35. Chapter 35
Evie
The caramelized onions were a mistake. Not because they aren’t golden, jammy, and perfect, but because apparently once I committed to a pizza topping that deliberate, I also needed three varieties of olives, hand-torn basil, and a ramekin of hot honey.
Now my kitchen counter looks like I’m auditioning for a cooking show.
Eleven ramekins are arrayed in a precise crescent around two dough rounds proofing under a damp cloth. Every topping is something Milo has never tried.
That part wasn’t accidental. I’ve been secretly cataloging his food reactions for a while, keeping an invisible index of what he’s encountered versus what he hasn’t. This is what I do with my free time now instead of anything resembling a hobby.
The firewood is on my conscience. I sent Milo to restack the logs behind the inn forty-five minutes ago, even though I stacked them myself last weekend. But I needed him gone long enough to build all of this.
It’s too much. Nothing about this feels like a casual cooking lesson. This is another date.
What if he hates it? What if he walks in here and sees how much effort this represents? What if he looks at me with pity or, worse, confusion?
But I don’t want to do the scaled-back version. I want him to walk in here and understand that someone thought about what he might enjoy, and then made it happen.
The front door of the cottage opens, and my pulse spikes.
“Evie?” His voice drifts closer from the hallway, bright and slightly winded. “I need to confess something about the firewood. It was already stacked. So I unstacked it and then restacked it, which felt redundant, but I gave it my full effort.”
He rounds the corner into the kitchen, one hand raking through his curls. There’s a wood chip caught behind his ear and sawdust clinging to his hair. Now that he’s safely inside, his horns are back too. His cheeks are ruddy from exertion.
“Tell me that you didn’t send me away so you could do this.”
“I needed prep time.”
“For what, exactly?”
“You mentioned wanting to try more human food. Pizza is non-negotiable.” My voice only cracks a little.
“You did all of this for me?” His mouth curves into a grin.
My face goes nuclear. There’s nowhere to hide in a kitchen nine feet wide, especially with him planted in the middle wearing that devastating, wonder-struck expression, as if I’ve done something extraordinary instead of made pizza.
“I’m a planner,” I manage. “This is planning. Don’t read into it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
***
“Okay. Come here.”
I’m at the counter, my dough already half-shaped, while his tragic attempt slumps beside it with its cratered middle and bloated edges. I’d tell him to start over, but I want his hands busy near mine more than I want a second decent crust.
He doesn’t take the open spot beside me, fitting himself against my back instead.
I feel the furnace heat of him before anything else, soaking through my shirt until it settles low and turns into an ache.
We’ve been circling this for days now: his mouth on mine, my hands under his shirt, the careful drag of his fingers over my waist when he knows exactly how close I am to giving in.
I’m running out of ways to pretend I don’t want more.
“Show me again.” His breath stirs the loose strands at my temple.
I roll the pin forward, quarter turn. Milo’s fingers twitch against the counter, mimicking the rotation, while the dough spreads obediently beneath me.
His nails are ordinary again, the claws gone before he comes anywhere near my skin.
He touches me with impossible care now, and that is much worse for my self-control than danger ever was.
His fingertips find the inside of my forearm and draw a slow line down to my knuckles. “Can I?”
My grip on the rolling pin loosens. “Yes.” Always, apparently.
Milo’s hand covers mine, swallowing it, and together we press the pin into the dough. It gives beneath our combined weight, thinning where our grip joins. His longer fingers slip into the spaces between mine around the handle, fitting there with unfair precision.
“Harder?”
“A little.”
Milo’s hand slides to my waist as his mouth opens against the side of my neck. His tongue drags over my pulse, then his lips close over the same spot with a slow pull. I gasp as his thumb slips under my shirt.
I roll the pin forward again, and his hips follow the motion, another controlled drag that sends a pulse straight between my thighs. My underwear goes damp.
My head falls back, and his mouth is there immediately, kissing lower with a hunger he keeps trying to make gentle.
“You’re not paying attention to the dough.”
“I’m paying attention to everything.” His teeth catch lightly beneath my jaw, and the moan I’ve been holding back slips out against his cheek. “Especially to what happens when I touch you.”
His thumb strokes once at my waist under the hem of my shirt, and I arch into the touch. His hand slips farther under the fabric, palm settling below my navel. Then his fingers flex.
“Who said you’re allowed the rest?”
“No one.” His hips press forward, grinding against me to pull a gasp out of me. Milo’s hand follows the answer upward, over my ribs. He stops just beneath the edge of my bra. “I’ve been improvising. Correct me whenever you like.”
I roll back into him instead of answering, and the groan that tears loose against my neck is wrecked.
“Show me how hard. How slow. I’m an extraordinarily attentive student, Evie. I’ll get every part of you right if you’ll only tell me where to press.”
My lips graze his jaw when I turn, and his fingers flex against my ribs. Keeping one hand curled on the rolling pin, I take hold of the wrist beneath my shirt. His palm is waiting along my ribs. I slide him under my bra and close his fingers around my breast.
Milo’s hips jerk into me.
“You wanted instructions.” I press into his hand until my nipple pushes against the center of his palm. “Start there.”
My fingers fold over his, closing his grip until my flesh yields between them.
“Harder.”
He obeys, and the pressure sends a sharp pull straight through me. I arch into his grip, guiding his thumb over the stiff peak. “Good. Just like that.”
His fingers tighten again, more certain now, and I let my head fall back against his shoulder.
The second pass is firmer, dragging over the hardened point until a moan slips out of me and my ass rolls along his bulge in answer. He follows, grinding into the space I give him while his fingers spread beneath the curve of me and lift, holding me more fully against his palm.
“Milo.”
I sink lower over the counter, opening the angle between us until he fits tight against my pussy through our clothes. Milo comes with me, body covering mine. His forehead drops to my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, mouth brushing my skin. “You planned all of this, and I can’t keep my hands to myself.”
Every sensible reason to stop becomes difficult to remember with his weight against me.
One word from me and dinner is over. Milo is wound tight behind me, waiting on the smallest invitation.
And I want to. So badly that I ache. But I want the rest of the night too, the whole slow build of it, so I make myself do the harder thing.
“Your turn.” I reach for his hand, and Milo lets me go at once. He draws back just enough for me to twist in the narrow space between his body and the counter, fingers trailing from my waist only after I’ve stepped clear. “Solo.”
The second his heat leaves me, I want it back.
Milo braces both palms on the counter and bows his head for one useless second.
When he looks up again, his glasses have slipped almost to the end of his nose, leaving glowing violet eyes above the thin wire rims. They look obscene on him now.
Too neat for the damp shine on his lips.
Too delicate against the dark curve of his horns and the rose-gold flush burning across his cheekbones.
“You seem to have recovered remarkably quickly,” he says. “I would like it formally noted that I have not.”
I step back into his space and push the glasses up. His pupils spread behind the lenses as my fingertip trails down the bridge of his nose and rests against his lower lip. He turns his face into the touch just enough for his mouth to brush the pad of my finger.
I withdraw before he can make it anything more, reclaiming my side of the counter with considerably less composure than I left it. His dough is still uneven, but at least it’s recognizably circular now. That will have to count as progress.
“Finish it.”
His attention shifts to the food with visible effort.
I start arranging the toppings. Sauce first, spread in a careful spiral with the underside of a spoon.
Milo is eating the toppings faster than he’s placing them.
“Those go on the pizza.”
He folds another piece of prosciutto into his mouth, holding my gaze while he chews. “You made me hungry.”
My fingers pause over the basil.
“Your strategy appears to be eating everything before it reaches the dough.”
“Quality assurance.” He licks a streak of oil from his thumb, slow enough that my nipples tighten beneath my bra all over again. “You wouldn’t want me building a pizza with substandard ingredients.” His mouth quirks around the last bite.
“I hand-selected every ingredient on this counter.”
“Then they’re passing with flying colors.
” He reaches for the caramelized onions and spoons a small mound directly into his mouth, tongue catching the sweetness from the spoon before his attention drops pointedly to my lips.
“Although I may require a second tasting. My concentration has been compromised.”
“Focus.” I snap my fingers, mostly because mine is no better. “Toppings go on before the cheese,” I tell him. “I know that’s backwards from what most people do, but the cheese on top protects everything from burning and creates this . . . crust that holds it together.”
He follows my instructions, but with his own interpretive flair.
“Cheese on top,” I remind him, pushing the mozzarella board in his direction.