I think of you while cutting leeks.
The long smoothness of them in my palm. Hard with a softness at their center. Running the length of them under warm water to tenderly clean the grittiness away. Rubbing all along the shaft of each leek until they’re pristine. Admiring the drops of liquid on the pale skin of them. Laying them on the well-oiled, wooden cutting board; spread out like an offering.
I run the blade along one gently, thinking of the way you writhe under the point of my nails playing over your flesh. Your sharp intake of breath, surprised at the sensation. Dragging my fingers over your torso, tracing lines, following your dance of pleasure. You lead and I follow. Leaving souvenirs, designs for you to remember me by later.
The look on your face distrustful; shocked at my audacity at first, then melting into delight. A smile plays over your lips before they part. You sigh, then giggle, then moan. The first time I dared pull the fabric away from your chest and put my hands on your bare skin you said, “No one has ever made a tickle feel like that.” I take that as a sign to continue.
Your reaction to sensations makes me long to caress, bite, tickle, stroke, tease, lick, touch, and kiss you everywhere. Watch how you respond. Watch you take in for the first time things that I’ve deemed common place. Everything old is new again. I see the simplest things through your eyes and become excited by them.
I think of you while mixing cake.
The delicacy of folding the wet into the dry. Flour absorbing oil bit by bit to make something creamy and rich. The circular, thrumming hand motion as I beat the sweet into the leavening. So much like the flick of the wrist that brings my fist up and down your cock. I grin. Holding the wooden spoon, remembering the sweet mess of you on your belly, I so wanted to taste. To take you into my mouth but didn’t. Waiting. Longing. Wishing.
While washing my hands I noticed the dot of batter on my face, think of you licking it away. The heat of your moist tongue running over my neck and ear. Feeling your breath close. Waiting for your next kiss. Your lips tangling onto mine, our tongues playing out the same rhythm on one another. Wrestling like our bodies do.
Closing my eyes I can almost feel you. Now that I have, I can’t seem to stop. My hands magnetized to your nakedness. I want unwrap you, make you momentarily mine. The soft heft of you under my body, between my legs. Engulfing me, filling me, edging me closer to that desperate throb. That animal need you stroke into and out of me. Skillfully tantalizing until it’s too much to bear. Until I’m beyond “Please, there, almost, yes.” All I have are primal noises of desire, holding your strong body against me as I give myself over.
I think of you while the chicken sizzles.
A new dish. New combination of flavors. The uncertainty, the excitement, the wonder and the what ifs. Will it be delicious or a disaster? The anticipation as the flavors mingle, overwhelming the senses. The smell of smoky bacon mingling with leeks, apples, mushroom, and thyme. Savory and sweet. Tender and crispy. The air smells so good I can taste it.
Listening to the crackle of fat on the heat of the pan. The occasional splutter of oil hitting my arm. Pain that melts into a dull ache. Like your teeth on my nipple, pinching it to attention then soothing with your tongue. Hand in my hair, tugging my head back while your fingers play at the center of me. At the wet folds converging. That sweet ache. The climax I’m after but you keep just out of reach.
I wrap your limbs in rope, teasing you in kind. Holding everything just beyond your grasp. Touch, skin, release, lips. Cruelly denying you only to, moments later, inundate you with everything at once. My lines of hemp binding you, leaving impressions on your wrists, delicate patterns where you struggled. Wanting to stay, yet longing to get away.
I think of you while dining alone.
This bounty sustaining me, savoring each bite as day dreams of you heat me to the core. The delight of the first taste of the meal causes a shudder to pass down my spine. They say a person can taste the intentions of the cook in her food.
I shimmy in my seat, happy with the melting tenderness of what I’ve created. The salty then the sweet. This same headiness, the flutter of astonishment that sometimes accompanies your words. A flash on my screen when I least expect it, sending me melting in my chair. Who knew such depravity lingered under such a sweet façade?
You are a perfect recipe for distraction.