Kitchen Heat

It’s the weekend, summer and I’m in the kitchen, prepping dinner – cutting up the vegetables that will be roasting alongside the chicken – when I feel you come in behind me. Your arms wrap around me as you press yourself up against my back and I can feel the warmth of your body and the strength of your embrace. It’s strong but cautious as no one likes a romantic moment marred by a sliced artery.
I love feeling you there, and having you rest your head on my shoulder. The clean fresh scent of your hair, the pressure of your breasts on my back.



Once you hear me put the knife down things change. Your hand drops down past my waist to massage my thigh and I feel you kiss and nibble on my ear. I turn and see that you’ve just stepped out of the shower, your body glowing and clean after your time outside in the baking sun. Your robe is tied so loosely that it can hardly be called tied at all, and as soon as I turn you are pulling me back towards you, your hands in my hair to pull me in for a deep, passionate kiss. I return it with gusto, making sure to not touch your fresh, smooth skin with my chef hands.

Seeing my disadvantage you briefly smile at me and then attack me again with a kiss, your arms holding me tight, one sliding down past my waist, pressing your nearly naked body up against me. I moan slightly through the kiss, and hear that moan returned as you feel my hardness press into you. It’s amazing how you make me want.

Nothing can happen here: dinner has to go in the oven, life and circumstances conspire, but we both take some passionate heart for how much we can make each other want, how much we still need.

And even though nothing can happen your nails are gliding up and down my hardness through my jeans. Just because you can. I kiss you, catching your lower lip in my teeth because it’s the only way I can grab you.

Your whole body is passion and happiness made flesh, something that I want to wrap around me, to bury myself in. I want to be that for you as well, the man you want to have hold you, kiss you, see buried inside of you. It doesn’t seem to matter how much or how often we’ve indulged in that, you always touch something deep inside me. Your whimsy and beauty and wit and erudition and lust.

And then you step away, tie you robe and go to get dressed. I admit I spend several seconds watching you walk away before I get back to what I have to do. And you know it, I can tell, because you put a little extra spring in that stride. Dress for the promises have been made for later that evening, which we both intend to keep.