What's Wednesday, September three, in time for your daily buck. The kitchen is warm and smells of yeast, garlic and the cheap, cheerful bottle of Chianti we have open on the counter. A lazy instrumental jazz track is drifting from the speaker in the corner. Liam, my partner of three years, is humming along a fine dusting of white flour on his forearms. Tonight is pasta night, not the dried box kind, but the real time consuming from scratch kind, our little
Sunday ritual. He's meeting the dough on the massive granite island that serves as the center of our universe. I'm supposed to be chopping basil, but mostly I'm just watching him, a glass of wine in my hand. I love watching his hands work, strong, capable and sure. He pushes the dough away, then folds it the muscles in his bag and shoulders flat with the effort. He catches me staring, and a slow, easy smile spreads across his face, enjoying the show always, I say, Taking a sip of wine,
I walk over to him extensively to inspector's work. The dough is a pale smooth mouth. I dip my finger into the bag of flower and fix a small white puff under the tip of his nose. He blinks, feigning shock, before retaliating with a gentle smear of flower across my cheek. Truce, I ask, laughing, okay, but I'm going to keep an eye on you, just in case. His eyes then wander up and down my body. I bump him aside with my hip. While you're keeping an eye on me, let
me help. I reach down and start to work on the doe. We do this a lot, moving around, picking up where the other left off. We're a good team. We seem to have a problem. I'm surprised and turned to see what he's talking about, but he's already behind me, his body pressing against my back. He puts his arms around me, his hands still covered in flower cover. Mind, you're not needing correctly, he whispers, his lips close to my ear. You have to put your whole body into it.
He guides my hands onto the dough, his crush pressing into my ass, rocking gently in time with emotion. My preath catches the bulge I feel. Makes it clear this is no longer about making pasta the playful mood has shifted, becoming something deeper, more sensual. The jazz music, the wine, the heat from the stove, that all coalesces into a thick, palpable wave of pure desire. I stop moving, letting my hands go limp under his and lean my head back
against his shoulder. It's an unspoken surrender, a mutual decision. He turns me in his arms, his flower dusted hands coming up to cut my face. He kisses me, a deep, searching kiss that tastes of wine and want. The flour from his hands smudges onto my neck and collar bones, a soft, pale ghost on my skin. He breaks the kiss and lifts me effortlessly, sitting me on the cool, solid granite of the island. The half made pasta and chopping board are forgotten. I have a better idea for dinner.
His hands pushed the fabric of my thin cotton dress up. My guys. He steps between my legs, his mouth finding the line of flour he'd smudged on my cheek, his tongue licking it away before trailing a hot, wet path down my neck. I threw my head back, my hands braced on the cool counter behind me. He unhooks my braw his mouth finding my nippo, and I cry out, my fingers curling into the abandoned ball of pasta. Down next to me. He pulls my panties aside, and his fingers,
still faintly gritty with flour, slide into my wetness. The texture is a delicious friction that has me writhing on the counter. He grabs the wine bottle, pours a small ruby red trickle onto my stomach, and then lowers his head, his tongue lapping up the sweet liquid before descending lower into the slick heat between my legs. He eats me like he's been starved for a week, his tongue and
fingers a perfect devastating combination. The world narrows to the feel of his mouth on my clit, the col granite under my skin, and the messy, beautiful chaos of our impromptu feast. I come with a shuddering gasp, my nails leading crescent shaped marks in the soft dough. As I'm panting, my body still trembling with the aftershocks. He rises up, zips down his fly, and enters me right there on the counter. He feels me completely and I wrap my
legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. We look into each other's eyes as he moves a deep, loving rhythm that is both comfortingly familiar and wildly passionate. This is our dance. He comes with a final deep thrust, has grown a perfect harmony with the saxophone wailing from the speaker. He collapses against me, his head bearing in my neck. Our bonnie is a sweaty, sticky, flowered, dusted mess. After a long moment, he lifts his head, a playful, exhausted
smile on his face. So should I call for pizza? I laugh, pulling him in for another kiss. He promised a home cooked meal. I just had no idea that I was going to be the main course.