Page 77 of Mistaken Impression

“Then I’ll take you to bed.”

“Yes, please.” She leans up to kiss me and as I deepen the kiss, I wonder if she has any idea how much I love her.

“What are we going to cook?” I ask, breaking the kiss eventually. “The pasta, or the salad?”

“The salad. The pasta will keep until tomorrow.”

I pull her closer, my hands on her backside, my cock pressing hard against her. “You’re thinking of coming here again tomorrow, are you?”

A shadow of doubt crosses her eyes. “I—Is that a problem?”

“Of course not. I’m teasing, Ella. You’re welcome to come here any time you like. In fact, you can come here all the time, as far as I’m concerned.” Does that sound too much like ‘forever’? I don’t know, but her eyes widen, and her smile returns.

“I’d like that.”

“Good.”

I don’t care what it sounds like anymore, and I touch my lips to hers. She pulls back after just a few seconds. “Shall we cook?”

“I think you’re being a little optimistic with your pronouns, but I’m happy to help.”

She nods her head and I open the fridge again, pulling out all the things I bought, while she puts her ingredients inside. Once we’re done, she turns to me, tilting her head to one side.

“Do you have honey and wholegrain mustard?”

“Of course I don’t… but I bought some.” I open the cupboard beside us, and she smiles up at me.

“Well done,” she says, going over to the oven to turn it on.

“Don’t congratulate me. I just went with the recipe you were teaching me today. It wasn’t rocket science.”

“No. But at least you remembered it.”

She comes back and reaches down the honey and mustard, along with the oil, white wine vinegar, salt and pepper, and while she sets about preparing the chicken, I open the bottle of wine I bought.

“I got some wine, too,” she says, looking up as I pour two glasses.

“I noticed, but mine’s chilled.”

She smiles, taking the glass I offer her and we clink them together, both taking a sip before we put them down on the work surface.

“Do you want to make the dressing?” she asks.

“Sure.”

I step up beside her.

“Can you remember how it’s done?”

“I think so.” I find a small glass bowl and then realise there’s a problem. “Oh dear… I don’t have any measuring spoons.”

“You surprise me,” she says with a smile. “As we’re not making a tv show, we’ll do it by eye.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She moves closer, taking the oil. “If you pour it in for a count of three,” she says, doing exactly as she’s said, “that’s roughly equivalent to three tablespoons.”

“Okay.”

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