stocked with food. My meals, more often than not, came out of garbage bins when I lived on the streets. When I was a sex slave, I was fed like a dog, or not at all.
“Is this right?” Flour dusts the granite surface of the kitchen counter and puffs in the air, forming a thin haze. I’m supposed to be kneading the dough for the pizza we’re making for lunch.
We spent a lazy day in bed, only crawling out when our stomachs demanded it. Griff proclaimed pizza as our meal for the day. I thought we’d order delivery. He scoffed at that notion, going on a long, over the top, explanation about the merits of home-baked pizza and why delivery was for pussies.
He looks over my shoulder as I work flour into the dough. There’s a small pile of flour at the top of my workspace that I’m supposed to slowly work into the dough.
It’s a sticky mess. I’ve got dough stuck between my fingers, all over my palms; there’s some of it sticking to my wrist. Don’t know how that got there. But damn if I’m not determined to accomplish the one small task Griff assigned to me. The dough sticks as I push it around the granite countertop.
“It needs a bit more flour. You’re doing good, minx. Work it in gradually and let the dough breathe.” He grabs a pinch of flour from the pile and tosses it on top of the dough and all over the back of my hands.
I’m not really sure how dough breathes, but I continue to knead the sticky ball while he sets out the fixings for making pizza and works on his secret pizza sauce. It’s all magic to me, but damn if it doesn’t smell amazing.
“You’ve really never had homemade pizza before?”
“I haven’t had homemade anything ever.” Sad truth, but I haven’t.
“We’re adding this to the list.” Griff dusts off his hands and goes to the fridge, where a “List of Things to Show My Minx” grows day by day.
“You can’t add that to the list when we’re doing it now.” My protest falls on deaf ears.
“I can add whatever I want to the list. This is my list, minx. You have yours.”
Each time he calls me “minx,” tiny shivers race down my spine. That’s another thing I’ve never had—a nickname.
Griff works around me, mixing sauce for the pizza, laying out an assortment of meats, shredding cheese off the block, and slicing onions and green peppers. He’s a kitchen virtuoso, a hidden skill I never would’ve considered in the gruff warrior.
I figured he knows two things. How to kill bad guys and how to rescue those who’ve been taken. Being a virtuoso in the kitchen was not on my radar.
But I like that. I love all the little surprises I’m finding out about him as the days pass. I could really get used to this and settle into a life like this.
So much so that it terrifies me.
He stops to check on me, standing behind me as he looks over my shoulder. His towering form closes me in, as do his arms, which wrap around me. Griff places his large hands over mine, interlacing his fingers with mine.
“You’re doing great, minx. It’s almost ready.”
“How can you tell?”
His fingers flex, moving mine beneath his as he kneads the ball of dough. “Feel the texture? How it’s different from when you started? More pliable? More willing to stretch? See how it no longer sticks to your skin but springs back?”
I feel the heat of his body and the hard edge of his arousal poking me in the back.
“Umm… Maybe?” I can’t tell that it’s any different from before, but Griff seems to think I’m doing a good job. I’ll take that praise any day.
“You have to go slow, work the flour in. Move too fast, or get impatient, and you ruin it.”
“Um…” It’s hard to know if we’re talking about pizza dough or something else, especially since he rocks his pelvis against my back. Each time he leans into me, the long, hard length of him pushes against the small of my back.
“Slow and steady is the way to go.”
“Griff…” A low ache settles between my legs.
“Now, it’s done. Feel the texture, the way the dough yields?”
“Yes…” My reply is breathless. I desperately ache to yield to him. It’s quickly becoming an obsession of mine.
I lean back and place the back of my head against his shoulder. My neck arches as he leans