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So she nodded assent and then turned the conversation back.‘You bake often?’
‘Fairly.It relaxes me.’
‘You don’t seem like you’d need relaxing.You seem pretty laid-back.Assured.’
‘You think?I get uptight.I certainly get frustrated.’Another innocent smile.‘What do you do to relax, Cally?’
‘Same as you.I cook.’
‘Aren’t we a good combination?I make the bread, you make the soup.Complementary.’
It was too hot in the kitchen.She wanted to get back into the lounge.Or, even better, the deck.Uptight didn’t even begin to describe how she was feeling.She focused on the bread again, studying the thickness of the crust, the texture.
He looked thoughtful.‘You know, the best way to make you understand isn’t to tell you, but to show you.’
‘Show me what?’
He grinned, as if knowing she wasn’t thinking quite along the lines he was.‘How to bake bread.’
Oh.Right.By the time she’d told herself she really wasn’t disappointed he’d pulled out a bin of flour from the walk-in pantry.
‘You’re serious?’
‘Absolutely.’
Fascinated she watched as within minutes he had ingredients lined up on the bench and the scales out.A big old-fashioned earthenware bowl sat centre-stage.
‘Don’t you use an electric mixer?’
‘I do everything by hand.’He gestured for her to come beside him.‘Only today,youdo everything by hand.’
He ran the taps and washed his hands; she followed.
Amused and fascinated she watched; she hadn’t baked in years.He measured the flour, took yeast from the fridge, mixed in a little sugar, a little salt, water.Eventually he ditched the wooden spoon to work with his hands and then dumped the dough from the bowl to the bench.
‘Now knead.’
He stood aside, and she stepped up to his bench, painfully aware of him behind her, watching over her shoulder.She felt stupid, self-conscious, and with a sigh started pushing at the dough.He watched in silence for a few minutes and she knew he wasn’t impressed.
‘You need to put your heart into it, Cally,’ he chided.‘If you want anything to be any good you have to give it everything.Just let go and get into it.’
Right.With the most gorgeous man ever to walk the planet at her back making her feel as if she were under a microscope.She heard a muffled grouch and then his arms encircled hers, and he put his hands on her own.Slowly he guided her, showing how to work the dough—the way he worked it.
‘If you take your time you can feel it growing more pliant.’His voice was almost a whisper.
All she could feel was his length all the way down her back.As she bent forward over the dough it brought her bottom into contact with his groin.She heard his sharp intake of breath and fought the urge to grind back against him, wanting to rotate her hips against his.Instead she pressed back towards the bench, away from him.His hands left hers and he put a fraction more space between them.
She took the frustration out on the dough, rolling it over and over and squishing it and moulding it, pushing her energy into it until it was as smooth and supple and as ready as she already was.
Sweat formed on her forehead and she lost herself in the rhythm of the work.
He didn’t move away.She could feel him right there, watching, but she didn’t mind as she lost herself in a kind of sensual trance, the energy flowing from her core to her limbs out from her fingers to the bread.
She didn’t know how long she worked.But suddenly his arms came around her again, his hands grasping hers.
‘Enough.’His voice rasped in her ear.
She stopped instantly.Realised she was panting.For a long moment they stood, him clasping her.Her heart rate didn’t slow, instead it started a less-than-steady increase.‘What now?’
