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You have flour on your cheek, a smudge that looks like a thumbprint, and I’m wondering if you’d jump if I wiped it off.
He didn’t look at the dough. He looked at me, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line through the flour on the marble.
The heat of the stove was nothing compared to the way his hand felt against the small of my back, heavy as a sidearm and just as dangerous.
The cold marble of the kitchen island was a physical reprimand against my lower back, but Luca’s hands were a different kind of authority.
The flour on her thumb looked like a smudge of chalk on a chalkboard, a mark of something being erased or rewritten right there in the steam.
The flour was everywhere, a fine white dust coating the dark wood of the island and the sweat-slicked curve of her inner thigh.