Page 64 of Pucking Forbidden

“What?” she presses, stepping around the cart to look up at me when I’m silent for a few seconds too long.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

She groans and rolls her eyes. “Julian…”

“I’ll teach you,” I blurt just as we reach the meat counter at the back of the store.

She pauses, her eyes widening in surprise. A stray strand of hair escapes her ponytail, framing her flushing cheek. “You will?”

“Yeah.” My voice is steady, and there’s no hesitation. The idea of teaching her to cook for herself has planted itself in my mind and sprouted roots, and now I’m determined to see it through. A traitorous image flashes through my head of her leaning back against the kitchen counter in nothing but an apron, her slim legs wrapped around my waist as I pound into her, her mouth tasting like wine.

A wave of hot arousal crashes into me, making my throat go dry. The urge to close the small distance between us right here and now is almost overwhelming. Jesus, keep it together, Wilder.

A small smile pulls at her mouth. “Okay.”

My heart beats a little harder as I nod, trying like hell to shove the x-rated thoughts back into the gutter where they belong. “Okay.”

I quickly turn away from her to ask for chicken from the guy behind the meat counter, needing to put some physical distance between us before I make a complete fool of myself.

“Yeah, can I get two pounds of the organic chicken thighs, please?” I ask, way louder than necessary, desperately hoping the chill from the refrigerator cases will help cool the flush of heat staining my cheeks and soften the stiffening cock in my pants.

When we arrive at her apartment, we head straight for the kitchen, the brown paper bags of groceries heavy in our arms.

I set them down on the counter and reach for the chicken and fresh herbs. I set out everything in a straight line across the counter, then start organizing the ingredients in the order I’ll use them. Hadley is already right there beside me, digging into the second bag.

She pulls out the block of Parmesan and the heavy cream, her shoulder brushing against my bicep as she reaches past me to open the refrigerator door. The brief, unexpected friction sends a sharp jolt of heat straight down my spine, her clean, vanilla-and-ice scent filling my head.

“So what can I do?” she asks.

“You can start with this.” I hand her a knife and a bundle of herbs. “Cut that.”

She looks at it as if it might bite her. “Seriously?”

I chuckle. “Seriously.”

She glances back up at me with an uncertain expression. “I’m going to mess this up.”

“You’re not,” I assure her, grabbing a cutting board out for her.

“I definitely am,” she mumbles.

“If you do, then I’ll fix it.” I set the cutting board on the counter next to her.

She huffs out a breath, but moves to stand in front of it, setting the onion on top.

“Like this?” she asks, awkwardly positioning the knife.

“Not like that.” I move to stand behind her. “Here…”

I reach around her, adjusting her grip and guiding her hand. I tell myself not to get too particular about the size of the cuts…just focus on teaching her. It takes me a moment to realize how close we are. Too close. Her back is pressed to my front, and my arms are wrapped around her. I can smell the sweet scent of her hair, and I hear the shuddering breath she releases as she goes still for half a second before relaxing again.

“Okay,” she mutters. “I think I got it.”

I step back, putting distance between us, but it doesn’t really help me breathe any easier. “Great. Try again.”

She does. The chunks of onion she chops are uneven and rough, but when she’s done, she looks up at me, thrilled.

“See?” I grin. “Told you that you could do it.”