raspy.
Her eyes get big and hungry. “So, when are you making me some?”
I burn for this saucy young woman. “Depends.”
Her finger drops back to my chest. “On what?”
I take another deep inhale of her scent. “I’ll make it for you if you’ll be my kitchen elf.”
The slow smile curls into her cheeks, and every naughty thought I’ve ever had of her flashes through my mind. “Hmm. I think you boys enjoy the idea of having an elf in the office just a little too much.”
Yet, she’s pushed forward, nearly pressing herself against me.
I raise a brow at her, not sure how to phrase the question I want to ask. What’s wrong with enjoying the idea of having help? Is she offended by the fact that we’ve made her the elf? Is it because of her size? Or her red hair?
Am I making her uncomfortable?
Ginger doesn’t retreat, drawing circles over my chest. “So, when will you be cooking for me?”
Another smirk curls at the corner of my mouth. “Soon.”
Her pleased smile makes me want to keep my promise. Soon .
A throat clears at the kitchen entrance, and I look up to see Ashley standing there with his arms crossed and an accusatory brow raised. “Need you on site. Kenny needs your help putting up the fireplace you designed.”
Probably a good thing. I’m on the verge of doing something stupid.