It became a weekly affair, one cooking for the other, vying for the crown by a dazzling of the senses and a feast of fucking. He took my coat as I entered the living room, the aromas from the kitchen thick in the air, my nostrils filling with intoxicating scents. I could tell he had been working hard, and I smiled as I kissed him, tasting the familiar warmth of whiskey on his lips. His hands were immediately all over me, rubbing, grabbing, kneading my flesh as his tongue pushed into my mouth.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well hello there,” I giggled. I was always amazed and equally refreshed by his forwardness.
He looked at me and flashed me one of his broad grins. “Well, looking like that, what else did you expect?” He chuckled as his hands automatically slid under the sheer of my shirt, his palms rubbing over my stomach and against my sides. I immediately felt the well-known flush in my face, and I guessed my cheeks were shimmering that familiar rose hue, a shade he seemed to summon with ease. I instantly felt hot under his touch.
“I have some wine for you.” Grabbing my hand, he eagerly leads me into the kitchen. Turning to give me my glass, his brown eyes drink me in over the rim of crystal.
“You look good enough to eat,” he declares, his gaze following the lines of my shirt, the black of my bra barely visible, my cleavage peeking through at just the right angle. My grey skirt cut above the knee, soft and stretched comfortably over the small of my arse. I’m wearing a pair of my favorite black heels, picked specifically to even out the distance in our height. I look over at the shining metal pans on the stove, the gleam of silver bouncing across the black granite surfaces around the expanse of the kitchen. My curiosity is piqued as I watch the liquid bubbling, the steam snaking towards the ceiling.
“What do we have here, then?” I point to the multiple pots and sip my wine slowly, the deep berry of the Chåteaneuf du Pape exploding inside my mouth.
He hands me a platter adorned with an assortment of cheese, meats and olives, and insists I sample some of the Époisses de Bourgogne, a favorite of his. He pushes a piece into my mouth, the tang instantly hitting each taste bud, the soft of the cheese slowly melting and swirling into butter over my tongue. He points to the home-made stock bubbling slowly on the stove, the wild mushroom risotto he’s already started, the thick red cuts of meat seasoned with rock salt and cracked pepper lazing next to the grilled portobellos he’s already prepared. I can hear the hiss of garlic roasting in the oven. He suggests I go sit on the couch and get comfortable, and I do so without thinking twice. I take my wine and sit, easing back against the cool leather. Peering out through the huge panes of clear glass in front of me, the city shimmers in the dark. I lean back and let out a sigh.
“You know better than that,” I hear from the kitchen.
I open my eyes. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You heard what I said, you know better than that.” I watch him stirring the risotto, ladling the stock gently into it, his focus never changing, his delectable arse wiggling with each stir. Not once has he taken his eyes from the task to look at me, not once has the tone in his voice changed.
“Take your shoes off.” There’s no part of him that’s asking, and I unbuckle the clasps quickly. I free my feet and tuck them underneath myself.
I watch him grate the pecorino into the risotto and throw fresh parsley into the mix. My stomach is growling at the thought of the beautiful tastes that await me. The beat of Lebanese Blonde pulses seductively in the background, and I’m taken into sensory bliss, so comfortable it feels as though I’m melting into the soft of the cushion behind me. I can feel the tension leaving my shoulders, the hassles of the week slowly seeping away. I’m somewhere else entirely until I hear the click of the stove turning off, I hear the movements of him freshening his drink in the kitchen. I open my eyes to him kneeling in front of me, his drink sitting safely on the side table under the warmth of the lamp. There’s no hesitation in him when he puts a palm on each knee and slowly pushes my legs open. There’s no hesitation in me when I allow him to do it and provide no resistance.
“And what do you have for me here? A gift no doubt.” He pushes the thin material of my thong to the side as he inspects me. With a grunt of satisfaction, he removes the undergarment completely. He stops to lick his fingers before he slides one, and then two, into my waiting cunt. My pelvis automatically pushes forward, my body buckling towards him in raw anticipation. I throw my head back and moan, parting my legs further. He licks at my clitoris furiously, the velvet of his tongue dragging deliberately over each moist fold. He suddenly stops, a devilish flash in his eye just noticeable above the pink creases of my flesh. In a swoop he reaches over and dips his fingers into the amber liquid of his drink. Seconds later, I am on fire.
I look down in shock to see the whiskey droplets slowly falling from the tips of his fingers onto my clitoris. Each time I feel the sting of the alcohol slither over my cunt, I buck, pushing my wetness further into his face. He moans as he suckles greedily. “I’ve been thinking about you all day, wondering how I was going to take you, when I’d have your taste all over my mouth and lips and tongue and face.” He pauses to look me squarely in the eyes, my heart feels like it is going to explode out of my chest. “There’s no way I could have even begun to imagine how exquisite you taste.” He reaches to the right and dips his fingers into his drink. The electric warmth of the whiskey hits my flesh once again, forcing me me to gasp and grab at his hair, his tongue licking over every part of me with fervor, pushing deep into my slippery heat. His left hand holds my thigh down, and every time I squirm, his fingers dig further into my flesh. He anoints my cunt a third and fourth time, and by the fifth round I am begging and pleading while I orgasm, obscenities flying out of my mouth, my flesh mashed against his face. He stands and I am left a quivering mess amongst the plush of the couch.
The hiss of his pants is audible as they snake down his muscular legs and land with a thud on the ground. Judging by the fire I see in his eyes, I surmise that all niceties have flown out the window, and there’s no time for charm, nor a need for politeness. At this point he’s adamant to take what he wants, whether it’s on the menu or not. The prospect both thrills and scares me, and I immediately feel a shudder of pleasure run down my spine. Baring witness to the deception of my body, he chuckles once again to himself.
“You’re a wicked little whore, aren’t you? You want this. Why else would you come over here dressed like that?” His cock strains and bobs with each word. I can feel my whole body aching for him, aching for him to fill me completely. As if to read my mind, he pounces on me. His hands are all over me, roughly pinching at my nipples, and then quickly finding the two halves of my blouse. With a thrust open, he sends a splash of black glass buttons ricocheting through the air. He lunges into me, his thick cock separating the wet heat between my legs, his hands roughly exposing my breasts, his mouth biting at each nipple, his cock pushing further into me. The heels of my feet dig into the sides of his buttocks as I arch into each one of his thrusts. It’s not long before he is growling and beating his fists against the thick of the leather. He reaches forward, and with a grunt, rips the delicate material of my brassiere in two. I squeal in shock, and at that moment he withdraws his cock from me, showering me in beads of his come, over my clothes, my breasts, my neck. He’s left heaving, steadying himself against the weight of the couch until he regains his composure. Touching my cheek, I feel wet, and involuntarily lick my fingers, the slight metallic taste of his come dancing on the tip of my tongue. He finally lifts his head to look at me, his gaze raking over my body, disheveled, and marked, and his, and I see the wash of satisfaction ripple over his face. He sighs and stands, grabs his drink and takes a triumphant swig. His cock happily pulses, still half-erect.
I sit up, dazed, and giggle.
“That was just the appetizer.” I watch him take another sip of his drink and pull his pants up. His hands rake through his hair.
“You can freshen up in my bedroom.” He reaches down to kiss my forehead, pausing for the briefest of seconds. “I saw a black cocktail dress today and thought of you; I couldn’t resist. It’s hanging on the door. I want to see you in it. Dinner will be ready in 20 minutes, and then it’s time for dessert.” He winks at me before pivoting for the kitchen to finish the meal.