Stina blinked up at him. “You didn’t even get shell in it.”
“You’re not the only person who knows how to cook.”
She gave him a flat look. “Jolie said before her classes started, she took over the kitchen a few days a week, and Younger microwaves everything.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t know how.” He cracked another.
“You definitely have strong hands.”
“And a soft touch.” He waggled his brows.
The sparkle in her eyes heated his chest.
She began working the flour in from the edges, slow and deliberate, the dough coming together under her hands in a way that looked effortless. He found he couldn’t look away from the focus on her face, the small furrow between her brows and the way she leaned into the motion with her whole body.
“You’re staring.” She didn’t glance away from her task.
“Supervising.” He moved in behind her, close enough to feel the warmth of her, and put his hands over hers on the dough. “Show me.”
She went still for half a second and he felt the air catch in her lungs before she recovered. She guided his hands through the motion, folding the dough, her fingers laced loosely over his in a way that wasn’t at all erotic but made him hard anyway.
“Don’t overwork it or it will get tough.”
“I’d never overwork something.” He pressed his lips to the side of her neck, just below her ear, and her pulse jumped beneath his lips.
She issued a ragged breath. “That’s unhelpful to the pasta-making process.”
“I’m a multitasker,” he rumbled against her skin.
“You’re a menace.” She tilted her head despite her words, giving him better access even as she kept working the dough and he gave up the fight and kneaded her hips instead.
After she had the dough in a ball to rest, he whirled her to face him and captured her surprised laugh beneath his lips. The sound turned into a moan as she melted into the caress.
By the time they surfaced again, she declared it was time to roll the dough through the press. They worked together, with her feeding it through in increasingly thinner sheets while he caught it on the other side.
They draped the long ribbons of linguine over the drying rack. Halfway through the job, she flicked flour at him, and he retaliated—only better—managing to cover her whole chest in flour.
She burst out laughing and held on to the counter for support.
“This is your fault,” she said between giggles, wiping a towel down the front of her top. He didn’t want to tell her that she wore his floury fingerprints on her hips and looked so damn adorable he’d rather carry her off to bed and settle for one of Younger’s meals.
“You’re the one who weaponized a baking ingredient,” he told her.
“It was self-defense.”
He cocked a brow. “Against what?”
“Your face. It was doing a thing.”
“What thing?”
She studied him for a moment, flour dusted across her dark hair and one cheek, her eyes bright with things that had nothing to do with pasta.
“I don’t know.” Her voice pitched lower, and she dashed her tongue over her full bottom lip. “A thing.”
He didn’t have an answer for what was on his face—he only knew what was going on in his chest. He reached out andbrushed the flour from her cheek with the pad of his thumb, a slow swipe, letting it linger far longer than the task required.
The air shifted between them, and neither moved to break it.