Page 109 of Only Mine
I get up, still feeling the aftershocks of a thorough fuck in my thighs, and prop my phone against a flour canister so it frames the work surface. I flick to video mode, but don’t hit record yet.
“Okay, stand right there,” I say, pointing a few feet to his right.
He smirks, but does as told, baring strong forearms with the faintest bloom of red where my nails caught him earlier. The sight is so distracting I nearly forget to tell him what to do next.
Shaking myself out of it, I step behind him and guide his hands into the center of the frame. “This is where you’ll prep everything, so the camera can see you. What are you going to make?”
“Carbonara,” he says.
Naturally.
Saint moves around me, making sure to brush up against my tender nipples before grabbing eggs, pancetta, and a wedge of pecorino from the fridge, setting them down inwhatever order makes the most sense to him. I see the switch flip in his head: the Saint who dominates a kitchen, who can fillet a fish in thirty seconds flat and break a line cook’s spirit in less. His hands move so fast I have to adjust the camera angle to keep up.
He notices.
“You want me to go slow?” Saint asks with so muchinnuendo my underwear is instantly wet again.
“Painfully slow,” I manage to say, then press record.
I pan the camera to follow, catching the sinew of his hands, the flex of his wrist, the faint twitch in his thumb whenever he’s about to break his own rules and speed up.
Edging closer, trying not to let my voice betray how much I want to climb him right now. “Crack the eggs. Separate the yolks. Goslow.”
He obeys, but only to mock me, exaggerating every move. He cracks an egg one-handed, letting the white slip through his fingers in a slow-motion ooze. Then he holds the yolk in his palm so the camera can drink in the slick gold.
“Happy?” he asks.
“Not yet,” I say in all seriousness, and then circle around him, eyeing the angle, my own reflection ghosting in the spotless steel.
Saint holds the yolk between thumb and forefinger, pinching just hard enough that the gold membrane bulges at the seam. I zoom in as he bursts it, the liquid sun spilling down in slow, gorgeous ribbons.
“Dammit, you’re a natural for the camera,” I say. “Is there anything you’re not good at?”
“Not a thing,” he says, but there’s laughter over the arrogance.
He breaks two more eggs, each one with a little moreshowmanship, and then stops to look at me sidelong, shirt stretching across his back. “What’s next, boss?”
“I don’t know. This is your recipe. I have no idea how to cook carbonara, I just know how to eat it.”
My stomach rumbles in agreement.
“Ah, but you’re the director. I don’t do anything without your say-so.”
Uh. What?
This bastard is testing me. He’s well aware that I don’t know the first thing about cooking.
“Okay, um…” I start to bluff. “Can you do it where you let the cheese rain down in slow motion? People are obsessed with cheese pulls and cheese snow. It’s a thing.”
He scoffs. “Cheese snow. Christ. We’re not at the cheese yet,” he adds patiently. Too patiently. “What comes after eggs?”
“The ... pasta”
“No.”
“The meat?”
“Getting warmer. But what do I do with the pancetta?”
