Breakfast on Tuesday

18. Happy girl

Dante welcomed me into his space once I promised to keep the conversation away from war and anything that required him to feel any type of emotion that didn't involve sex.

I agreed because I knew that my questions were intrusive and totally out of line to be asking someone I had known for less than eight hours.

A timer went off and Dante focused on finishing the meals for my friends. I offered to help, but he turned me down saying I would only slow him down.

Watching Dante in his element was transcending and familiar because it reminded me of all the times I used to watch my mother cook.

My mother and I weren't close and sometimes I missed her.

It didn't take Dante long to prepare two chard strudels for Madeleine and Eduardo, and a platter of seafood rolls for Eli. He rang up Annabella and she breezed into the kitchen and took the plates out to my friends.

I thought of following her back to the dining area because the last thing I wanted to do was ditch my friends. My feet, however, had a mind of their own and they remained planted on the clean kitchen tiles.

Ditching your friends surely seems like the first thing on your to-do list. The second thing is snuggling up to Dante while you kiss his neck and then his mouth, followed by kissing his taut stomach... and eventually the gorgeous head of his cock.

No, no, absolutely not!

Then go to your friends.

Hmm.

Thought so too.

"Are you ready to bake some cinnamon rolls?"

"Huh? Cinnamon?"

"Food, cariño. The best there is. Cinnamon rolls and churros con chocolate."

I frowned at him. "What about them?"

"Wash your hands and help me make them. Now." He lifted a bowl with lumpy dough sitting in it and placed it on the counter in front of him. "Before I decide to do other things with you instead."

I shook my head at his words and washed my hand carefully at the sink using soap. The water falling on my hand was warm and it felt wonderful.

After I dried my hands, I turned to Dante who was looking at me under a watchful gaze that I couldn't read.

"Where do you want me?"

"In my bed. Always in my bed."

"That," I emphasized, "is not going to feed us."

"But it will abate a different kind of hunger."

"Show me."

His eyes blazed with heat as they traveled lazily over my body. "Come here then."

I took a step forward but then hesitated, stopping about an arm's length away from him. "I want you to show me what to do to make the cinnamon rolls."

"You'll still have to come here for that," he said, pointing at the metal bowl next to him.

I moved closer, into his personal space, into dangerous ground. His cold eyes pierced through me and I knew he could see how I struggled to resist his sexual advances.

Instead of doing something sexual like kissing me, he slung an apron around me, turning me around gently to tie a knot at the back.

"This is a beautiful apron," I said, looking down at the white and yellow daffodils on the pink apron.

"It belonged to my mother."

"Oh."

"Have you kneaded dough before?"