Violet was in the kitchen alone with Griffin. Technically, he was doing the cooking while she just watched.
And it was for good reasons.
Griffin was standing by the counter shirtless, while a black apron hung around his waist, flour dusting his arms and chest. His hands worked the dough with slow, firm motions, pressing, folding, and kneading. The movements made the muscles in his arms flex, the veins in his forearms shifting like ropes beneath his skin.
And gods, how could Violet not stare?
Griffin hunched forward, gripping the dough tighter, his forearms taut, and biceps clenching. Then he slapped the mound hard, the sound cracking in the kitchen.
Violet bit her bottom lip. That was sexy as hell. She pressed her thighs together on instinct as heat rushed between them.
He did it again. Slap. Knead. Slap. And all Violet could visualize was Griffin doing that to her body—handling her just like he slowly rolled the dough beneath his palms.
