You're standing in our kitchen, in front of the stove. Shallot pasta is on for tonight; you cooking that particular meal brings back memories of the early days of our relationship. I remember the fun of getting to know you, the canned lines I gave you about myself, rehearsed from countless dates past, the wonder if your cooking was akin to mine or if I would even enjoy it. In the present moment, however, the most dominating thought in my mind was about the looks we exchanged with each other. There was palpable sexual tension but we had to play the game before we could act on our desires.
The room is filled with the scent of your sauce cooking on the stove. It is just a little loud, you having turned on the exhaust fan and our shared playlist, Home, playing over top of it. There was a brief lull in our conversations which wasn't unheard of; I enjoyed the moments when we could just share each other's space and not need to fill the silence. I could just soak in the shape of your body as you stirred and sautéed. I stood up and poured two glasses of wine. This was an unplanned date night for us, so the wine was warm, fresh off the store's shelf. I added an ice cube to each glass and placed yours on the counter beside you.
"Thank you baby," you say with a hint of smile exposed around your eyes.
I can smell your perfume over the smell of the sauce. It incites a particular hunger, one that goes deeper than any want for food. I place my glass down beside yours and approach behind you. I wrap one arm around your shoulders, the other low along the front of your hips as you face the stove, focused on your work. I pull you in close, feeling your warm skin against mine. I push your hair to the side, exposing your neck and plant a deep kiss just under your jaw.
You let out a soft sigh, "baby," as I explore your neck and shoulders with my lips. I can feel you fall back slightly, leaning into me. I love these moments; love, in a softer form, engulfs us and we enter the ether. For a brief eternity, we are alone. There is no one else, there is no sauce on the stove, there is no outside world.
I continue showering you with kisses, though they have evolved from simple, affectionate pecks. I use my tongue on your neck and when I find a place that evokes a more visceral reaction I bite you softly. My hands begin to move across your body. I feel across your shoulders and midsection, pulling you closer still to me. Our breath syncs as you drop your wooden spoon to the counter. You reach back, entangling your fingers into my hair, all the while still facing away from me. With your other hand you caress the bulge you feel in your lower back. Though not fully erect, you sense the fire ignited in me. I reach under your shirt and grab your breast as you let out a muffled moan.
I pinch your nipple, already hard with excitement, and the moan turns to a gasp. "Fuck," you whisper as I playfully laugh. I love turning you on. I love making you stop what you are doing and focus on your body as it comes to life under my touch. I slide my other hand into the waistband of your pants. I want to feel my prize. I want to spark a similar flame in you so that it builds to a roar throughout our meal together. I push my hand over top of your underwear; the heat from you sends a signal directly up my arm, through my body and straight to the tip of my cock. I gently rub you and your hips start to sway.
Your breathing is more laboured. My gentle caress of your body has turned more assertive, holding you in place as I tease your pussy. Your thong can't conceal your anticipation and I can feel a wet spot developing. I slide two fingers along it, moving it slightly to one side. I dip my finger in, collecting some of the wetness to rub in circles on your clit. I can see your face flush now, knowing it's not from the heat of the stove. You stroke my cock over my pants as I tease your clit, occasionally pushing my finger into you. You can't muster any words, just gasps and deep moans. We can both hear how wet you are as I finger your pussy. I can feel your legs losing the ability to keep yourself upright.
I pull my hand out from your pants and turn you to face me. Our eyes meet, yours pleading for me not to stop. I put my finger in my own mouth, savouring the passionate flavour on it.
"You're the sweetest thing I've ever tasted."
I retrieve my glass and return to my spot on the couch, feeling satisfied with my appetiser.
--
Our conversation flows, so much so that we fail to notice that our wine glasses have been emptied again. I remove our plates and return with what's left in the bottle, pouring half the remainder into each of our glasses. We are sitting close now, subconsciously moving toward each other throughout the meal. Our legs are pressed together and I run my hand along your thigh. We discuss our thoughts about the meal, about our views on life, goals for the future, and what our respective days look like tomorrow. The pile of dishes calls me to them and I begin to wash up. You disappear and my mind drifts as I clean.
I fill the final pot with soapy water and catch a glimpse of you out of the corner of my eye. It's as if you were sending me a silent, telepathic message only I could decode. You are standing in the entrance to my bedroom with a smirk on your face. Your hands are gliding over your own body, paying close attention to your tits. As you rub, you bite your lip and the smirk becomes more pronounced. You turn away and place your hands on the wall, bending over at the waist, moving your hips side to side. You look back at me, locking eyes and giggling as you take in my response. You stay bent, but move your hands into the waistband of your pants and pull them down slightly.
