Page 24 of Hard Rock Desires

“You’re just so good at using that rolling pin,” I replied.

“Is that supposed to be a euphemism for something?” she asked.

“Not at all.”

“You should pay more attention to the meringue,” she told me. “It needs to be fluffy, not goopy.”

I looked at the bowl in my hand. She was right that it didn’t seem all that fluffy.

“Want to switch?” I asked.

She let out a heavy breath and paused in her rolling.

“Sure,” she said. “My back is starting to get sore from this, anyway.”

We switched spots at the prepping table. I only moved back a few inches, not giving her a lot of room to maneuver. Her body brushed against mine as she shuffled past me, her ass bumping against the seam of my jeans. My cock twitched.

My hand moved without thinking, landing on her hip and stopping her mid-movement.

“Yes?” she asked, craning her neck around with a raised eyebrow. “Do you need something?”

I needed a whole hell of a lot. Self-control, for one thing.

“Can you show me how to use the rolling pin?” I asked.

“Didn’t you watch the instructor when he showed us?” she replied.

I sure hadn’t.

“It’s like this.” She grabbed the two handles and rolled it over the dough. “Then you just flatten it over and over again.”

Instead of only using her arms, she used her legs to propel herself forward. I was still standing right behind her, her back to my front. So when she leaned forward her ass pressed right up against me.

“Could you show me again?” I asked.

She looked over her shoulder and met my eyes.

“For some reason,” she said, “I don’t think it’s the dough you’re interested in.”

She arched her back and rotated her hips slowly as she rolled. My cock began to swell. She grinded down against me with each movement.

Then she slid away and took my old spot at the baking station. I stifled a groan at the abrupt loss.

“Think you can handle it?” she asked archly.

“Naughty girl.” I had to shift from foot to foot to subtly adjust myself. “You did that on purpose.”

“Did what?” she asked, feigning innocence.

I put a hand on the small of her back. My fingers brushed the strip of bare skin between the hem of her shirt and her jeans. She was warm and soft. It didn’t do anything to ease the rising lump in my jeans. I leaned close.

“Don’t think I won’t get you back for that,” I whispered.

She inhaled a shaky breath. I smiled to myself.

“Better make sure that meringue is fluffy,” I said.

“Don’t worry about me, worry about your own task,” she replied. “That dough won’t roll itself.”