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.