Page 53 of Finally Moore

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Page 53 of Finally Moore

Scott grips my hips, holding me firmly against his erection. “Yes, now…” His voice is deeper, and I can sense his waning control. “Add a quarter cup of vodka. You should have a half cup total.” I pop open the bottle and add the liquid to the water. “Stir it…” He massages my ass as I try to keep my hand steady. “And add the water to the mixture.” I grab the measuring cup. “No,” he barks out to stop me, and I freeze to the spot. “Add a tablespoon at a time. The last thing you wanna do is add too much liquid and ruin the mixture.”

“Maybe you should do this.” My nerves prick up and goose bumps travel across my skin.

“You’ve got this, Angel,” he tells me.

I take a deep breath. “Yes, chef.”

“Each time you add a tablespoon of liquid, use the spatula to mix it all together. Stop adding when the dough starts forming large clumps.”

Cautiously, I add a tablespoon of water and mix until the measuring cup is empty. “Um, Scott, I ran out of water and it’s still not that clumpy.”

“Don’t worry, that happens sometimes. Baking is a form of chemistry while recipes are just baselines, giving you an idea of what you should do. But things like humidity, heat, even the blend of the flour can affect your overall result. It’s another reason why I do all my doughs by hand, because sometimes you need less than what’s called for.” Scott grabs the measuring cup, places the strainer on top, and pours in a little more water, followed by an impressively equal amount of vodka. Then he pours himself a small shot. “Sometimes you need more. It’s always easier to add liquid than it is to remove it,” he explains before tossing back his drink.

I add another tablespoon and I think it’s clumping up the way he wants. “Is this good?”

He grabs the spatula and stirs. “You’re a natural,” he hums, and I grin at the praise. “Okay, now move the bowl and sprinkle flour down on the counter. Not too much, just a light dusting.” I do as he says and wait for his next instruction. “Pour the dough on top. Cover your hands in flour.” He puts some on both of our hands. “This is the fun part. We’re going to fold the dough. Really mix the flour into the fat.” He demonstrates what he means. “Keep doing this until it’s completely mixed.” Scott lightly holds on to me, stroking up and down my forearms, which allows him to see what I’m doing by feeling my movements.

“Some of it keeps crumbling off?”

“Dip your fingers in the ice water. The moisture will work into the dough and help get those last few pieces.”

It’s not long before the small clumps form a solid mass. “I think it’s mixed.”

Scott inspects my handiwork by feeling the giant lump of dough on the counter. “It’s perfect. Now you just need to roll it into a ball. Then cut it in half.”

“Okay, done.”

“Next, use the rolling pin to flatten each ball into a disk that’s about an inch thick.”

“Is this good?”

He inspects my little pucks of dough. “Perfect. Now we have to wrap them up and set them in the fridge.” Once again, Scott navigates the kitchen effortlessly as he grabs the plastic wrap and returns to secure the balls of dough himself. Then he places the trays in the fridge.

“Now what?” I ask him.

“We wait.”

“How long?”

“Overnight,” he tells me.

“Oh, so we’re done?” I’m not sure why but I’m a little sad it’s over.

Scott crowds my space, my body pressed against the counter and his pressed against me. “You sound disappointed?”

“No… I guess I just thought there was more.”

“Nope.” He grins. “Crust works better when it sits overnight. This is the part of the evening where I’d usually clean up and pass out so I can wake up early and make the pies.”

“I can help—”

“I don’t want to clean up right now.”

“No?”

He shakes his head and removes his blindfold. His emerald eyes burn with lust as he gazes down at me. Scott presses his lips to mine, and the kiss quickly escalates to full-blown making out. I’m breathless when he finally pulls away again.

“Turn around,” he tells me. I do as he says and place my hands on the counter. Scott brings the cloth around so that it covers my eyes this time. “Do you trust me?” he asks for the second time tonight.




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