Joe was cooking when I returned home that evening. I have a nice kitchen with exposed brick walls, herbs hanging in bunches from the beams, and lots of fancy pots. I don't cook much, but I like the cosy way it looks.
I liked the way Joe looked in it, too. I stood in the doorway watching him slice vegetables at the big butcher's-block island. He wore stone-washed jeans and was bare-chested. A freshly ironed blue shirt draped the back of a kitchen stool, which was where it belonged, in my opinion. Muscles flowed beneath his bare skin as he chopped. Joe had an awe-inspiring set of shoulders, very broad and very firm. He didn't work out much, though. Twice a week, maybe, he joined Sean at the gym or rode his bike along the river to Boathouse Row. He was just one of those lucky people who are born lean.
He was born tuneful, too, I thought, listening to him hum. He had a nice tenor, with the slightest hint of huskiness. Unless I was mistaken, the tune was Nat King Cole's 'Rambling Rose'. He'd been into my CDs again.
'Hey there, Mr Capriccio.'
He spun around as if I'd caught him jacking off. Appropriately enough, the top button of his jeans was undone, revealing a silky line of hair that dived from his navel to his crotch.
'You're early,' he said, doing up the button and grabbing his shirt off the stool.
Before he could get more than a hand in the sleeve, I ran my palms from the sinewed balls of his shoulders to his elbows. 'I'm not early. I simply left on time today -and don't dress on my account. I like ogling your hairy chest.'
His blush enchanted me.
'I didn't want to ruin the shirt while I was cooking. I've just pressed it.'
My hands reversed direction, skimming up his arms and down the centre of his chest. I spread my fingers across his board-flat abdomen. His warm, satiny skin twitched like a horse with a fly on it. The temperature of his groin jumped and, to my delight, his goods began to swell. 'You pressed that shirt for me?'
'Uh huh.' His diaphragm jerked with a quick breath.
My hands wandered higher, over his ribs, on to his pecs. His nipples were small, no bigger than pennies. The nub of erectile tissue in their centres stood out sharply and a tinge of blood-pink excitement painted their tips. Joe lowered his head, watching my hands, watching his body react. My own nipples ached at the sight. Feeling naughty, I took the tiny beads between thumb and forefinger and pinched.
'Kate,’ he gasped, and backed me into the island. Drawer handles jabbed my thighs - not that I cared. His heavy erection dug into my front, hard and getting harder. His hips swivelled until the pressure nearly lifted me off my feet. 'Lord, you make me crazy. I've been thinking about you all day. I could hardly sit through class. I kept getting hard, remembering the things we did yesterday, and the things I want to do tonight.'
'Such as?'
'Oh, man.' He grabbed my hips and kneaded. 'Don't get me started. I want everything to be perfect, the food, the wine, the dessert. Sean is staying with friends tonight. We have the place to ourselves.'
'I see. And does everything have to happen in order -food first, sex last?'
Confusion creased his brow. 'I don't want you to think I'm just some horny kid. I'm making salmon with orange sauce, steamed artichoke hearts and -' he consulted the open cookbook'- Indonesian rice salad.'
I slipped my hands down his back and under the waistband of his jeans. He wore them looser than Sean did. I had room enough to take possession of his downy hindquarters. He went up on his toes as I stroked them. What a sensitive boy he was. 'That sounds delicious, Joe. Is anything in the oven yet?'
'No, but-'
I silenced him with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. He tasted of ginger and oranges. He moaned, then filled my mouth with his tongue, slow, forceful spearings that probed my palate, then my cheeks. My nails curled into his buttocks at his sudden switch to aggressor. He didn't even flinch, he was so focused on his explorations.
I fumbled for his zip. 'I think I need an hors d'oeuvre.'
The sound of the tag ripping downward brought him to full alert. His long, strong fingers folded over my wrist. 'No, no, no. I waited all day for this. I can wait a few hours longer.'
'Can you?' His prick sprang through the vent of his briefs. How could I have forgotten how impressive he was? Veins stood out along the stalk and a drop of clear fluid seeped from the slit that pierced his glans. I swiped it off with the pad of my middle finger. At my touch, the passage gaped like a tiny mouth. A second drop squeezed through the contraction, this one large enough to roll sinuously down the head. I licked my lips. Hors d'oeuvre and men some. 'You look ready to go right now.'
'I can wait,' he insisted, though he was dancing on the spot.
I collected another drop and carried it to my lips. Salty. 'Maybe I can't wait.'
'Please,' he said, eyes glued to my sucking mouth. 'I want to keep my edge.'
I settled my cheek on the perspiring curve of his shoulder. 'From what Sean says, your edge doesn't take long to recover.'