Hors d'Oeuvres
By: Audrey
© 2001

She sits at the dining room table, watching his big arms move up and down, listening to the shhht of the fresh pepper as his k

She sits at the dining room table, watching his big arms move up and down, listening to the sound of the fresh pepper as his knife slices through it.

Shht. Shht.

She shifts in her chair, a stirring in her lower stomach sending warmth through her body. Looking up from his hands, those strong hands, so solid and muscular, so skilled and delicate, she watches his face. His brow furrows with concentration; a slight frown touches his lips. He’s oblivious to her, to anything but the pepper he slices, to making every slice of an equal width, to making their dinner look and taste perfect. He picks up the pepper, holds it up to the light, squints at it, and brushes off an invisible piece of lint.

Her breath catches.

He sets the slice of pepper down, turns the pile of slices to the side and begins new cuts, dicing the pepper into squares. Wetness dampens her underwear—she never bothered to put on pants today—and she shifts in her chair, sitting on her foot so she can feel the gentle pressure of her heel against her clitoris. She moves against her foot and blinks at how damp she is; can she really get this turned on watching him cook?

He lifts the cutting board and scrapes the pepper into a bowl, then wipes his hands on a dish towel, looking around the counter, brow still furrowed. When he finds what he’s looking for—a cluster of vibrant red tomatoes, still on the vine—his face relaxes for a moment and he glances up at her. She stops moving on her foot, but his grin and wink hit her with the force of a punch, and she swallows and smiles wanly back at him.

“What are you lookin’ at?” he asks, and she shrugs, trying to ignore the sensation the small movement brings from her heel to her clitoris through her body.

“Ah, nothin’.”

He flashes his grin again, the smile that nearly brought her to her knees on the first night they met, and her nipples harden against her shirt. She’s starving, they haven’t eaten much today, and the smell of tomatoes, olive oil and garlic is making her mouth water, but she has a feeling she could convince him that their appetite for food could be curbed by sex.

Hell of a diet plan, she thinks.

“Aren’t you going to get dressed?” he asks. “They’ll be here in an hour.”

“Good idea,” she says, and stands, rubbing her instep against her heel to dry the dampness there. She walks toward the bedroom.

“Be back in a sec,” she says.

“That’s OK,” he says. “I like watching you walk away.”

She puts an extra bump’n’grind into her step, making him laugh, and as she hears the sound of the faucet running—he’s probably washing the tomatoes, and the idea makes her touch a finger to her crotch—she finds a condom and slips it into the waistband of her underwear.

Walking back into the kitchen, she sees that he is, indeed, washing the tomatoes, his back to her. She stands to his side, watching his face, his frown and furrowed brow back, rubbing a piece of stubborn dirt with his thumb, the finger making circular motions, pressing firmly, but not too hard, so as not to break the skin. Her clitoris swells against her thong as she imagines herself under that gentle, strong thumb, and she puts a hand on the counter to steady herself; her legs don’t seem to working so well, and her lack of food might be going to her head. The dizziness, the wet heat and pressure in her clit, the sight of his hands beneath the water, rubbing at the red, plump skin of the tomato—she thinks she might come, right here, standing in the kitchen, if he doesn’t stop this madness.

“I thought you were getting dressed,” he says, eyes on his task.

She slips her arms around him from behind.

“Hey—” he says, laughing. She presses her full body against his big back, her nipples pressing through her thin pajama top and his t-shirt, her pelvis curving to fit his ass, her chin on his shoulder, her hands on his chest.

“You’re going to make me drop the tomatoes,” he says, and she presses her thumbs into his wrists, making him drop the fruit into the sink, and turns him around, leaving wet handprints on his shoulder.

“Do you have any idea how much you’re turning me on right now?” she asks, and he blinks and laughs.

“I’m washing tomatoes.”

“I know what you’re doing, and it’s killing me.” She takes his hand, cold and wet from the water, and slips it between her legs. His mouth falls open a bit, and she hears a hiss of air through his teeth.

“Do you feel how wet I am?” she asks.

He backs up a bit, blinking, and casts a glance at the chopped peppers, the cutting board, the bread waiting to be sliced and buttered.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Yes,” she says, and unbuckles his pants, yanking them to his ankles, grinning at the shocked look on his face. She falls to her knees, the force of the drop sending bolts of pain through her legs, but all she knows is that right now, if she doesn’t do something about this hunger for him, she may just starve to death.

His penis is soft with surprise, unready for her, but she loves it like this, small and warm; she takes all of him into her mouth and sucks hard, digging her nails into his ass, and hears his gasp. He says her name, grabs her shoulders, tries to draw away, mumbling something about their friends arriving soon, but she pins his arms to the kitchen cabinet. From far away, she hears the water still running in the sink, and as he twitches and grows inside her mouth, the smells and tastes assault her: the olive oil, the pepper, the garlic, the fresh bread, and him, the musky, salty smell and taste of him, filling her nose and lungs and mouth. She inhales, sucking hard on his cock, mouth watering, and she hears him groan.

“Oh, fuck…” he says, and she feels wetness on both her thighs now, soaking through her thong, heating and wetting her from the inside out, and she’s done waiting.

She lets go of his hands, pulls her mouth away, and tears open the condom. As she slides the condom out of the packet, he says, “Are you kidding—”

She looks up at him, grinning, and says, “Sh.”

She slides the condom over him, stands and says, “And now I want you to fuck me.”

“Here?”

She turns around, picks up the knife from the cutting board, moves it a safe distance away, pulls down her panties, and faces him, lifting her ass onto the counter.

“Now.”

He charges at her, mouth assaulting hers, tongue thrusting into her mouth, and this hunger, this hunger for each other far surpasses any kind of food hunger she’s ever experienced; if she doesn’t have him, have him now, she will starve to death, she will die. She guides him to her opening, needing to devour him in any way she can; he pushes forward, and they scream out together as he fills her in one violent thrust, sending her careening backward onto the counter, the cutting board and peppers digging into her back, her hair spilling over the side. He hisses and moans her name, and the sound of his voice sends her legs around him, her hands to her breasts.


The friction of the angle, the sound of his gasps, the feel of the cold counter, crisp peppers in her back, sends trembles through her, and she pulls herself up, opens her eyes, and he’s staring at her with as much hunger and need as she feels, and she digs her fingernails into his scalp, yanking him forward, tasting him, eating him alive, the bristles of his chin burning into her cheek, her chin, and all of him pounding against her and into her. He lifts her off the counter, carries her to floor, and with her legs still wrapped around him, the cold linoleum presses against her hot, damp back, her shirt riding up above her breasts, bits of pepper clinging wetly to her, and she digs her fingernails deep into his shoulders, lifts her hips high off the floor, and he continues slamming into her, making her scream, and then he screams, too, and collapses against her, their wet, heaving bodies a half-naked tangle on the linoleum of the kitchen floor.

“Well,” he says after a moment, and they giggle together, soft, breathy sounds through their gasps for air. He leans up on one elbow, picks a pepper off of her shoulder, and pops it into his mouth. He runs one hand along her brow, and she revels in the warm bath of his gaze, how his eyes go from her eyes to her nose to her cheekbone, studying her, memorizing her features. “You still need to get dressed.”

“Mmmm,” she says, a positive or negative, she’s not sure. At last he stands, removes the condom dangling from his spent cock, tosses it into the garbage can, and looks around the room, laughing from six feet above her prostrate body. “You’ve made a mess of my kitchen.”

She stretches out on the floor, pajama top still pushed above her breasts, naked lower half glistening with her juices, and smiles. “I’ve only just gotten started.”

He laughs, pulling up his pants, and puts his hands under the still-running water. He doesn’t believe me, she thought, and she stands up, pulls off her shirt completely, sits down in the middle of the dining room table, and slips a finger between her thighs.

Later, when their friends ask how he got the cut on his finger, he’ll just shrug, smile, and say he got distracted slicing tomatoes.

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