Page 111 of Only Mine
But he’s already moving, hands flying through the steps with barely contained violence. “Plate. Pepper. Done.”
The whole thing takes him maybe three minutes, and he narrates each step like he’s teaching a particularly slow child.
Which, culinarily speaking, I am.
“Now swirl it together. Gently,” I direct, and he gives me alook. “Pretend you’re not the boss of the entire world for one second, Saint.”
Saint’s mouth twitches, but he does as told, stirring in a slow, sensual spiral.
I catch the motion on camera, the glisten of gold, the flecks of pepper.
My breath hitches. I’m not even pretending to be in this for the content. I just want to watch him work.
“Do the thing with the pepper grinder. The one that makes you look like you’re about to threaten someone with it.”
He laughs, but the sound is low, and his grin is all teeth. Saint grabs the oversized grinder from the shelf, then leans his weight onto the table, bracing it with one palm while he twists. The pepper rains down in heavy, abrupt bursts. I film the motion, tight on his hands, then pan out to catch the muscles bunching under his forearm because I just can’t help it.
Noticing what I’m doing, he leans out of the shot. “Is this for your followers, or for you?”
“Both,” I admit.
“How many followers do you have again?”
“About two million.”
“Jesus fucking Christ. And they just watch you … live your life?”
“I give them advice,” I correct, taking a forkful.
When I take a bite, the moan I make is indecent.
His eyes darken. “Keep making sounds like that and we’re going to have a different kind of video on our hands.”
“Saint!” I laugh, but my cheeks burn.
He picks up my phone, still recording, and pans onto my face. “You missed the best part. Do it again.”
“What? Why?”
“So I can show you what it’s like to watch you fucking that fork.”
I nearly choke.
Saint sets my phone down and moves behind me. His hand covers mine on the utensil and guides it into the mound of pasta, swirling another bite onto the tines. “Open.”
He brings the loaded fork to my lips, but doesn’t feed me right away. Instead, he hovers it just out of reach, making me chase the taste. When I lean forward, he draws back, a smug tilt to his mouth.
“Beg,” he says.
I roll my eyes, but play along. “Please, Chef.”
That’s all it takes. He slides the fork between my lips.
“Chew,” he orders.
I do.
“Swallow.”
