Chapter Six
CASH
SHE STOPS BESIDE me, and my thoughts scatter.
This is a mistake.
This isn’t how I conduct my classes.
Focus.
“Lose the spoon.” My voice comes out gruffer than I intend.
She does.
The metal clinks against the ceramic counter.
“Put them in.”
She looks at me with those wide hazel eyes, and they consume me. I forgot we have an audience. And I lose any shred of doubt as to why this is a bad idea.
“Put what in where?” The nervousness of her voice yanks me back to the present.
Nerves don’t belong in a kitchen. The space should hum with purpose. It’s a place where hands move by instinct. Where creating becomes a quiet agreement with time.
Measure.
Wait.
Listen.
“Put your hands”—my hands reach for hers—“in the dough.”
The first graze of this touch ignites fire inside me—a wild, uncharted fire.
I don’t invite women into my space.
I don’t give them personal lessons.
And I sure as hell don’t touch them.
Yet here I am. Twice.
Inviting.
Waiting.
Touching.
Our fingers sink into the cold mixture.
Her eyes snap up to mine. “Is it supposed to feel like this?”
My thigh brushes hers. Enough to make me aware of the heat between us.
“Yes.” That rasp wasn’t for the ingredients like it usually is.
God help me.
“Like this.” I guide her fingers into the dough.
She stiffens, and a little gasp escapes her. The sound goes straight south.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I flex my fingers around hers and press deeper into the dough. Sticky flour coats both of us as we turn and fold, but she’s still holding back.
“May I?” I gesture, asking permission to step behind her and guide her through it.
A slow smile curves at the corner of her mouth. “Yes.”
I adjust my stance behind her. My bare chest brushes her back. I didn’t realize how damn thin her shirt is. But I feel every inch of her backside.
She tenses, but doesn’t pull away.
Smart girl or foolish girl. This isn’t how I teach a lesson.
“Like this.” My hands cover hers again, but this time my fingers slide between hers.
Her fingers move tentatively at first. Then firmer as she follows the pattern I set.
The dough yields under our combined pressure, soft and pliable, just like a lover’s body.
No.
Don’t.
I press my thumbs into the center, folding the dough over itself, then releasing.
“Too much pressure ruins it.” My lips are close enough to her ear that I feel the heat of her skin. Why the hell are my lips close enough to her ear to feel the heat of her skin?
“Too little does nothing.”
Her breath comes faster. I hear it. I feel it.
And all I smell is her. Vanilla.
Shit.
Why vanilla?
Of all the scents in the world, why is the one that is my aphrodisiac?
“Like this?” She steps onto her tiptoes, and the curve of her ass presses into me.
It sends a jolt through me.
Why the hell am I this close?
Am I out of my mind?
“Yes.” The word is a hiss.
She rises again and leans into it, and her ass—
Shit.
Way too close.
I should step back. I should.
But I don’t.
I keep my hands on hers. Keep guiding her through the motions. Keep talking to her like she’s the one I’m seducing.
And for fuck sakes, why the hell does that feel like what I’m doing?
“It’s warm now.” Her knuckles brush mine again.
It’s barely contact, but it hits like a live wire—every single time.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
I know better.
But I can’t seem to unplug myself from her gravity.
“Alive.” My voice cracks, and I make it a point to look at the ladies I’m teaching. “It should feel alive,” I tell them, but I know it’s only to distract me from our fingers tangled together.
I catch the subtle glances the women exchange. See their eyes flicker between one another, laden with unspoken thoughts.
They're all wondering the same thing I am: What am I doing?
And honestly, I don't have the answer
My eyes shut for barely a beat. The texture always gets me, but not today.
Today, it’s her.
I lean in closer, my lip almost touching her ear. “You’re doing good,” I murmur. “Just like that.”
The kitchen is too warm now. The air is thick with the scent of yeast mingling with her, and it’s intoxicating.
I notice a sheen of sweat on her collarbone. Notice the way her T-shirt clings to her skin, outlining every curve.
My cock is a steel rod, pressing painfully against my zipper.
But I ignore it.
Barely.
“Almost there.” My hands still cover hers. “Just a little more.”
She nods, and I lose myself watching her, watching her learn, and watching her concentrate.
“Let’s add some flour.” I sprinkle a little at a time, letting it fall slowly between our hands.
Her hand leaves the bowl to scoop a handful.
“Don’t dump it.” It’s a whisper. “Introduce it.”
She complies, and for the first time in my life, the ingredients aren’t pulling me into this recipe.
She is.
“That’s it.” I should look at the mixture, but I can’t tear my eyes away from her. “Feel how it thickens.” Just like my thickening voice. “How it pushes back.”
This is the time when I’m usually so engrossed with mixing the dough—pulling, pressing, folding—that I don’t notice anything else. Only the flour clinging to my skin, and every wet and sticky sound. Every drag of the dough.
Right this second, I notice every touch, graze, and press of her skin—her body.
“The trick”—I barely get the words out—“is letting it cling. Let it grab onto you and don’t fight it.”
The dough begins to pull away from the sides of the bowl.
My breathing deepens. Not because I’m tired from the mixing, and not because I enjoy the contact more than I want to admit, but because it grows softer under our touch.
“You’re looking for elasticity.” I lift a corner, stretch it, and let it snap back.
“Perfection. That’s it.” I fold the dough. “Come together for me. Give me a little resistance. Good girl.”
Shay’s hands freeze.
“The dough,” I clarify. “I was talking to the dough.”
Her head tilts up to look at me. And shit. Desire flares behind her eyes. Desire, lust, and want.
Where the hell was all this when we were alone in my room?
I scoop the dough out of the bowl and smack it onto the counter with a soft thud.
Flour puffs in the air.
“Time to knead the dough, ladies.” My voice is steady, but rough as I step away from her.
Inside, my thoughts are a damn storm.
Women don’t belong in my space.
That’s what I keep telling myself. But here she is, invading it, making it so I can barely fucking breathe and loving every damn second of it.
Actually, that’s on me. I invited her up—demanded it.
“Hands on the dough.” My voice is stern. “Don’t be gentle. Don’t be afraid.”
“Of the dough? Or you?” Shay’s quip makes me smile.
She’s got fire.
Good.
I like fire.
I grab a handful of flour and sprinkle it over the dough. Then I gesture for her to step closer. “Come here.”
She hesitates.
I crook my fingers. “Now.”
Her socked-feet scuff the floor and her hips sway just enough to make my throat dry.
She stops beside me.
“Like this?” Her fingers gently press into the dough.
Too gentle, and she’s doing it on purpose. The glimmer in her eyes and the smirk at the edge of her mouth are a dead giveaway.
I reach out. My calloused fingers wrap around her wrists.
Her pulse jumps under my touch.
“Not quite.” I pull her hands down and press them into the dough.
Her breath hitches, and her chest rises and falls faster now. When she leans forward, the scoop neckline hangs open for half a second, giving me a flash of skin I shouldn’t be staring at. I have to drag my eyes away and tell my cock to calm down.
“Spread it wider.” Fuck, my voice comes out dripping with desire.
She shifts, and her thigh rubs mine.
I press in closer. “Harder.” My voice is rough. “It likes pressure. Likes to be handled.”
She obeys.
Her fingers sink into the dough until her knuckles turn white and her arm muscles flex.
I want to step up behind her again, wrap my arms around her, and really knead that dough.
Instead, I let go and step back.
My gaze drops to her mouth. Her lips are parted and glossy. I swear they’re begging to be bitten.
“Don’t be afraid. It likes to be worked.”
The teasing look she gives me nearly makes me come on the spot.
“Like this.” I slap the dough.
Hard.
The sound echoes in the kitchen, making her jump.
“Your turn,” I say.
She presses her lips together in a thin line. “You want me to slap the dough?” Her eyebrows hike.
“Yes.”
“For real?”
I lift my head to our audience. “Ladies, can you show Shay how it’s done?”
Every hand comes down forceful and loud.
Shay jumps again before she looks at me with a huge smile.
“Yes, for real,” I say.
Her hand comes down too soft and unsure.
I tsk. “Not like that. Ladies?”
They slap the dough again, and the sound ricochets through the kitchen.
“Your turn, Shay.”
Her hand comes down, harder but not hard enough.
I step in behind her without asking this time and wrap my arms around her.
I wish I didn’t notice how damn perfect she fits against me.
“Slow.” My hand covers hers. “But forceful.”
I move her hand, slapping the dough with the right amount of force.
The sound is sharp.
Satisfying.
“Perfect. Now like this.” The heel of my hand presses slowly and firmly into it. “Watch.”
Fold.
Push.
Turn.
I don’t rush. I never rush.
I let go, but I don’t move. “Your turn.”
She presses gingerly, then harder.
“Better.” I watch over her shoulder as her movements begin to match mine. “There you go. You feel it changing?”
She nods, cheeks flushed from focus, or slapping, or all this talk of slapping.
“It’s learning you,” I say. “Just like you’re learning it.”
She works in silence for a moment, along with the other women, whom I keep forgetting are present.
I wait until it’s perfect, then place it in a bowl. “Now, we let it rest.”
She exhales, a small, satisfied sound.
I step back and turn to the rest of the class.
“Yours should look like this.” I lift the bowl and tip it toward them, finding it difficult even to concentrate.
The hard-on in my jeans isn’t helping. I’ve gotten turned on in this kitchen before, but never like this. Never while teaching a woman.
“The dough needs two hours to rise, so we won’t be baking the one you just made today.”
“Yoo-hoo, Cash!” Faye raises her hand. “Would you mind kneading my dough? Arthritis and all.”
“Of course.” I turn my back to them and grab the tray of pre-made dough behind me.
I also steal a second to close my eyes and try to find my inner peace.
But all that floods me is the way her hands felt beneath mine and my front cradling her backside.
Fuck.
My jeans tighten.
Well, shit.
“To keep the lesson moving, I’m giving each of you a piece of dough I prepared earlier.” If I stick to the lesson, I can get through it. “And we’ll be using your dough on Saturday night.”
I turn, and Shay glances at my bulge.
The corner-of-her-mouth smirk hits me right in the chest.
“I can distribute.” Her voice is syrup-smooth.
She’s enjoying this.
She gives a little nonchalant shrug. “If you want.”
Oh, she knows exactly what she’s doing.
For a second, I just stand there like an idiot with a tray of dough and a situation happening below the belt that refuses to calm the fuck down.
“Why?” I counter.
Her eyes flick down again. Slower this time. And when her eyes meet mine, boy, does she look cocky.
“Oh, sweetheart.” I raise the tray, refusing to be embarrassed. “This class always gets a rise out of someone.”
Her cocky smile drops.
I walk to her and stop at her side. I lean into her hair.
“But a woman’s never managed to have that effect on me. Until now.”
Her face flushes a pink shade.