Fluffy(66)

I point to the row of hooks with five white aprons in a row.

“Wow. You're organized.”

“Form and function. I like aprons and I like the look.”

Plucking one off a hook, he opens it up and bursts out laughing.

Across the front is a huge Wonder Woman symbol, two giant silkscreened Ws.

Looping the top over his head, he reaches behind himself and ties the strings. “What do you think?”

“You're working it. You could be the next Gal Gadot.”

“I'll stick to being Will Lotham. I'm pretty good at that. What should I do?” Unbuttoning his cuffs, he does that slow shirtsleeve roll that looks so sexy on a man who has come over to make love with you after dinner.

Not that I would know.

Because this is the first time I've had a guy overnight. But I'm hoping it's the first of many nights with Will, so I'm going to generalize.

“How about salad, Wonder Will?” I point to the fixings. He gets to work, again not asking, just intuitively knowing what to do in my space.

I like this.

No. Scratch that.

I love this.

As I'm browning the chicken in some avocado oil, he asks. “Do these go in the salad?”

I look up. He's staring at a small tray of long, aromatic herbs arranged with other savory bites.

“No. But you can have some now.”

“What are they?”

“Basil, mint, coriander, lemongrass.”

“Not for the salad? What do you do with them?”

“Eat them. As an appetizer. And we'll have some of the herbs on the chicken.” I reach over and choose a sprig of basil, a sliver of ham, and a sesame cracker. “Try it,” I offer.

He does. He nods, making sounds of approval.

Is he loud in bed? I wonder as I watch him. Or a dirty talker?

Blood rushes to every pore on my body at the thought, my face feeling like a furnace.

“Mal?” He steps toward me, a predator sensing an opening. “What are you thinking about? You just... changed.”

“Changed?” My voice cracks.

He pulls me close. “You look like you just imagined me naked.”

“It's the vegetables. Made me think about your eggplant.”

A shift in his hips and he presses against me. “You don't need to just think about it.”

“Aren't you hungry?'

He maintains eye contact as he reaches for his wine, taking a long mouthful. After he swallows, he simply says, “Yes.”

“Then let's eat.”

“Oh. You meant dinner.”

“Is that how this is going to be all night, Will? You'll make sexual innuendos about everything?”

“Yes. Got a problem with that?”

“No. It's just–I think we need to work on some expectations management for this evening, Will.”

He bursts out laughing at my use of his own words against him.

I pull back. His grip tightens.

“Where are you going?”

“The chicken needs me more than you do.”

“That's debatable.” A sweet kiss on my forehead comes before he lets me go, the ukulele music winding down and going quiet.

Five minutes later, we've removed our respective aprons and we're sitting at my four-person table, two seats empty–thank goodness. Tonight is about us and only us, the dinner a perfectly decent performance on my part, Will making appreciative sounds of gustatory happiness.

“The herb tray really adds to this,” he says, the compliment hitting home in a way that surprises me.

“Thanks.”

“I have to confess, I've never had a date invite me to her apartment and cook me dinner. I wasn't sure how this would go.”

“Hold on there, bud. We haven't made it to dessert yet. Don't call this a success before we hit the finish line.”

“Dessert isn't the finish line tonight, Mallory.”

I fill my mouth with wine and savor it, mulling over his words as my pulse races to settle between my legs.

He stands and holds out his hand, grasping the edge of my empty plate. “Finished?”

I choke a little, a dribble of wine tickling my throat. “Hmmm?”

“Finished? With dinner? You cooked, so I'll clean up.” He grabs his Wonder Woman costume–I mean, apron–and gets to work.

Openly gawking, I watch as he clears the table, putting dirty dishes in the sink, setting serving dishes on the counter. Opening my lower cabinets, he looks around and says, “Where do you keep containers for leftovers?”

Have I died and gone to heaven?

“You don't have to do that!” I insist, pushing my chair back, abandoning my wine.

“I know I don't have to. I want to.” Kitchen skills can't be faked. This is a guy who is comfortable in his own skin, and who knows that pulling your own weight is part of being an adult.

I sit back down.

I sip my wine.

I'm getting even more turned on.

How is that possible? Energy flow is limited by resistors to prevent an overload. Capacitors store energy so it can be released later. I'm ready to explode. I must be short-circuiting.

Maybe that's where tonight's orgasm comes in.

Orgasms.