ear.
His hands are large on top of mine and strong as they guide me into a rhythm, working the dough into a mounded form.
“We want these to be soft and delicate, silky smooth. If it’s worked too much, they’re tough and unenjoyable,” he says.
We start to roll it, and with each motion, I can feel his groin pressing into my backside. His intoxicating scent of all man, woodsy and clean, enraptures me.
He grabs a knife, and we cut the dough into half-inch squares, and then we roll them over a fork to make lined imprints.
“You put a lot of care into this meal,” I say.
“My grandmother, before she became narcoleptic, used to make this on Easter. I was her potato dumpling boy. No jokes.”
“I’d never make fun of a man and his sweet grandma. Besides, you’re hard as steel. There isn’t a thing to grab even if I did want to call you a dumpling.”
“Keep calling me hard or steel, and I’ll reward you with more of my delicious recipes.”
The water is now boiling, so we place the gnocchi in.
“Go wash up. I’ll finish the rest.” He pats me on the ass, and I do as he said, noting that I now have flour left behind from his hands.
Hunter sautés the boiled gnocchi and plates them, coating each dish with sauce. Instead of sitting at the dining table, he puts on holiday jazz and sets the plates on the coffee table. I grab the whiskey and join him.
With pillows on the floor, we sit down, him with a knee propped up and the other bent while I kneel on my knees.
I take a bite and am floored with how delicious it tastes.
“I added sage and some gorgonzola cheese. I hope that’s okay.”
I moan a little. “Hunter, this is heaven in my mouth.”
“That is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard outside of the bedroom.”
With another bite, I speak with my mouth full, “I’m so gnocchi to have you.” My pun even makes me roll my eyes.
He shakes his head with a laugh, and we continue to eat.
We sit in silence, the smooth sounds of Michael Bublé filling the air as a thought crosses my mind. On Christmas Eve, his mother mentioned that when he made gnocchi for me, I’d know. I’m not entirely sure what she meant by that.
I must be showing my inner thoughts on my face because he looks at me with a tilted gaze.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he says.
With a raised shoulder, I feel almost shy, bringing it up. “Do you make this often?”
“Gnocchi? Only with my family. It’s a Johnstone recipe, so if you give it away, I might have to kill you.” His pointed fork is waved in a mock serious manner.
“Your secret is safe with me.” I let my teeth glide along my lower lip, wondering what it means that he made this meal with me.
He takes another bite. “Grandma and I were very close, but she wasn’t an affectionate woman. Teaching me how to cook was her way of showing her love. It’s something I was very possessive over. I wouldn’t even let Melissa have that time with her, which is probably why she’s a terrible cook. Remind me never to let you eat at her house if she offers to make a meal. Takeout only,” he jokes yet is very serious.
“Duly noted,” I say, and I’m happy because he’s thinking about future plans. I’m also touched because I get it now. Cooking, especially this recipe, is special for Hunter. The fact that he shared it with me means more than he’s willing to say.
I polish my plate because the gnocchi is sinfully delicious. Now that it’s done, I get on my hands and knees and crawl over to Hunter.
With his glass raised to his lips, he looks at me over the rim as I inch toward him on all fours.
“What is my little vixen up to now?” he asks through hooded eyes.
I prowl up to him and lay a hand over the bulge in his pants.
“I’m about to have dessert,” I say and slowly glide his zipper down, the teeth pulling apart making an audible sound that rivals Bublé.
“Oh yeah? I once had this cheesecake that was better than sex.”
I pull out his thick cock, press my open mouth over the engorged head, and take a taste. He throws his head back with a wicked moan.
“Nothing tastes better than this,” I say and let my mouth fall onto him until he hits the