Page 18 of The List
“That’s the thing. When I told them the story, I was picturing one of those wand-looking gadgets with the rubber-smacky part on the end.”
I frown, completely clueless what the hell she’s talking about. “Like a turkey baster?”
“No, that’s not it at all.” She stands up and starts toward the kitchen with her wineglass in hand. I follow suit, not sure whether I’m more intrigued by the mystery kitchen gadget or by the sway of Cassie’s hips in that skirt.
She halts beside the stove and drags a big terracotta pot of utensils across the counter. Plucking one from the bouquet of silicone and metal, she holds it up for me to inspect. “This. Isn’t this a spatula?”
The tool she’s holding is what my mom used to scrape brownie batter off the sides of a mixing bowl. I feel a pang of sadness at the memory of my mother, who died in a car wreck with my dad ten years ago. It’s a weird contrast to how turned-on I feel with Cassie standing in front of me holding the kitchen implement like a flogger.
“That’s a rubber scraper,” I tell her.“ At least that’s what my mother and grandmother always called it.”
“A rubber scraper?” She frowns like I might be making this up.
“It’s true.” I lean against the counter and take a sip of wine. “Then I got to middle school and learned what a rubber was. I started snickering every time my mom asked me to hand her the rubber scraper, so she stopped calling it that after a while.”
Cassie laughs and sets the gadget down on the counter. She plucks another utensil from the collection and holds it up. “So, this must be a spatula, then?”
I can’t believe she’s asking me, or that I’m honestly not sure. Is it more surprising that we’re having this conversation as foreplay to BDSM or that I’m not actually certain about the names of kitchen utensils?
I look at the one she’s holding up and shrug. “I always called that a flipper. You know, for flipping pancakes?”
“You make pancakes?”
“Sure.”
She looks oddly in awe of this, and I feel an unexpected swell of pride. I came here hoping to wow her with my hair-pulling, ass-smacking alpha-maleness, and here she is looking impressed by my culinary skills.
“That’s the tool I grab whenever I need to flip pancakes or grilled cheese sandwiches,” I continue. “I guess that’s why I’ve always called it a flipper.”
Cassie gives the flipper a rueful glare. “Then which one is the spatula?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe different people call them different things?”
Cassie sighs. “Getting through The List is going to be more complicated than I thought.”
I love that she’s trying so hard to get this right. That it matters to her that the kitchen gadget I use to smack her ass is called by the correct name.
“You said your sisters cook a lot, right?”
“Right.” She leans against the counter, distracting me with the sight of those rounded breasts in profile. “They’re like Martha Stewart on crack.”
“So why don’t you ask them?”
Cassie blinks. “Call my sisters to ask which kitchen gadget you should use to spank me?”
“I wouldn’t phrase it quite like that, but yes.”
She sets down the flipper and gives me a curious look. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”
Before I can say anything else, she’s grabbed her iPhone off the table and is hitting a speed-dial number. She’s four feet away, but I can hear a woman’s voice answer on the other end of the line.
“Hey, Missy, it’s me. Listen, I have a question about cooking.”
There’s some chatter on the other end of the line, and Cassie seems to hesitate before responding. “Uh—brownies.”
I can’t make out the sister’s reply, but I hear a muffled squeal of joy or surprise. Cassie glances at me and rolls her eyes. She mouths the words, “I told you,” but all I can think about is how amazing those lips would feel wrapped around my?—
“I’m licking them right now,” Cassie says. I almost drop my wineglass. I’m glad Cassie just turned her back so she can’t see me gaping at her like an idiot. “And yes, I turned off the beaters before sticking my tongue in them. That’s not what I wanted to know, though.”
