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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