Sunday, October 12, 2014

Quickie: Stir Constantly

            She sang, “‘Get back, honky cat.  Better get back to the woods.  Well, I quit those days, and my redneck ways, and I—’”
            “What are you singing?” he asked, coming into the kitchen and refilling his glass at the tap.
            “Honky Cat by Elton John.”
            “Never heard it.”
            Her jaw dropped, then remembering she had a custard on medium-high, she returned her attention to the pot.  “Well, I think you’re deprived if you don’t know 70’s Elton John.”  She swirled the whisk around the pot to prevent the mixture from sticking.
            Standing behind her now, he looked over her shoulder.  “What are you making?”
            “Chocolate pudding.”
            “You’re making pudding.  It’s not from a box?”
            “Deprived I tell you,” she murmured.  “Not from a box, and it tastes much better.”  He slid his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck through her hair.  “Quit it, you.  I have to stir this constantly until it boils, or it’ll burn.”
            “I can smell it, but you smell better,” he said into her ear and then nipped the lobe before running the tip of his nose down the side of her neck. 
            “I’m not kidding,” she warned and tried to shrug him away from her shoulder. 
            “Me either.”  One hand skimmed under her shirt and under her bra while the other wiggled down the front of her jeans.  Slow, teasing revolutions, perfect tempo, perfect combo.
            Her breath hitched, her legs tensed.  She could feel him, as aroused as she was and pressing against her lower back.  She traded her grip on the handle of the pot for a grip on the back of his neck.  Drawing him forward as she twisted her head to the side, she took his mouth with hers.  Rough, devouring kisses left her panting as she let her head fall back to rest on his shoulder while he drove her with his fingers. 
            She heard the cat meowing, its claws clicking on the floor as he followed the scent of butter and chocolate into the kitchen.  “Shut up, kitty,” she growled. 
            He laughed in her ear, and at the sound, her body broke out in chill bumps.  She arched, tilting her head back even further until their lips could meet again.  He feasted on her – on her heat, her wetness, her moans, the way her body vibrated and pumped, the way it responded to him.  What more could a man want from a mate?  She could make pudding, not from a box, and so he smiled just before his tongue parted her lips. 
            She came hard, with what started as a low guttural cry and ended as a shriek.  “Did you see the cat?” he asked.  “He took one look at us and scampered away.”
            Breathless and dizzy, she opened her eyes.  “No.  I didn’t see him.”  So lost in the sense of touch, she had seen nothing, not even the burgundy of her own closed eyelids.
            He kissed the side of her head.  “I think the pudding is ruined.”
            “Forget the pudding.” 
            She snapped off the burner, set aside the pot, and turned to him.  Grabbing the front of his jeans, she jerked open the button and pushed him backward into the sink.  “Now, it’s your turn.”   


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