Page 19 of Bringing Home the Bacon
“May I say you look especially beautiful wrapped in nothing but my bedsheet?” he says softly.
My cheeks heat. “You may. And you…” I gesture to his red apron with my glass. “Tell me, do you always cook in the semi-nude?”
“No. I don’t.” His voice goes soft and rumbly. He steps closer to me, takes the glass out of my hand, and places it on a nearby table. “But I had quite a dilemma.”
“Oh no,” I breathe. “What was your dilemma?”
Bacon fingers the end of the bedsheet wrapped around me. “See, if I got dressed, I risked you thinking I don’t want to continue what we started earlier.” He yanks the bedsheet off me. It falls to the floor, leaving me completely naked in front of his bookshelf.
“And you do want to continue?” My voice is husky and deep in response to his touch. He cradles my breasts in his hands and gently squeezes, his thumb grazing a nipple.
“I do,” he pulls me against him, his hardness pressing right into my softness. “I want to continue.”
I crane my neck as he rains kisses down my throat. I reach around him and grab the globes of his ass. I consider giving his apron tie a tug but then think better of it.
“Back to my dilemma,” he says between passionate kisses. “I didn’t want to get dressed, but I did want to cook for you. Bacon—as we know—is hot and shoots grease every which way when it sizzles. I couldn’t have my cock out at a cookout and risk a burn, ya know?” He pauses abruptly, doubting his dirty talk. “Not that I was taking my cock out, as in outside. ‘Cock out at a cookout’ just sounded fun.”
“It does sound fun,” I agree, so aroused now that I’m seconds away from jumping this man. But I’m curious about what would happen if I let him steer this. I want to see where he takes us next.
“You want to do something with me?” he whispers in my ear, his trim beard causing goose bumps to race over my skin as it skims over my jaw.
“I want to do everything with you, Chef.”
“Damn woman, it’s like you can read my mind.”
“What?” I pull back slightly to look him in the eyes. “You want me to call you Chef?”
His eyes light up in boyish wonder, but the erection tenting his apron is all man. “Yeah. I want to take you over my kitchen counter while you call me Chef.”
I stand straight, give him a salute, and say, “Yes, Chef.”
The salute probably wasn’t necessary, but it felt right at the moment. He’s certainly not complaining as he leads me the few feet back into the kitchen area and bends me over the marble island.
He goes to remove his apron.
“No, Chef. Keep the apron on.” I lock eyes with him over my shoulder.
Bacon beams. “You are the most amazing woman I’ve ever met.”
“Stop talkin’ and start cookin’, Chef.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Earlier, he entered me slowly, sensually. This time, he lifts his apron and drives into me like a man—more specifically, a chef—possessed. He stretches me almost to the point of discomfort. But then there’s only pleasure.
“Do you like that?” he huffs as we find our rhythm.
“Yes, Chef!” I cry out.
The marble is cool under my belly and breasts. His calloused hands are warm and gripping my hips. With every thrust he makes, his bunched-up red apron scratches my lower back. Somehow, that sensation ratchets up my desire for him. I suddenly wish he was wearing a chef hat, too, to complete the look.
“What you’re doing is perfect, Chef. Absolutely perfect,” I pant. Each time I call him Chef, he increases his vigor. “I’m just wondering if perhaps you have one of those starchy white chef hats on hand?”
“You know I do.” He reaches for a cabinet to the left—never losing contact with me—and the angle shift proves to be glorious. I let out a moan.
“You like that, huh?”
“I do, Chef. I really do!”
