Chapter 12 Vin
Vin
The restaurant is dead silent when I push through the doors of the Arsenal. One old guy in the corner with a newspaper that he snaps with every page turn and his tiny steaming cup of coffee.
I wonder if he’s drinking that dark Napolitano rocket fuel Sophie served me last night and this morning and groan under my breath. I could use a shot of that shit right now. I didn’t sleep worth a damn on her broken-ass couch.
Through the pass-through window, I catch sight of her with her hands buried in dough. Rather than scare her like I did this morning, I circle around to the kitchen’s back entrance, passing the break room where the Rocco situation went down earlier. At least that prick is nowhere to be found.
When I enter, she doesn’t hear me, too absorbed in whatever she’s making. I’m going to have to work on her situational awareness, but in the meantime, I slide up behind her and plant one hand on either side of her body, caging her against the counter. “What are you—”
Pain detonates across my face like a flashbang grenade. I stagger back, hands flying to my nose as Sophie screams. The little spitfire just headbutted me. Maybe her situational awareness is better than I thought.
“FRIG!! Vin!! Oh my gosh!! Why?!” Her hands are on me, then she’s pressing a towel to my face as my nose gushes blood.
“Did you just head butt me?” I ask, the question muffled by the towel.
“I mean, you scared me! It just sort of happened—”
“Do you have any ice?” I shake my head to clear the stars still popping behind my eyelids, then touch my nose gingerly with the towel. Nothing broken, but Christ, the girl’s got a hard skull.
“Stop it. You don’t need ice. Here.” She drags over a step stool and pushes me down on it, then pushes my head forward and pinches the bridge of my nose.
I try to lift my head, squinting at her. “What are you doing?”
She shoves my head back down. “Head down and pinch it yourself if you like until the bleeding stops.” She takes my hand and replaces hers with it as I spit blood on the rubber floor mats.
“Shit. Sorry.”
She laughs. “Don’t worry about it. This is a kitchen. This floor has seen more than it’s share of blood, I promise.”
By the time my nose stops dripping, Sophie is back at the counter, her hands in the dough.
“What are you making?”
She tosses a glance at me over her shoulder, those big brown eyes pinning me in place. “Wash your hands and help me.”
I do as she says then join her at the counter, rolling up my sleeves. Her gaze snags on my forearms for a heartbeat before she looks away. Interesting.
“Are you making bread?”
“Gnocchi.”
I can’t help the smirk. “Gnocchi is good, but no one gets it right.”
She gives me a dirty look. “I understand the Garden of Olives runs some specials during the week. You’re welcome to eat lunch there.”
The smirk dies on my face. “Fucking Garden of Olives? What they serve is not Italian, and it’s not food. You know they microwave everything they serve? Fucking chemicals and cardboard is what that is. If your gnocchi is anything like that—”
“It isn’t.” She cuts me off, and now she’s smiling that soft, secret smile that makes it hard to breathe. She’s fucking with me. “Would you be interested in a spinach ricotta gnocchi? It will take a little longer, but I promise it’s worth it.”
I narrow my eyes at her, not yet over the Garden of Olives comment. “Is your gnocchi thuddy or pillowy?”
She frowns. “Gnocchi should never be thuddy.”
“Baked or boiled?”
“Always baked.”
“Do you add ricotta to the dough or serve it on the side?”
“It’s in the dough.”
“And the spinach, on the side or in the dough?”
“I use an organic baby spinach and puree it before adding to the dough last minute. Then I shape each one by hand and bake them, which is why it takes more time.” She lifts her chin slightly, waiting for my decision.
I nod. “Fine. Let’s do this.”
“Great. Combine the spinach puree with the dough.” She gestures to a large ceramic bowl full of a vibrant green puree.
That shit looks messy as fuck. I frown and roll the sleeves of my button up shirt higher. “How?”
I catch her stealing a sideways glance at my forearms again, her gaze tracing the veins that run from wrist to elbow. When she catches me catching her, the temperature in the kitchen instantly rises 10 degrees.
She clears her throat and takes my hand, her fingers small and warm against mine, and pushes it into the bowl. “Just knead it gently.”
“Gently?” I squeeze a fistful of dough. “I don’t do gentle.”
“Gentle, Vin. Watch.” She slides her hand under mine in the bowl and pushes my fingers into the dough so that the spinach puree pools in the indentations. Then, she folds the dough over and push down until the puree oozes out. “See? Gentle. You try.”
I try to replicate what she did, but I’m too rough and my fingers shove through the dough, splashing puree onto the counter. She blinks, staring at my hands.
“I’m not doing this right.”
“Here. Follow me.” Before I can process what’s happening, she slides between me and the counter, her back pressing against my chest, and grabs my wrists. “Both hands, please.”
“You want to hold my hand, princess?” I try to keep it light but it’s hard. And getting harder.
“Hands plural,” she says, pushing my hands and hers into the dough together.
Her back is warm against my chest, my arms encircling her small frame, her hands on top of mine. I can’t resist; I press against her ass, grinding her hips into the edge of the counter. She shifts but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tell me to stop.
“You always this bossy?” I lean down around her short frame to better see what we’re doing, my mouth hovering near her ear. She smells fucking amazing. No idea what it is, but fucking amazing.
“Only in the kitchen,” she says, lifting her eyes up to meet mine.
The implication that she’s not at all bossy in other ways is not lost on me. A million ways that I’d like to take control of that fine ass of hers makes my dick harden.
She turns back to the bowl, maneuvering my hands into the dough with practiced precision.
“You do this a lot?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.
When she twists to look at me questioningly, her mouth is an inch from mine. “Do what?”
“Bring strange men into your kitchen and rub food all over them.”
She laughs, that light sound that comes from deep in her chest. “Just the handsome ones.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “You think I’m handsome?”
This close up, her dark brown eyes have me in a head lock. Her breath catches, and spinach puree slops over the side of the bowl. She laughs again and drops her gaze. “You should probably stay focused on the task at hand.”
“Which task is that, princess?” I shouldn’t be flirting with her. I know this. I force myself to focus on the gnocchi dough, pressing my fingers in, coating the dough in puree, folding it over and starting again.
My brow furrows as I concentrate, and she laughs at me softly.
“What? I’m doing it like you said.”
“Yes, you are.” There’s approval in her voice, and I like that.
I push my hands deeper into the dough underneath hers, letting her move my fingers however she wants, intentional and slow. The dough is soft and yielding, the puree slippery between our fingers, and her hands are impossibly small on mine as she guides my movements.
She shifts her ass against me as she slides her fingers down then back up to my wrists. Fuck, my cock is so hard. If she keeps doing that, I’m going to fuck her right here and that absolutely cannot fucking happen. So I focus on the rhythm she’s setting and take over, matching her tempo.
Her pulse is jumping in her neck and she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth like she did last night when I fed her the pesto. FUCK.
“Like this?” I’m trying desperately to stay focused on the dough. Not on the pulse point I want to trace with my tongue. Not on her ass that I want to bury myself inside. Only the dough.
“Yes. Just like that,” she says lightly.
Is she feeling anything close to what I’m feeling right now?
She taps my hands. “All done. We don’t want to overdo it.”
I pause, my hands still under hers, my heart thudding hard enough that she has to feel it against her back.
I flip my palms over, oily from the puree coating my skin, and drag them roughly up her palms, then back down again, applying the same firm pressure I used on the dough. She feels so fucking good.
Her lips part silently as she watches my hands dwarf hers. Her breathing grows shallow, labored.
She’s feeling this. And she’s definitely feeling my hard cock pressed against the small of her back. I push into her intentionally, making absolutely certain she understands exactly what she’s doing to me right now.
“That’s…impressive,” she says, clearing her throat.
“So’s your ass, princess.” I drag my wet hands up her arms to her hips, my fingers spreading wide to grip as much of her as I can. “Fuck, this ass is just—mmph.” I grip her hips, wiping most of the oil off my hands, and squeeze, pulling her back against me.
The skin on the back of her neck flushes pink. “You’re not wrong,” she says, her eyes sparkling.
She leans her head back against my shoulder looking up at me. Her mouth is so close to mine. For half a second, my brain short circuits completely, looking down at her like that, her expression so open, her mouth so God damn fuckable.
“If you want to eat, we need to shape the gnocchi, and get it in the oven,” she says softly.
“Is ‘get it in the oven’ a euphemism for getting my cock in your ass, princess?”
Before she can respond, my phone rings. FUCK. She doesn’t move at first, staying caged between my arms, looking up at me with those endless brown eyes, but when it rings a second time, she steps away.
I exhale hard through my teeth, scrubbing a hand over my face. Saved by the bell, I guess.