Sophia

SOPHIA

I hoped Makar didn't take my lack of response as a sign of agreement. So many loud responses banged on my teeth to get out that I didn't know which one to let through. "What the hell?" came readily to mind.

Before I could form the words, Alkard rolled his eyes. "Fine. Come and talk to me later." His gaze flicked over me. "Not a huge rush, but make it today."

"Sure." Makar shrugged and started to whistle. I thought that was a human thing. If it weren't for the tight-as-death grip on my arm, I would have almost mistaken him for being jolly.

"We're going to get right to work," he said. I thought that was an odd way to talk about it, but I had heard stranger things.

"Get ready to get down and dirty." Now, that sounded more familiar.

He steered me by my captive arm toward a room that seemed to have lots of bright light and a lot of metal. So it's to be S&M , I thought.

Most people thought of velvet rooms with blackout curtains for that, but in my experience, male beings, whether human or alien, wanted a space that could be hosed down later.

I geared myself up for the coming ordeal, thinking of all the things I'd done that qualified as worse than whatever was about to happen. There weren't many, but I had a pretty good handle on my nerves when we turned the corner into the kitchen.

Okay, maybe not S&M. Maybe a food fetish… thing?

Well, if that's where he wanted to do it, that's where I would do it.

Makar locked the door behind us, then moved from cabinet to cabinet, grabbing ingredients that I assumed would be all over me in a few moments. He spaced them out on the countertop with precision and particularity.

If he could be clinical, so could I. I removed my clothing piece by piece, unbuttoning my shirt, slipping out of my pants, folding each of them the way I liked and setting them carefully out of the way on a chair so they wouldn't get soiled.

I hesitated when I got to my underwear – on or off? Some liked complete nudity to begin with, while others liked to make a meal of the undressing. The set I was wearing was sexy, sure, but not what I would have chosen for the occasion.

That's why I preferred dancing at the club. There were rules, a pattern, and a protocol. Clients asked for things, and I didn't have to put up with any of that "read my mind" garbage. Maybe I should have had him draw up a contract.

As I thought about it, I shivered, noticing for the first time how cold it was. Chill bumps lifted themselves on my skin, and I rubbed my arms with my hands. "What are you doing?" I heard from behind me.

Underwear on it was. I turned and surveyed his work. Flour, baking powder, cocoa, and salt stood to one side, while sugar, milk, eggs, and vanilla were sorted to the other. Things were about to get messy.

I noticed his look of confusion and held my hands out, away from my sides. "I'm ready. Where do you want me?" He still didn't say anything, just knitted his brows together and cocked his head. "Do we start with the flour?" I prodded. "Lay it on me."

"Well, yes, but…" He glanced at the countertop, and it was then that I noticed the mixing bowls, measuring utensils, and spoons.

I took a deep breath.

"Are we… baking something?"

Makar nodded, mirth brimming in his eyes while a blush crept over his cheeks. I didn't know Vinduthi could blush, but I was positive that's what happened.

Placing my hands on my hips, I tried to look indignant despite the fire in my face. "You couldn't have said that sooner?"

Makar snorted. All told, he kept it together remarkably well, but it still made me angry. I scowled. "I… didn't think… I had to," he managed between stifled giggles. "We're in… a kitchen! "

I set my mouth and looked at the ceiling. "‘Bought her for myself,' you said. ‘Get down and dirty,' you said. What the hell was I supposed to think?"

What a bastard! Is the thought of sex with me truly so hilarious?

Makar broke out into a full smile, laughing and gesturing to the paraphernalia on the steel counter. When he spoke again, he eked out, "But I took out ingredients! " He bent over, clutching his stomach. "For cupcakes! " He pointed to the muffin tins sitting pretty on the end of the island.

That was the last straw. I turned and dressed again, huffing as frequently as possible. I hoped he wouldn't ask what I knew was coming, but he seemed in no mood to mitigate my humiliation.

"What did you think this was for?" He continued laughing, much to my displeasure. Can this idiot speak without laughing at all? He held up the flour and giggled some more.

I couldn't take it any longer.

"What kind of a mafia moron bakes cupcakes? Why would I have immediately jumped to cupcakes? What is wrong with you?" I dripped as much sarcasm as possible.

Makar didn't laugh anymore. He plopped the flour back onto the counter and raised an eyebrow. "Look, missy." Missy? He had to be joking. "I'm patient." He wasn't joking.

He crossed his arms over his broad chest and took a menacing step toward me. "But I don't tolerate sarcastic comments about my hobbies. I need to blow off steam, same as anyone, and I don't see a bunch of women in aprons running around to cook for me, do you? Speaking of which, put this on."

He tossed me an apron and donned one himself, setting it to work as if the discussion were over. It was not over.

How could he humiliate me that way? "Get the bowl," he growled, tilting his head toward the smaller of the two mixing bowls.

I complied, but I made a mental note to bring it up again later. "Four cups of flour," he commanded. I took the cup measurer and scooped it into the flour container. "What are you doing?" he asked for the second time.

I froze and looked at him without lifting my head. What does it look like? I thought. "You don't measure flour that way!" he said as if I were a criminal. As I watched, he scooped sugar out of its container into the larger mixing bowl exactly the way he had just told me not to do.

"Then what are you doing?" I pointed at the sugar accusingly.

He rolled his eyes. "Have you ever baked before?" he asked. "Not just pressed a replicator, but historical Earth baking?"

I would not allow him to make me feel ashamed over something perfectly normal. "Where did you find me? Hmm?" I asked. His blank stare made it clear that he didn't follow. "In a bakery? No. You found me dancing at a club. Let's assume I've never baked before."

We got off on the wrong foot, and he had to know that. He sighed. "Let's try this again." Finally, he got the message. "Flour is too fine to scoop like that. Spoon it into the measuring cup and level it off with the back of this." He handed me a knife.

He watched me scoop and level the flour several times until he must have thought it was right. "Good," he finally said while mixing separate ingredients in another bowl. "Now, add a cup of cocoa the same way and a teaspoon each of baking powder and salt. Whisk it all together until it's mixed."

I slowly did as I was asked, enjoying the way the flour made a perfectly flat surface and the pattern the whisk made in the powder. After a minute, I noticed him watching me again. "Sorry," I said, letting go of the whisk.

"What for?" he asked. I shrugged, having assumed something I'd done wasn't right. Instead of criticizing me, he continued. "That should be enough. Now, pour it really slowly into this until I say when." He held up the bowl of sugary goop that he mixed up.

I eyed the wisps of egg yolk that were clearly visible in the glop. "Don't you want the eggs mixed in more first?"

"No," he asserted. "Who's the baker here? I found you at a club, remember?" He winked at me, and my blood boiled. The audacity. "Now, pour." I did as he demanded, and he stirred it in little by little until a thick, pillowy batter formed. He saw me staring and ran his finger along the edge of the bowl, leaving a clean track in the glistening batter.

He held his finger up in front of my mouth. I thought about making a face, but I was willing to let him break eggs on my body a minute ago.

Guess I couldn't argue too much now.

I opened my mouth and took his finger into it, running my tongue along his skin as I sucked.

His eyelids drooped as he stared at my mouth, then jerked his finger away. In response I bit my lower lip, and he licked his, breathing deeply and slowly. I raised a brow and smiled sweetly, deciding on a way to make him pay for humiliating me earlier.

Just then, he blinked and snapped out of it. "Good. Now grease the muffin tins." He handed me a stick of butter and placed the flour container in front of me with a metal mesh bowl-looking thing.

I was disappointed, much to my surprise.

Why did I even consider that?

"Some people rub the stick directly on the tin, but I use my hands like this." He held my hand by the wrist, broke off a chunk of the butter, and smeared it on my fingers. Then he showed me how to smooth it along the inside of each cup.

After that, he spooned flour into the mesh bowl and held my hands on either side, showing me how to tap it lightly to get a layer of fine dust to stick to the butter.

He didn't even press against me, but I felt the heat from his broad chest against my back.

Whatever was going on here, I needed to get back even a small bit of control of the situation.

"Why do we do this?" I asked. I knew it would ingratiate him toward me, but I also wanted to know.

I looked up at him over my shoulder and thought about how easy it would be to back up into his arms and fold my body into his. His muscled arms were on either side of me, trapping me against him.

"To help the cupcakes come out clean," he said. I felt his breath on the top of my head as he spoke. He was all business, however, and he finished the task and stepped away, leaving me bereft.

"Spoon the batter in until it reaches about two-thirds of the way up each cup," he said. I suddenly felt annoyed. Did he put all that effort into beating up those people just to have a baking assistant?

There's no way! He ordered a private dance, bought my contract, and everything! Why did he spend all that money on me if he didn't want me?

"Don't slop it in like that!" he chided. "Tap it! Tap it!" I blew a lock of hair out of my eyes in frustration. I was about to lose it on him. "It's fine," he soothed, like I was worried about what he thought. "Try again."

I could have laughed. There I was, trying to seduce him, and he thought I was trying to impress him with my new baking skills.

As I mechanically obeyed his orders, though, I couldn't help but wonder if he was right.

His eyes crinkled at the sides as he smiled. "Good. Better! Now we put them in the oven and wait." He slid the tins into the oven that he turned on at some point, switching on the light to watch them rise and setting an old-timey timer to ten minutes.

He droned for a minute about the difference between convection ovens and regular ones, saying he still preferred to switch the pans and turn them in the last few minutes. I was fuming, horny, and admiring him all at once. I don't think I've ever been as confused as I was in that kitchen. The more he spoke, the more animated he became until I couldn't help but smile.

A Vinduthi who loved cupcakes, who insisted on making them in the least efficient way possible… that was a first.

Partway through his speech, he jumped up and ran to the oven door. "Look, look!" he exclaimed, wide-eyed like a child. He held his face to the glass and smiled. "They're rising!"

Was he serious? I put my face next to his, as close as I could manage without obviously crowding him. He stared, transfixed at something happening in the oven. "Look!" he insisted.

I turned to look in the oven and saw dozens of perfectly round cupcakes lifting up above the rims of the muffin cups. I did that. It was oddly satisfying seeing how perfect they looked. "Amazing," he breathed, startling me from my reverie.

Looking at Makar, I tried to remember the last time someone praised my efforts and couldn't.

The fever in my blood no longer held any hint of revenge. "Amazing," he repeated. "We'll make a baker out of you, yet."