Speaker 1: What's Wednesday, September three, in time for your daily buck.
Speaker 1: The kitchen is warm and smells of yeast, garlic and
Speaker 1: the cheap, cheerful bottle of Chianti we have open on
Speaker 1: the counter. A lazy instrumental jazz track is drifting from
Speaker 1: the speaker in the corner. Liam, my partner of three years,
Speaker 1: is humming along a fine dusting of white flour on
Speaker 1: his forearms. Tonight is pasta night, not the dried box kind,
Speaker 1: but the real time consuming from scratch kind, our little
Speaker 1: Sunday ritual. He's meeting the dough on the massive granite
Speaker 1: island that serves as the center of our universe. I'm
Speaker 1: supposed to be chopping basil, but mostly I'm just watching him,
Speaker 1: a glass of wine in my hand. I love watching
Speaker 1: his hands work, strong, capable and sure. He pushes the
Speaker 1: dough away, then folds it the muscles in his bag
Speaker 1: and shoulders flat with the effort. He catches me staring,
Speaker 1: and a slow, easy smile spreads across his face, enjoying
Speaker 1: the show always, I say, Taking a sip of wine,
Speaker 1: I walk over to him extensively to inspector's work. The
Speaker 1: dough is a pale smooth mouth. I dip my finger
Speaker 1: into the bag of flower and fix a small white
Speaker 1: puff under the tip of his nose. He blinks, feigning shock,
Speaker 1: before retaliating with a gentle smear of flower across my cheek. Truce,
Speaker 1: I ask, laughing, okay, but I'm going to keep an
Speaker 1: eye on you, just in case. His eyes then wander
Speaker 1: up and down my body. I bump him aside with
Speaker 1: my hip. While you're keeping an eye on me, let
Speaker 1: me help. I reach down and start to work on
Speaker 1: the doe. We do this a lot, moving around, picking
Speaker 1: up where the other left off. We're a good team.
Speaker 1: We seem to have a problem. I'm surprised and turned
Speaker 1: to see what he's talking about, but he's already behind me,
Speaker 1: his body pressing against my back. He puts his arms
Speaker 1: around me, his hands still covered in flower cover. Mind,
Speaker 1: you're not needing correctly, he whispers, his lips close to
Speaker 1: my ear. You have to put your whole body into it.
Speaker 1: He guides my hands onto the dough, his crush pressing
Speaker 1: into my ass, rocking gently in time with emotion. My
Speaker 1: preath catches the bulge I feel. Makes it clear this
Speaker 1: is no longer about making pasta the playful mood has shifted,
Speaker 1: becoming something deeper, more sensual. The jazz music, the wine,
Speaker 1: the heat from the stove, that all coalesces into a thick,
Speaker 1: palpable wave of pure desire. I stop moving, letting my
Speaker 1: hands go limp under his and lean my head back
Speaker 1: against his shoulder. It's an unspoken surrender, a mutual decision.
Speaker 1: He turns me in his arms, his flower dusted hands
Speaker 1: coming up to cut my face. He kisses me, a deep,
Speaker 1: searching kiss that tastes of wine and want. The flour
Speaker 1: from his hands smudges onto my neck and collar bones,
Speaker 1: a soft, pale ghost on my skin. He breaks the
Speaker 1: kiss and lifts me effortlessly, sitting me on the cool,
Speaker 1: solid granite of the island. The half made pasta and
Speaker 1: chopping board are forgotten. I have a better idea for dinner.
Speaker 1: His hands pushed the fabric of my thin cotton dress up.
Speaker 1: My guys. He steps between my legs, his mouth finding
Speaker 1: the line of flour he'd smudged on my cheek, his
Speaker 1: tongue licking it away before trailing a hot, wet path
Speaker 1: down my neck. I threw my head back, my hands
Speaker 1: braced on the cool counter behind me. He unhooks my
Speaker 1: braw his mouth finding my nippo, and I cry out,
Speaker 1: my fingers curling into the abandoned ball of pasta. Down
Speaker 1: next to me. He pulls my panties aside, and his fingers,
Speaker 1: still faintly gritty with flour, slide into my wetness. The
Speaker 1: texture is a delicious friction that has me writhing on
Speaker 1: the counter. He grabs the wine bottle, pours a small
Speaker 1: ruby red trickle onto my stomach, and then lowers his head,
Speaker 1: his tongue lapping up the sweet liquid before descending lower
Speaker 1: into the slick heat between my legs. He eats me
Speaker 1: like he's been starved for a week, his tongue and
Speaker 1: fingers a perfect devastating combination. The world narrows to the
Speaker 1: feel of his mouth on my clit, the col granite
Speaker 1: under my skin, and the messy, beautiful chaos of our
Speaker 1: impromptu feast. I come with a shuddering gasp, my nails
Speaker 1: leading crescent shaped marks in the soft dough. As I'm panting,
Speaker 1: my body still trembling with the aftershocks. He rises up,
Speaker 1: zips down his fly, and enters me right there on
Speaker 1: the counter. He feels me completely and I wrap my
Speaker 1: legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. We look into
Speaker 1: each other's eyes as he moves a deep, loving rhythm
Speaker 1: that is both comfortingly familiar and wildly passionate. This is
Speaker 1: our dance. He comes with a final deep thrust, has
Speaker 1: grown a perfect harmony with the saxophone wailing from the speaker.
Speaker 1: He collapses against me, his head bearing in my neck.
Speaker 1: Our bonnie is a sweaty, sticky, flowered, dusted mess. After
Speaker 1: a long moment, he lifts his head, a playful, exhausted
Speaker 1: smile on his face. So should I call for pizza?
Speaker 1: I laugh, pulling him in for another kiss. He promised
Speaker 1: a home cooked meal. I just had no idea that
Speaker 1: I was going to be the main course.