motions to the knife block. As she opens the fridge to get something, I pull out various knives of different sizes and weights and find a decent blade. Not too heavy and not too small.
Claire reappears with a bunch of celery and rips a stalk free, setting it onto a wooden cutting board.
“I noticed you grip your knife like this.” Her fingers wrap around the handle. “It’s like you’re in a horror movie.” She performs the classic up-and-down slasher move. What you want to do is hold it like this”—Claire pinches her thumb and forefinger at the base of the blade, and the rest of her palm on the handle—“which gives you more control.”
She sets the knife down, and I pick it up to imitate her technique. As Claire moves in to check my fingers, her chest grazes my back, kick-starting my heart in that thump-smash , thump-smash rhythm. She’s got to be able to feel that, but if she does, she’s not letting on.
Man, I dig cooking.
“That’s it,” she says. “But make sure you’re touching the metal part, the bolster. Your other three fingers should just hold the handle, not grip it.” Claire tucks herself in front of me and reaches out her hand. The soft pads of her fingertipsslide across the top of my knuckles. With a gentle squeeze she lifts my hand and the knife over the stalk. Her palm pushes onto mine, causing the blade to slice through the celery with ease. Claire does it again and again, and I become acutely aware of everything around me—the warm touch of her skin, the crisp sound of the knife chopping, the small wooden knots in the cutting board, even the sweet smell of her hair.
“Now part two,” she says. “Holding what you’re cutting.” With her hand still on mine, she grabs another piece of celery and folds her fingers under to protect the tips, then places her knuckles against the blade.
“See how I’m doing it?” she asks.
I move to see better, and I’m inches from her head. “Yeah,” I say, but in a breathy voice because my mouth is next to her ear. My crotch presses against the zipper of my jeans in an instant boner.
She chops with a tat-tat-tat sound, and within seconds, the stalk is sliced.
Claire turns to me. “Your turn. Try for nice even cuts, all the same size.”
She steps back so I can give it a go, and I’m like, What am I doing again? When she lays a gentle hand on my back for support, I think, this is it: either I’m going to chop off my digits or I need to turn around and kiss her. I stop and give myself a reality check. I know Viktor makes it soundlike girls fall onto his dick every day, but those aren’t normal girls. I mean, we’re just two people paired up in the same class. Her boobs brushing against my back was an accident, one of those kitchen hazards.
I have to know: Does she like-like me, or not? I set the knife down and turn around. My eyes meet hers, and I search for any hint that might tell me I’m reading signs that don’t exist. Claire stares back, her eyes lower as her lips part in a slow, shy smile, which causes the air between us to grow thick and charged. When she glances back, I inch my way toward her. She rises onto tiptoes to meet me halfway.
Just when we’re about to touch lips in what’ll be the best kiss of my life, the front door opens, triggering the bird-chirp alarm. It startles the bejeebus out of me, and I jump back, bashing my tailbone on the counter.
“Hi, Mom,” Claire calls, not missing a beat. She grabs the remote and shuts off the music. The second Claire leaves I spin around to stick my hand down my pants, so I can push my boner painfully to one side. To my horror I realize I’m facing the sliding glass doors. Please, let there be no one out there. . . .
I hear them kiss hello, and by the time they come into the kitchen, I’ve parked my butt on the stool. I do my damnedest to appear like I wasn’t just touching my junk.
When Claire’s mom appears I can tell where Claire gets her beauty from—same long,
Claire reappears with a bunch of celery and rips a stalk free, setting it onto a wooden cutting board.
“I noticed you grip your knife like this.” Her fingers wrap around the handle. “It’s like you’re in a horror movie.” She performs the classic up-and-down slasher move. What you want to do is hold it like this”—Claire pinches her thumb and forefinger at the base of the blade, and the rest of her palm on the handle—“which gives you more control.”
She sets the knife down, and I pick it up to imitate her technique. As Claire moves in to check my fingers, her chest grazes my back, kick-starting my heart in that thump-smash , thump-smash rhythm. She’s got to be able to feel that, but if she does, she’s not letting on.
Man, I dig cooking.
“That’s it,” she says. “But make sure you’re touching the metal part, the bolster. Your other three fingers should just hold the handle, not grip it.” Claire tucks herself in front of me and reaches out her hand. The soft pads of her fingertipsslide across the top of my knuckles. With a gentle squeeze she lifts my hand and the knife over the stalk. Her palm pushes onto mine, causing the blade to slice through the celery with ease. Claire does it again and again, and I become acutely aware of everything around me—the warm touch of her skin, the crisp sound of the knife chopping, the small wooden knots in the cutting board, even the sweet smell of her hair.
“Now part two,” she says. “Holding what you’re cutting.” With her hand still on mine, she grabs another piece of celery and folds her fingers under to protect the tips, then places her knuckles against the blade.
“See how I’m doing it?” she asks.
I move to see better, and I’m inches from her head. “Yeah,” I say, but in a breathy voice because my mouth is next to her ear. My crotch presses against the zipper of my jeans in an instant boner.
She chops with a tat-tat-tat sound, and within seconds, the stalk is sliced.
Claire turns to me. “Your turn. Try for nice even cuts, all the same size.”
She steps back so I can give it a go, and I’m like, What am I doing again? When she lays a gentle hand on my back for support, I think, this is it: either I’m going to chop off my digits or I need to turn around and kiss her. I stop and give myself a reality check. I know Viktor makes it soundlike girls fall onto his dick every day, but those aren’t normal girls. I mean, we’re just two people paired up in the same class. Her boobs brushing against my back was an accident, one of those kitchen hazards.
I have to know: Does she like-like me, or not? I set the knife down and turn around. My eyes meet hers, and I search for any hint that might tell me I’m reading signs that don’t exist. Claire stares back, her eyes lower as her lips part in a slow, shy smile, which causes the air between us to grow thick and charged. When she glances back, I inch my way toward her. She rises onto tiptoes to meet me halfway.
Just when we’re about to touch lips in what’ll be the best kiss of my life, the front door opens, triggering the bird-chirp alarm. It startles the bejeebus out of me, and I jump back, bashing my tailbone on the counter.
“Hi, Mom,” Claire calls, not missing a beat. She grabs the remote and shuts off the music. The second Claire leaves I spin around to stick my hand down my pants, so I can push my boner painfully to one side. To my horror I realize I’m facing the sliding glass doors. Please, let there be no one out there. . . .
I hear them kiss hello, and by the time they come into the kitchen, I’ve parked my butt on the stool. I do my damnedest to appear like I wasn’t just touching my junk.
When Claire’s mom appears I can tell where Claire gets her beauty from—same long,
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