A Cool November Morning by Desdmona

Rick likes to make omelets, and I like to watch him. He has a ritual: gathering the ingredients from the refrigerator, settling them in the burner of the stovetop that he won’t be using, frying up the meat – bacon or sausage or ham – setting it aside and finally cutting up the vegetables. He grips the knife around its bolster – the knife’s balance point – with his last three fingers resting on the handle. His thumb and index finger are on opposite sides of the blade, like the knife is an extension of his hand, and he pierces the flesh of each vegetable with the knife’s edge before bringing down the entire blade, working it through the vegetable, hitting the cutting board with a decisive *thunk,* and then turning the slices in tandem and cutting again until all the vegetables are in chunks – neat little piles of red pepper, green pepper, mushrooms, and onions. Sometimes he glances over at me and winks before stealing a bite from one of the piles.

I’ll hop up on the counter, the polished granite cool on my ass, my feet dangling, and I’ll absorb every little thing he does. Rick won’t know that I’m not wearing anything under the purple blanket I pulled around me before coming to the kitchen. He’ll think I’m watching him because I’m hungry. And I am, but it’s not an omelet that I’m hungry for – it’s Rick.

Rick wears his pajama pants and nothing else while he cooks. I know there’s nothing underneath the pants because it’s morning, and Rick sleeps in the nude, and because the waist always slips down on his hip, exposing the concave dip between Rick’s leg and his groin. A stirring between my legs, faint at first, will strengthen the more I ogle Rick because he is beautiful and utterly fuckable. I’ll be torn between wanting to stare and wanting to touch. If only his pajamas would slip down a little further.

Rick knows I enjoy watching, so the morning ritual has become a point of seduction between us. As he whisks the eggs, he’ll flex the muscles of his forearm. He’ll talk to me about baseball or the stock market, but he’ll speak slowly and use his husky, morning voice, the one that makes me press my thighs together and shiver. He’ll look over at me just before putting the egg mixture into the frying pan and say something funny. He won’t laugh aloud, because he never does, but he will smile. A jolt of a smile that touches me to my core. I’ll inch forward from my seat atop the counter and open my legs, just enough to summon Rick toward me. He’ll hesitate before setting the bowl down and turning the flame off, because he likes making me wait, likes to see how long I can go before I’ll squirm. He’ll lean against the counter, one foot crossed over the other, causing the gap between his pajamas and his skin to widen. And just as the stirring between my thighs turns into a cruel, slow burn, Rick will slowly walk toward me.

He’ll reach with both hands and cradle my face, the pungent smell of onion and bell pepper clinging to his fingers. He’ll press his thumbs against my lips and into my mouth, giving me a taste. I’ll gaze into his eyes while I suck, first the tip of one thumb, and then the other. His eyes will get dreamy and the blue of them will shine. He’ll lean in close and nip at my lips, guppy-like, then move upward along the lines of my nose, across my eyelids, and back to my lips. Breathing and nipping. Breathing and nipping. And then he’ll no longer be gentle. He will kiss me hard, until my lips feel bruised and swollen. He’ll rub his day-old beard against my face, scraping and burning my flesh. I will moan even though his hands have barely touched me, not the way I need them to.

I’ll open my legs further and wrap my arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, gnawing on his neck, kissing the hollow of his throat, inhaling the leftover smell of sleep. My hands will slide down over the sinewy muscles of his arms, fingering the definitions he’d flexed moments ago with the whisk, and the blanket will fall off my shoulders, leaving me nude.

I’ll grab at his chest, running my hands through the fine hair and squeezing his pectorals before pinching his nipples. Rick will grunt because he likes me to play with his nipples. So I’ll pinch a little harder and then flatten my palms against the pebbled buds. My eyes will close, and I’ll imagine I can feel his blood rushing, his lungs expelling, his heart beating.

Rick will wink again when he notices my blanket has dropped and I’m completely nude, and then he will claw his way up my thighs, forcing my legs apart until they ache, an ache that makes me wet. Another smell will be added to the air – the smell of pussy – and Rick will inhale like it’s his last breath. But he won’t touch me there, not yet, except to brush his knuckles against my pubic hair. He’ll say, “What a pretty pussy you have.” And I’ll know it’s true because he’s so sincere.

My hands will slide down his torso to the waist of his pajamas, and I’ll fumble with the tie, pretending I’m having trouble. Rick will grunt again, grab my hands, and push them aside. He’ll yank at the tie and the pajama pants will suddenly drop over his hips and puddle at his ankles. He’ll quickly step out of them, but I won’t be watching his feet, I’ll be looking at his penis. It will already be hard and thick, and the tip will be glossy with moisture.

Rick will pull me to the edge of the counter, its hard surface digging into my ass. The head of his cock will nudge my belly, and I will wrap my hand around the velvet heat of his shaft. The thick tendon along the underside will stretch and tighten. And his beating pulse will thrum in my hand. There will be no more seduction.

In one elegant movement, Rick will cover my hand with his and position his cock at the entrance of my cunt. Together we will guide him, millimeter by millimeter. We’ll watch his cock disappear inside me until the anticipation is too great, and Rick will thrust forward – hard. I will want to scream, but my voice will be trapped in my throat. I’ll hook my ankles around his waist and throw my head back, wishing Rick could climb inside my body completely. I will scratch and dig at his muscled back, leaving streaks of red and crescent imprints of my fingernails.

Rick will bury his face into my neck, straining and salivating as he thrusts. He’ll say, “Baby baby baby” against my skin and the vibration of his voice will act as a conduit from my neck to my cunt. I will tighten myself around his cock, and Rick will press deeper. Our breathing, harsh and heavy, will echo in the silence of the kitchen, followed by the slapping of wet flesh. Rick will reach orgasm just seconds before I do, and his semen will spill into me as his body shudders. I will feel closer to him then than any person ever in my life, and when my orgasm echoes his, I will cry.

Rick will ask, “Are you crying?” And I’ll tell him it’s the onions, but he’ll know it isn’t. He’ll know my tears are because I love him and the way that he loves me. And when I shiver, he’ll pull the blanket back up around my shoulders and turn to finish our omelet.