“Of course. I wouldn’t be a very good Italian son if I didn’t.” The smile on his lips widens, and it’s all I can concentrate on. “It’s not too hard. I’ll show you.”
Anna wriggles out of his hold and runs off to grab toys. She assembles them in the family room, lost in her own little world, leaving us alone in the kitchen.
“Alright, Maestro. Teach me your pasta ways.” I press play on a Christmas playlist, soft holiday music filling the space, blending with the scent of simmering tomatoes and garlic.
James steps behind me, his warm breath against my ear. “First…we need to put this in a ponytail.” He pauses to see if I’ll step away, but I don’t. There’s a slight tremor in his hand as it trails up my exposed shoulder. A sharp intake of breath as he slides his fingers into my hair. His touch is soft as he works his way from the ends to the roots. This moment so different from the bathroom when he pulled my hair back to avoid vomit landing in it.
Then, I resisted. Refused to acknowledge the effect he had on me. This time, I close my eyes and feel every brush, every touch.
When he finally gathers it all at the crown of my head, he tugs, just enough to send a wave of awareness through my entire body. I arch instinctively as a delicious ache forms. This dangerous new freedom, this space we’ve never had before. His hands land on my shoulders, an exhale shudders from his pursed lips, and he steps back.
“Making pasta is all about feel. Start by making a well in the center,” he instructs, temptation in every syllable.
Trying to shake off the sensation of his fingers in my hair, I adopt an exaggerated English accent, channeling my best Gordon Ramsay: “Yes, make a well. Well done. That’s right.” I laugh, hoping to break the seriousness in his face, to make him smile, to bring him back into the ease we’ve always shared.
But there’s a new tension. Not the one of the past years when we wanted to touch, but one that screams:What are you waiting for?
“Now, slowly add the eggs. One at a time.”
“Yes, My Lord,” I say, softer this time, trading Gordon Ramsay mockery for the demure purr of a medieval princess. “Am I doing this right?”
The space between us vanishes as his chest presses against my back. “I thought you once said I’d never be cast as an English aristocrat in your story?” He reaches around caging me in, guiding our hands to knead the dough.
The smile slips from my lips as the heat returns, sharp and immediate.
“That’s it,” he whispers, his breath caressing the shell of my ear. “Don’t be afraid to get your hands dirty.”
His warmth radiates over me, and I turn lifting my flour-dusted hands to the hard lines of his chest. His lips part as my fingers drift lower, down his stomach, feeling every tense muscle along the way. When I pause above his waistband, his breath hitches.
“I’ve never been one to shy away from getting dirty.”
“I have no doubt about that.” A low chuckle vibrates through him, the sound shooting straight through my fingertips. His nose nuzzles into my neck, breathingme in with the desperation of years of need. “You always smell so damn good. What’s that scent? It’s been driving me crazy for years.”
“It’s an essential oil. Combination of sandalwood and vanilla.” My voice comes out husky.
Who knew making pasta could turn into such foreplay?
He places his hands on my waist, then steps away. We both inhale sharply. His restraint, always so careful, is cracking. I remember those moments in the sunroom last year, his knuckles white and breathing ragged taking in the sight of me unraveling. I want to know what happens when that restraint finally breaks.
“We’re almost done. Now we need to roll the dough out and cut it.” He sucks in a breath.
“Margaret has a pasta attachment on her mixer. Wouldn’t that make it quicker?”
James leans back against the counter, all casual ease, trying not to betray his fracturing control.
“Quicker isn’t always better,” he says, his voice low, gravelly. “I like to feel it in my hands. Take my time. Make sure every inch gets the attention it deserves.” He pauses. “Sometimes, slower makes it all the sweeter.”
His pupils are blown wide, eyes so dark they look black, and my knees nearly give out. I could drown in that stare as deep, sensitive parts of me tighten and throb. We’ve definitely taken our sweet, fucking time.
“Mama, phone!” Anna yells, wandering in with my buzzing cell.
“Oh—thanks, Bug.” I cough, still lust-hazed. I take a few steps towards the foyer. “Jules, where are you guys?”
“We’re stuck in New York. The snow’s insane. Tom doesn’t want to risk driving today,” she explains, but her voice softens. “You sound… tense.”
“I’m good. Anna and I got to the cabin earlier. Did you know your dad asked James to come here to check out a problem with their new hot tub?”
“No. No, I did not.” Even quieter, she asks, “Ivy isn’t there, is she?”
