His forearms and biceps flex and bulge. Heaven help me. The way he manipulates it, grips it—squeezes, presses, and strokes it. The man’s a natural. He must be on the same wavelength, because when he slaps—no, spanks—the dough and then jiggles it under his palms, my knees want to give out. Luckily, I’m still standing, but the nervous laughter that slips from me couldn’t be more obvious.
